I'm still not fully recovered from the official dating status of our couple. The fluffiness inspired me to finish another chapter of this story.
Also, this soliloquy is starting to lose its metaphorical meaning, but just focus on the 'dreams' bit and we're all good.
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
She spends a solid three minutes standing in front of his bathroom mirror in nothing but her bra and underwear, lost in thought as she asks herself over and over again, what am I doing here. She knows she should leave; that despite the lovely morning and his easy acceptance of her presence, there is something inherently wrong in staying here with him, accepting his friendly company. That the queasy feeling in her stomach is justified, especially as she looks at herself almost naked in the mirror and knows he will soon see her at her most unguarded, freshly washed and without make-up wearing his house clothes.
She wonders, not for the first time, if it would be this much of a problem if she wasn't attracted to him. She doesn't think it would be. Which in and of itself is a problem.
At the very least she does want to shower, and so she takes her hair out of the pony tail and starts the hot water running, stripping the last of her clothes as it warms up. She spends a moment fiddling with the water levels to get just the right temperature, and then sighs as she steps fully under the spray. The long week feels far away; the tension in her shoulders gives way as she rolls them out and wets her hair. Showers always were her happy place.
Eyeing the two-in-one shampoo in the shower caddy, she picks it up, opens the cap, and smells it. It doesn't smell like him – he wears a very particular aftershave that is much stronger than any of his soap fragrances – but it's not an offending smell. She can use it for herself.
Not wanting to linger, she makes quick work of washing her hair and body, and then steps out of the shower, picking up the towel she pre-emptively placed on the vanity. She avoids looking at herself in the partially fogged mirror, too afraid she will see guilt in her reflection. Leaky ceiling or not – friendship or not – they shouldn't be testing these boundaries, though she can't pinpoint exactly why.
Sharon folds up her work clothes once she's dressed again in Andy's borrowed track pants and tee-shirt. She unceremoniously bundles up her dirty underwear and shoves them between her suit pants and blouse, avoiding them, glad that a bra can go more than one wear; there is no way she would walk out there braless, not if he paid her. Not with where her mind has been.
The bathroom looks devoid of a hair dryer, just as she suspected, and a quick look in the cupboard under the sink yields no results, so with a sigh Sharon scrubs the towel over her hair a couple of times and then leaves it. She'll let it air dry and then comb it later, much as that tends to make her hair flat and lifeless. If she needs to wash it again tomorrow, so be it; it's a small price to pay for feeling human again today.
She has to remind herself again that she's not trying to impress anybody.
When she emerges from the bathroom and walks down the hall, Sharon is surprised to find the lounge empty. A clang of pots tells her that Andy has made his way to the kitchen. She fights the urge to smile when she walks in and sees him standing at the stove wearing a ridiculous barbeque apron. It is fashioned like a SWAT vest, with pockets for cooking utensils and a giant CHEF emblazoned on the front with Velcro. She thinks he looks rather dashing, and he catches her grinning at his outfit. It makes him smile back at her, puffing his chest out a little. He's obviously very proud of his apron, and she can't deny it's very amusing.
There's a small tub of cream on the bench, and some bacon that is obviously for her benefit, so she figures he's going to make a quick carbonara for them, which is exactly what she's been craving since she raided his fridge a few hours earlier. The saucepan on the stove is already coming to the boil and he adds the fettucine while he works at chopping a few rashers of bacon into small bits. A smaller pan rests on a low heat waiting.
"I thought you didn't eat meat?" she asks, walking over to him with her arms crossed and a serene look on her face.
"My doctor said I should start incorporating it into my diet again, after the whole blood pressure thing" he says with a shrug, turning his head quickly to acknowledge her and then continuing his task. "I still tend to avoid it, mostly out of habit. But bacon" he drawls, and moans dramatically. "Bacon cannot be ignored"
She laughs at him and nods. Bacon was always her guilty pleasure food too. It's a struggle not to buy it more often. She has one hip resting against the edge of the bench as she watches the bacon go in the warm pan with some oil to brown it.
"Anything I can do?" she asks.
"Just stand there lookin' pretty" he mumbles. It sounds practiced, or like something he just says for the sake of it. But he must realise exactly who he's talking to just a split second later, because his shoulders stiffen and he turns and looks at her with a sheepish look on his face. She tries not to look too alarmed. Mostly she's amused, because her clean face, wet hair and track pants are hardly glamorous.
"Sorry" he says, shrugging a little.
She can't help but let out a laugh, which breaks the tension nicely. "If that was a compliment, I'll take it"
"Then consider it a compliment" he says, nodding along. She just laughs again and pushes away from the bench. If he won't let her help with the cooking, she might as well make herself useful operating his coffee machine. Like the true food aficionado that he is, it's a fancy barista's espresso machine, with a capsule in the top for fresh beans and a spout for heating the milk. She's owned enough of her own coffee machines over the years – both at home and work –to get the gist of working it without guidance.
She takes two cups from the cupboard, gesturing to him with one.
"Yeah, thanks" he says. She knows how he takes it so she doesn't bother asking.
Side by side they prepare lunch –him the food, her the drink (hoping the caffeine clears the fog of bad sleep). She sniffs the air from behind Andy's shoulder, peering around into the pan; it smells simple and delicious, and he uses fresh herbs that she knows he grows himself. Once the pasta is done he adds that to the sauce and tosses it around while she grabs two bowls down from the cupboard, and a fork and spoon each from the draw. It feels nice to be able to move around each other so seamlessly; she doesn't dwell on it. Andy keeps an ear out, listening to her rustle about, grinning to himself that she's so familiar in his place. He likes it, though he'd never say that. She would only get self-conscious, and he wants her to be comfortable. He's still getting over seeing her fresh-faced and casual.
He scoops enough pasta into her bowl to feed an army, but her stomach rumbles just as she picks it up and they both laugh; it's been a while since breakfast, and bad sleep always makes her hungry.
"Table?" she asks. There's mail and some folded laundry on one half of it, but the seat she occupied at breakfast and another one next to it are free enough for them to use. She won't presume the etiquette of his house. She knows she gets funny about meals being eaten at tables; everyone has their ways.
He looks at the table and scrunches nose a little, and she stifles a grin. "Couch?" she offers instead, and almost laughs when he just nods enthusiastically and walks into the living room instead.
One more question answered, out of so many.
They settle on the couch with their coffees on the table, her legs curled beneath her. He shoves a huge forkful in his mouth and then picks up the remote and starts channel-surfing, trying to find something they'll both like. She takes a much smaller mouthful (she doesn't want to give herself a tummy ache, after all), and flicks her wet hair behind her, trying to break it up a little to let the air get to it faster.
She can't be sure, but she thinks Andy is trying to avoid looking at her too obviously. Or maybe she's just being hypersensitive, since she's trying not to focus on what they're doing.
She laughs when he stops on Dirty Harry; of course he would.
"Classic" he drawls, tossing the remote onto the cushion between them. She rolls her eyes but doesn't object. In no time at all they have finished their pasta and their coffee, and she takes their dishes to the kitchen, despite his just leave them. She doesn't mind eating on the couch, she can even handle sitting around with wet hair and no undies on, but she absolutely cannot abide having dishes lying about on the coffee table. She stacks the dishwasher, including the pans from the stove; fastidiously ignores his long-suffering seriously, Sharon, I'll get them later while she rearranges some stubborn mugs on the top shelf. She almost wants to call him in for a lesson on how to properly stack the thing, but reminds herself that it's his house, it's his dishwasher, and if he wants to waste water with poor space management it's not her business.
"Where's your soap stuff?" she calls back instead. She can practically hear him roll his eyes at her, but a moment later he calls back that it's all stored under the sink. Sure enough, she pulls out an all-in-one dishwashing tablet from the bulk box, presses the 'heavy' wash option to account for the pans, and then snaps the dishwasher shut with her hip. It whirs to life and she smiles.
She walks back into the lounge with a smug look on her face, and he gives her a bland look right back.
"Happy now?" he asks.
"Yes"
He rolls his eyes and pats the seat next to him that she was occupying before. Her smile turns soft, and she obliges him and sits down again, not close enough to touch, but close. Familiar. He hands her the remote, expecting she might want to change it, but she just places it on the couch arm next to her and settles deeper into the cushions. If he's surprised by that he tries not to show it. It's disorienting to see her so relaxed. The team have been to her place after hours a few times – he knows she can let her hair down, so to speak – but she looks like she's trying very hard to just chill out and enjoy the day. He didn't expect that at all.
She catches him staring and he blinks.
"What?" she asks softly.
"Popcorn?"
It's the first thought out of his mouth, and luckily it's at least mildly relevant to their day's activities. She looks a bit startled by the question, her mouth opening and closing fractionally, her face going hilariously blank.
"Maybe later" she replies. "Lunch was…-" She waves her arm around a bit before patting her stomach comically. He nods and smiles, agreeing with her. They're still full.
"Yeah. Sure. Later – no problem"
She gives him a look as he turns back to the screen with a dopy smile – something akin to asking what on earth is wrong with you? Are you ill? He tries not to notice, and mostly can't see past his own mortification and his efforts to remain calm and friendly. They've been doing so well, considering they slept in the same bed last night. The last thing he wants is to drive her back to her smelly, unfinished apartment because he got all weird.
With one last side-eye, Sharon looks back at the screen and decides to let it go. She's perfectly content here, and sees no reason to be otherwise. They're both still tired, and she's grateful for the offer of friendly company today, even if it's a bit of an inconvenience not going home. It's easier than she thought it would be to rid her mind of any awkwardness and just enjoy the film; she hasn't watched it in years, and anyway, she's got nowhere else to be today. He fed her, gave her a change of clothes, and hasn't mentioned their sleeping arrangements once despite being well within his rights to do so. The least she can do is watch Dirty Harry with him in peace.
And if she happens to enjoy herself in the process, well, that's just the luck of the draw.
