Oh this was so much fun to write... I hope you all enjoy the angsty/smutty goodness...
Also, someone (krisz? was that you?) mentioned that Flapjacks isn't in this story. He wasn't in 'Vegas', either. So first of all, thank you, for pointing out my giant plot-hole. Secondly... I have no friggen idea where Flapjacks is. Um... ok, roll with me here: Ryan couldn't take him to Berkeley, because they don't allow pets in the dorms. So he gave Flapjacks to Bullit to take care of for the semester. Bullit then set him free on his ranch in Texas. See?
Concrete, meet plot-hole.
On with the story (and stop pointing out plot-holes, people!)
Music: oh yeah, all right, take it easy baby, make it last (make it last all night), she was an American girl.
I waited as long as I could after waking up to go visit Ryan. I'm pretty sure I lasted… oh, at least a half an hour.
I can't help it, though. I'm marrying the man in four days and it's almost a compulsion to go over and make sure he's real, not some figment of my imagination.
Not that I think I'm crazy enough to have hallucinated a boyfriend for almost seven years, but still.
Has it really been seven years? I guess technically it's more like three – that almost year we spent together before college, and little over two years since graduation. It doesn't seem like that long – probably because of the four year separation. Huh. We've been apart longer than we've been together.
I walk into our apartment, expecting to find him in the kitchen, having his usual morning of black coffee and cereal. But he's not there, which is weird, because he's always up by now. Maybe he's sick or something? He better not be sick – I refuse to have a sneezy husband on our wedding day. I'd better go make sure he's ok.
Much to my surprise, when I open the bedroom door, he's not sleeping. He's reading, sitting on the bed with books spread out around him and it doesn't look like he's slept at all.
"Ryan, what-" and that's when it hits me – that they're not regular books. They're not even books. They're diaries.
My diaries.
He looks up at me, eyes dull – whether from lack of sleep or what he's read, I can't tell – but what the hell is he doing reading my diaries? I can feel it – the panic – building steadily, rising with maddening slowness until my heart starts beating wildly and my throat constricts. I'm trying to be angry, because – hello? – invasion of privacy much? But anger doesn't have much room to take hold, what with the absolute horror choking me. Because if he's read them from the beginning, and if the date on the current one in his hand is right, then he's read damn near everything.
Everything.
Things about him, things about Dean Hess, things about Henri-Michel, things about Marissa, things about my mother, things about the Cohens and Seth and Summer and high school and my dad, all my thoughts and feelings since I was fucking fifteen except for the four year break during college where I'd been too bored and depressed to write anything.
He looks up at me, eyes dull, no shame or embarrassment or panic in his gaze.
"Ryan…" I start, choking on his name because my throat's too tight to say anything.
"You think I'm still in love with Marissa?"
Crap.
I was hoping he hadn't gotten to that part yet. And that's when the panic breaks and the anger floods its way through. "You read my diaries?" I hiss, ignoring his question because he has no right to do this to me. Those are my feelings, my thoughts, and he was never meant to read them.
"Taylor," he lets the thing drop to the bed, not taking his eyes off me, "I've read a lot of stuff in the past ten hours," – ten hours? – "and this," he gestures down at the past year's journal, "I'm really hoping this is just pre-wedding jitters, or whatever they call it. Because if it's not – if you really think I'm still in love with someone else – then we have much bigger things to talk about than me reading your diaries."
He waits for me to process that, waits for me to decide whether we have a bigger problem or not. "That's not fair," I argue lamely, completely avoiding the question. "You have no idea what I was feeling that day – you have no idea if maybe I was frustrated, or someone pissed me off, or we got in a fight, or-"
"Taylor," he cuts me off, rising off the bed, shaking his head because he wants an answer, "that's not the issue. The issue is you still wrote it, and if it's true…" I don't deny it, and he backs up a little, putting his hands up to rub at his temples. "Fuck, Taylor," I watch him close his eyes and start to pace, "we've been together for seven fucking years, and you think I don't love you? I'm marrying you, for fuck's sake."
"I know you love me," I cut in hurriedly, before he closes up and shuts himself off. He looks at me, disbelieving, and I know I have to say it, because it's all out there now. "But I can't help but think that you'll never love me like you loved her."
He stops, dropping his hands to the side, face going completely dead. "You're right."
Oh my God. Oh God… I can't breathe. I can't… oh God...
"I don't love you like I loved her. I love you like I love you." He moves forward, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into him as I try not to cry, because that was really painful for a second. "I'm not… I'm not good with words," well, no shit, "but… yeah. I loved Marissa. I loved her because… I can't explain why I loved her and I'm not gonna try, cause you wouldn't understand. You weren't there, you weren't us, so I'm not gonna try and make you understand why. Do you get that?"
I nod into his chest, not able to meet his eyes, because I'm actually really embarrassed. Because to be honest, I knew all this. I know he loves me, I know she's his past, I know she'll always be his past, and there's nothing I can do about it.
I stare at the top of her head as she nods, but the empty feeling in my chest doesn't go away. Because I can't believe I have to explain this to her – I can't believe this is an issue.
Because Marissa has nothing to do with this – with us.
Nothing.
Marissa was my past. I loved her and she loved me, but we never seemed to manage to do it at the same time, or with the same intensity, or with the same commitment. We never clicked. We were tragic and flawed and it was everything young love should be – doomed. We were doomed from day one, when she asked me for a cigarette – when we both tried to be cooler than we actually were to impress each other. We were doomed from the first fracture, when she asked me who I was – when I told her exactly who I was, and she didn't believe me. Story of our entire relationship.
But this?
Taylor is my past, my present, my future. I knew – somehow, somewhere in the back of my head I always knew – that we'd work out from the beginning. I knew we'd work out from the first time she'd gotten me – out behind the country club where she'd read my mind. I knew we'd work out from the first time she'd trusted me – looking at me like I couldn't do anything but be trusted.
The problem here, I think, is that I know all this. I know my feelings, but she doesn't, because I don't talk about them. It's just not what I do. But I keep forgetting that Taylor doesn't operate like me – she doesn't look at actions more than words – because it's words she needs. She needs people to tell her things, because she never heard them growing up. She'd never even been lied to when she was little, like I was – the I love you's and you can trust me's that turned out to be complete bullshit. That's where I learned to trust actions. But Taylor? She never heard any of that.
I open my mouth to say something, but I can't.
What the absolute fuck?
I can't get any words out at all.
It would be fine if I'd left it on a good note, but I left it on yeah, I loved Marissa and I'm not telling you why. Great job, Atwood. Way to be just… such a magnificent fuck up. She slowly starts to stiffen in my arms as the realization hits her that no, I'm apparently not saying anything else. And then she backs up, keeping her head down and fuck.
Fucking fuck.
Fuck.
I'm pretty sure I've used that word more these past two weeks than I have in my entire life.
"Ryan?" I meet her eyes and she raises her eyebrows: waiting. She looks desperate, trying to be patient with me.
"I love you?"
Oh, fantastic.
Really, that deserves a round of applause. Making it into a question? Brilliant.
Years from now, people will study my life to better understand the fine art of romance.
"I love you?" she hisses and suddenly there's a dull pain in my chest as she shoves me away. I stumble back a few steps as she whirls around and leaves the room.
It takes about four seconds for me to regain my senses – she's never actually done anything like that before – and I follow her out into the living area. "Taylor," I try to make my voice do that commanding thing. Which usually makes her stop and listen to me, but this time it makes her spin around, holding one finger up in warning and looking pissed the fuck off. "Look…"
"No, you look," she damn near shouts, one hand on her hip, the other still pointed at me. "I have had just about enough of your non-verbal, non-committal shit, Ryan Atwood."
"Um…"
We both freeze, heads turning toward the kitchen, where Cody's in his pajamas, box of cereal held in one hand. "I think I'm gonna go ride my bike," he mumbles, setting the cereal on the counter and hurrying past us.
"Cody," I call after him, but he's already out the door. "Great. Just… fucking great," I run my hand over my face and it looks like my lack of sleep is finally catching up with me. "Way to scare him," I accuse, throwing my hands up. "I've been trying to convince him I'm not like his parents. This was a great way to just… blow that plan to shit."
"Don't turn this on me," she warns. "This is so far from my fault."
"I don't even know why you're angry!"
Well, that's a lie. She's angry because one, I read her diaries and two, I can't even tell her why I love her. Oh, and three, I admitted to loving my ex-girlfriend. Which wouldn't be a bad thing normally, because there's nothing wrong with having loved Marissa, but I'm guessing it's a bad sign when I can admit I loved my ex when I can barely tell my fiancée that I currently love her.
"Why are you marrying me?" I freeze and the apartment goes eerily silent as the words hang over us. She waits – again – for me to answer, hands on her hips, looking resigned more than angry now.
"Because…" I start, but it trails off into silence.
"Because. That's… well, that's great, Ryan. Because is a perfect reason to get married," she mutters, almost to herself, beginning to pace. "You know, in a poll of happily married people, all of them said that the reason they got married was because. I bet they would've saved some time if Harry could've just told Sally because, instead of having to go through that pesky list of whys. In fact, I'm sure because could fix just every problem ever…"
"Taylor," I grind out, feeling the familiar tension start in my shoulders. "Just… stop, ok?"
"I think I need more of my stuff," she whispers, calming down and moving past me, going into the bedroom again. I resist the urge to punch the wall and follow her in. "Look, Ryan," she starts, not meeting my eyes as she roots through drawers, "if you can't come up with some reason why you want to marry me besides the fact that you're complacent in this relationship, then you're right, we do have bigger things to worry about than you reading my diaries."
"Taylor," I sigh, sitting on the bed and putting my head in my hands. I can hear her moving around the room, but I can't watch her pack up. Not again. "I'm not good with words…"
"You keep saying that," she laughs – verging on hysterics – and doesn't stop moving. "But you'd think you could try. For me. For this relationship. You'd think you could at least try."
I wish I could. I want to. And I have it all in my head – the list of reasons why I love her, why I want to marry her, why I need her. But I know the minute I try to force them up through my throat, they'll get caught or tangled or translated into idiot. It'll come out wrong and she'll just get angrier.
"Where's my phone charger?" she whispers to herself, voice half broken and it makes me look up. Just in time to see her opening the drawer to my bedside table.
"Taylor."
"What?" she asks dully, rooting through the papers in there as I stand up and fuck, this is why we have our own – separate – bedside tables. For stuff the other person shouldn't see. I move forward to grab the papers out of her hands, but I don't make it in time.
Her brow furrows, shifting through the papers slower, and she turns away from me as I try to rip them from her. I manage to get all but one away from her and - of course, because God loves me – it's the most important one. "Ryan, what…?"
I sigh, throwing the papers down on the bed as her eyes scan the oversized sheet in her hand. "You weren't supposed to find these," I offer as an explanation, but she doesn't look up. "I wasn't gonna tell you till they were done…"
"You're building me a house?" she whispers, finally looking up at me, her eyes huge and disbelieving. It's probably useless to try and deny it, what with her name being on the top of the floor plan sheet she's holding.
"Well, planning," I correct her, hand going to the back of my neck. "It can't be built until I get the actual plans done, but I found this piece of land… it's only twenty minutes from Sandy and Kirsten's place…"
"You're building me a house." This time it's a statement, and her eyes go back to the floor plans.
"I mean, only if you're ok with it. I was gonna run it past you before I started building. You know, in case you wanted your office someplace else…" her eyes flick to the little room labeled Taylor's office, and she's good enough at reading floor plans after seven years with me to see the giant bay window I've added, and the little note next to it explaining that it has to face west, so she can see the sun setting from it. "I um…"
I don't get to finish, because she drops the paper on the bed and catches me off guard as she flings her arms around my neck, lips finding mine, hands gripping my hair painfully, making me stumble back a few steps before I catch myself. My own hands going to her waist and it strikes me how well she fits in my arms. How right she feels.
I never actually got what Seth meant, all those times. He'd always said it and I always laughed it off: when he used to talk about 'the one'. I laughed it off because I don't believe in destiny. I don't believe in fate, or star-crossed lovers, or whatever the hell label people want to put on it. I don't believe that there's only one right person for everyone.
I still don't, but right now I'm damn sure that no one would fit me as well as she does.
I try to let her know that, bringing my hands from her waist to hold her head as I kiss her – I try to let her know just… everything. All the things I can't actually say, all the things I can't put into words, all the things my own brain doesn't quite understand. Because I love you isn't fucking enough. Suddenly, I love you seems like the stupidest phrase ever created by man. How the hell can three little words… how can they expect someone to know… with just three fucking words?
The backs of my knees hit the bed and I fall back and she falls with me, the impact making our teeth clack together, but she doesn't stop kissing me, she doesn't stop, mouth moving from mine to my jaw, trailing a hot path down my neck to nip at my collarbone, her hands sliding up under my shirt, and she's gone. I know this side of her. She's absolutely gone – I doubt she has any thought process in her head except for me, which makes shivers run down my spine. I remember when she told me about this – how sometimes, when we're having sex she just… stops thinking, stops caring about anything else except me and getting her orgasm. Truthfully I didn't believe her at first, but… it's times like this when, yeah.
She's not thinking right now.
Fuck. I hate morals.
"Taylor," I groan as she grinds into me. My hands are shaking when I move them to her hips, pushing her off me – not so gently, because it's taking just about every ounce of willpower to do this.
To not let her continue.
She whimpers when she's on her back and I stand up. Her eyes catch mine for a brief – wild – second before traveling down to where I'm obviously hard, and her hand stretches out for me. But I shake my head no, backing up – tripping, to be completely honest – as I stumble into the bathroom, pulling off clothes as I go.
I set the shower temperature to holy fucking hell, Antarctica isn't even this cold and jump in, hissing in pain when it feels like I'm being stabbed by thousands of little icicles. And I'm surprised steam isn't rising off my skin – I feel like I'm burning up and the water's doing nothing and I just want to go back in there and…
But she's not thinking, so I have to. Only four more days. I can last. I don't want her gratitude – her relief – to overshadow her decision.
I press my back to the wall, the tiles warm compared to the temperature of the water, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, taking shallow, ragged breaths. There's a vague sound from in front of me, but it's the whimper that makes me take my hands away and open my eyes.
She's naked, watching me hungrily, moving forward, reaching for the knob, turning the temperature of the water up, stepping in with me…
"Taylor," I groan in protest as she buries her face in my neck, lips moving against the skin there. "No sex rule…"
"Shut up, Ryan," she whispers into me, like I'm a complete idiot. Which, maybe I actually am, because I'm turning down sex from my fiancée.
Except I'm not sure if sex is on the table here, so I close my eyes and tilt my head back to rest on the tile. I'm just going to let her do whatever the hell she wants with me. There's a movement and the sound of something opening, and suddenly it smells like peaches and cream and her hand travels down my stomach, sliding easily due to the body wash.
She keeps her face pressed into my neck, panting heavily as her hand wraps around my dick, pumping me as I arch out from the wall, lost in the sensation, because even though I've been jerking off near daily for the past two months, it's so much better when it's her hand, when I have her naked body pressed up against mine, when the smell of her is all around me – all peaches and cream and sex.
"Oh, fuck," I moan raggedly, swallowing compulsively and she hums into my skin in response. The water warms up, but it's barely noticable because all I can focus on is her slick body against mine, lips sucking the hollow of my throat, hand stroking me, running her thumb over the tip as my hips buck sharply.
My right hand lifts to tangle in her hair, the other clenched at my side as I moan – I'm not exactly sure what, but it's something, most likely her name, most likely mixed with curses, but it's definitely a moan, a warning, because I'm coming, and it's too soon – it's too fucking soon – it can't be ending, not now, not ever, it can't ever end, but it is, sooner than usual, sooner than I expected, it only feels like a second since she started but it's ending now, the clenching in my stomach, the tightening of all my muscles, the white hot release, the mind-scrambling blackout, the dull sense of awareness, the calm comedown, the lightheadedness, the lazy smile.
"I love you," she murmurs, so low I can barely hear it over the thrum of the water.
"I love you, too," I repeat, even though the words are stupid, even if they can never fully explain anything. But maybe those three words are a representation. An offering: I can't tell you all the things, all the reasons, so I'm giving you this, these three words, in place of it.
"I know." She lifts her face from my neck, lifting her - clean - hand to the side of my face. "I'm sorry I went all psycho."
"It's ok," I wrap my other arm around her waist, resisting the urge to collapse, to pass out. I haven't been this relaxed in… a long time. I wonder what will happen when I actually get to fuck her again. I may pass out. "Sorry I'm an idiot."
"It's ok."
I can't help it – I start to laugh. Well, it's not so much a laugh as it is an exhausted chuckle, deep and low, and she starts to giggle with me. "I read your diaries and I get an orgasm for it."
"No," she starts off, still giggling. "You read my diaries and got a fight for it. Then you went all sweet and perfect and got an orgasm for it."
"I'm far from perfect," I remind her, sobering up a bit at the thought.
I'm so very far from perfect.
"Not from where I'm standing," she drops her head back onto my shoulder with a sigh, seemingly content to just stand here with me under the spray of water, basking in my afterglow.
"We need to get him a cell phone," I ramble as we make our way to the front door. "So we can keep track of him. Why didn't we think of that? If we had, we could just call to find out where he is. He needs a cell phone. Oh! Can you Lojack a child? Like, one of those little beepy things?"
"Let's just see if we can look for him," he puts his hand on my back and opens the door for me. "Hopefully he stuck close."
He doesn't have to say what we're both thinking: hopefully he didn't run away. What had we been thinking? Arguing in front of him before he really got to know us? I hope he doesn't think we're horrible people – horrible parents. Parents who hit each other – and their children. We're not. It was just an unfortunately timed argument.
But it's ok, we have our explanation planned out – it's four days until our wedding, we just have some pre-wedding nerves. We're not normally like this. I know that we can explain this all to him.
We just have to find him first.
The sun is bright as we hurry down the stairs and from behind me I hear a low "fuck" escape Ryan's mouth, and then I see Cody – kicking the soccer ball around in what's supposed to be our apartment's backyard. He looks up at us, trapping the ball under his foot and waits for us to make it over to him.
"You guys done?" he asks, voice dull.
"Look," I start, "we're not normally like this. It's the wedding..." Cody smiles a little, looking over my shoulder at Ryan and when I turn around, I catch him, mid-eye roll. "Ryan!" I scold, elbowing him in the ribs and Cody ducks his head over a grin. I turn back to the boy, feeling the relief. "I'm just glad you didn't run away," I sigh and he looks up – startled.
"Want some breakfast now?" Ryan asks from behind me, looping one arm around my shoulders. Cody nods, bending down to pick up the ball. When he straightens out, he stops, giving us a weird look.
"Why is your hair wet?" I feel the blood rush to my face as Ryan clears his throat uncomfortably. Cody's face goes from confused to disgusted and he breathes an emphatic "ew." Then he shakes his head and moves past us, towards the stairs. "You guys are horrible role models," he informs us, taking the stairs two at a time.
"Hey!" Ryan calls after him, not sure if he should be offended or proud. Offended that his soon-to-be adopted son is disrespecting him, or proud that Cody obviously feels comfortable enough with us to do it. He seems to settle for proud with a side of broody before heading up after our future son.
Son.
Good God, that'll take some getting used to.
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