DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.
a/n: I apologize for the lack of updates, guys. I've lost a hard drive and with it a piece of my soul - plus the original "chapter 14." This is a re-written, sort of "easing-myself-back-into-this-fic" version. I'll try to be quicker with the next one. Thank you all so freaking much for the continued interest, encouragement, support, and patience. You are amazing!
~ BETTER ~
She's been tossing and turning for hours, never quite succeeding in finding a good spot, even though it's a rather large and – on most days – very comfortable bed. She angrily turns to her side and gets further tangled in the sheets. There's a thick stripe of light slicing through the humming darkness of her room. She's left the door slightly ajar and through the crack she can see into living room. And she sees the back of his head. He's sitting on the couch, his posture strained. She hears him swear and cracks a smile. For tonight, his only line of defense seems to consist of paperwork and a frying pan – hardly an effective combination against armed and violent criminals sneaking into apartments –, but she feels safer. Her eyes remain on him. He straightens his back, tilts his head left and right, stretching his neck muscles. Even from behind he looks frustrated – as frustrated as she feels.
He glances up when he sees movement from the corner of his eye and pulls the headphones out of his ear.
"You don't like the quiet, huh?" she asks, amused.
"It is distracting." He runs his tired eyes over her rumpled form. "Can't sleep?" he asks, smile and concern mingling in his voice.
She shakes her head. "No."
He nods. He doesn't ask more. It's her turn. "You?"
"Oh, I slept yesterday," he jokes but he looks worn out too.
She chuckles, then briefly surveys the small mess he's made. There's a beer bottle by the couch – she helped empty it a couple of hours ago. He's surrounded by papers – polling results, reports, financial records, some legal looking documents, half-written speeches and neatly typed ones decorated with his scribbly adjustments. A blue pen lies on the carpet near her feet. "Florrick for Governor," its white letters announce.
She picks it up and sits down next to him. The TV is on – almost on mute – and she stares at it for a while, absently fiddling with the pen. He steals a glance at her. He doesn't really know what to say, so he quickly resumes studying the sheet of paper in his hand - the dots, numbers, charts, and percentages. All neat and ordered. Straightforward. Concrete. Reliable.
Not so long ago she was barely more than strings of letters and numbers on a piece of paper. A porous, brief memory. But now she's here. He could reach out and touch her. He could. He has and he is starved for more but guilt floods his body like an icy torrent, freezing him motionless.
She watches him. Maybe it's just the way the shimmering light of the TV screen hits his profile but the lines on his face seem deeper and darker, his hair more silvery, his face more angular, than she remembers.
He can feel her gaze and turns his head to meet it.
"How are you?" she asks after a long stretch of silence. A laugh escapes him but he quickly chokes it back. She doesn't seem to think it's a ridiculous question. Maybe it isn't. Repeat something often enough and it may just become true, they say. It could just as easily become meaningless. Like how are you's. No one waits for an answer to that anymore. She is now. She of all people. Her gaze is waiting, resting on him. Even the pen stills in her grasp. He glances at it, then at the constellation of smaller cuts and bruises on her forearm. She must have fallen on the coffee table during the struggle. Sound of crunching glass echoes in his ear and the phantom touch of cold panic scrapes along his skin like barbed wire.
"I should be asking you that," he says at last, his voice quiet.
"I asked first." He opens his mouth but she cuts him off. "And don't lie," she warns him with a half-smile, pointing the pen at him.
A quick grin – like a glass shard – graves further lines on his face. But when they vanish, he looks more tired than ever. His lips purse slightly as he regards her. It always takes more time to give an honest answer. It arrives wrapped in a sigh. "Better." It's the truth. She smiles and offers him the pen. He doesn't take it. He is waiting.
"Me too," she says but his eyes remain on her for a few seconds longer. He's trying to make sure.
"Keep it." He nods at the pen. "I've got boxes of them at the office."
She twirls the blue and white piece of plastic in her fingers and her smile widens. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."
He seems lost and vaguely embarrassed. "I um…"
"I'm joking, Eli." He smiles but doesn't look completely reassured. "This," she says and glances at the object in question, "this is the nicest pen anyone has ever given me." A couple of silent seconds tick by and then he bursts out laughing. It's warm and soft, quickening her heart rate. "Thank you," she says, cracking a smile.
"You're very welcome."
His gaze flickers back on the page he was staring at earlier and hers starts to wander again.
He's pulled over the footrest from the corner to use it as a makeshift table for his laptop. She looks at the screen. He's researching… dogs? There's a folder by the laptop. Its cover reads Second Chance Shelter with a paw print in place of the "o". Does he want to adopt a pet? Somehow he doesn't strike her as the type. She looks at him and he answers the question she didn't ask.
"Myra Fiedler's little 'pet project' for me."
"A dog shelter?" She reaches for the folder.
"Well, they take in all kinds of animals but mostly deal with pit bulls." She glances up. "You know... nanny dogs," he adds with a grin.
She smiles at that and starts flipping through the papers. "Well, our old neighbor had one."
His eyebrows go up. "Oh. Was it a nice dog?"
"He bit my aunt."
The eyebrows go down. "You aren't helping," he remarks.
"You don't know my aunt. That poor dog was warding off evil."
He laughs and she looks up. "So," she says, closing the folder, "you're helping save abandoned animals now." He smiles back. "Using your evil powers for good, Mr. Gold?" she teases.
He averts his eyes and stifles his chuckle by biting down his lip. He glances back. "Would that be so hard to believe?"
She tilts her head, studying him for a long moment. "No," she answers simply, with a shadow of a smile. It isn't a naïve "no." It's a challenging "no." She doesn't expect him to be better than the man who once betrayed her.
She dares him instead.
He raises an eyebrow. Maybe she knows him better than he thought.
Her gaze shifts to his hands. They are covered with small bits of cotton. There's a bottle of lemon juice nearby and cotton pads litter the couch around him. Some are intact, others are black-stained and in pieces. He looks at her sheepishly.
"Sorry. I was just…" he starts to explain, then turns his hands palm up. They are still inky.
Wordlessly, she gets to her feet. She grabs the lemon juice, takes his hand and leads him to the bathroom. Her hand is cold. She grabs a piece of cloth from under the sink, soaks it with juice and starts to rub it into his skin. The stains begin to fade a little. She holds his wrist and the fingertip-stroked small arches leave goose bumps in their wake. With the cloth she traces the lines etched into his palm and he feels like his body is coming loose. He lets out a shaky sigh. It feels so unusual to be taken care of like this. With such intimate kindness. It's almost surreal. How can a seemingly mundane act be a cause of so much violent emotion? Terror. Gratitude. Desire.
She peers up. In the small distance between them hesitation once again clashes with craving. Then she hands him the lemon juice bottle. The cool softness of caressing fingertips is replaced by cold, sticky, lifeless plastic. "I guess you can take over from here." It's probably for the best.
He can. He doesn't want to. "Sure," he says and clears his throat. She doesn't move. She doesn't look away. She regards him with a tinge of amusement. "You still can't get over my nightwear?" he asks. He is correct.
She grins. "Well, it is a drastic change." An old t-shirt and sweatpants - not unlike the combination of what she is wearing but on him they present a more jarring sight.
"You thought I slept in a suit?"
"You did last night."
He laughs. "Yeah, well... not on purpose."
They lapse into silence again. She bites her lip but the words slip out anyway. "I wanna kiss you." And more.
He tilts his head. He wants it, too. And more. "Then kiss me."
She smiles faintly. "No."
"I won't bite." But the promise is followed by a wolfish grin.
She grins right back. "I might."
He arches an eyebrow, approving. She looks away and briefly studies the label on the bottle.
"Let's have lunch tomorrow," he suggests, his voice drawing her eyes up. "You know, a...
"A date?" she helps him out. There. The "D" word is out. It's followed by ringing silence.
He quickly recovers. "Yes. That." He clears his throat. "Something… proper. Normal. Where neither of us storms out or falls asleep or... gets attacked."
She chuckles. "Something low-key then?"
"Yes. If-if that's all right with you."
"I'd love that."
"I could pick you up around one."
"That's when my lunch break starts, so… perfect."
He narrows his eyes and swallows. "You have to go to work?"
"I want to go to work, Eli. I can't lock myself away forever. Besides, what's safer? Me in here alone or at the office surrounded by people?"
His mouth opens and closes. She has a point. He lowers his gaze and nods in silence. "You're right." She resists the kiss but reaches out, smoothing her hand over his cheek. He showered but didn't shave. His stubble feels prickly under her fingertips. He leans into her touch and she traces a dimple with her thumb.
"Good night, Eli," she says quietly, withdrawing her hand.
"Good night, Natalie."
He watches her walk away and shivers in her absence.