Standard disclaimers apply and, despite due diligence, the inevitable mistakes are my fault.

Remembrance

Chapter Five: Familiar

Unable to face its contents in living color, she stared at her hand in the mirror.

But the square stone glinting back at her didn't lose any brilliance in its reflection. If anything, it gained a million more facets and caught even more light. Its luster mocked her, her in her oversized shirt and mussed hair and pallid face. The incongruent tableau she made could have been humorous in another life. In this one, it was just pathetic.

So she pushed away from the vanity and, before she could talk herself out of it, she was out of one doorway and through another.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights and a foggy moon. She saw his shadowy reach over to turn on the nightstand lamp, the natural oils of his skin gleaming.

He sat up against the headboard, the lamp throwing light on his bare torso. "Is everything all right?"

She walked until she was standing over him, the ring firm between her thumb and index finger. "What the hell is this?"

His eyes ran over her slim body all but swallowed beneath his shirt. Briefly resting on her bare thighs, they finally traveled to her hand. His brows rose a degree. As far as guilty expressions went, it was sorely lacking.

"Well?" she pressed.

"Judging from your tone, I'd say you've already figured it out."

"I found it in my jewelry box." It was unnecessary, but the only thing she could think of to say.

He nodded. Waited for her to continue, he wore such a patient expression, she wanted to smack him.

"So when we were talking earlier, you didn't think to mention this?" She shook the ring under his nose, spitting out the word as if it were offensive. Flopping down on the edge of the mattress, she gave him her side profile. "And why wasn't I wearing it when—" She cut herself off and whipped around to face him. He watched her face carefully, his features schooled into an expression of stoicism.

She leaned in closer, trying to extricate an answer out of his reaction. Half his face was still cast in darkness, making it near impossible.

"Unless we're not engaged," she said slowly. "Unless I said no."

"You didn't."

"But I didn't say yes."

His gaze was steady. "No, you didn't."

This was getting her nowhere. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Another shrug. "It didn't seem relevant."

"Of course it's relevant!" she shouted. Then, pressing her lips together as she collected herself, she tried again. "Why aren't we engaged? Why didn't I give you an answer?"

He rubbed a tired hand over his brow. "The only person who knows that is you."

There was no arguing with that. She slumped, suddenly aware of their thighs pressed against each other with only a thin bedsheet separating them. "What did I say? When you asked, I mean."

"You said you needed to think."

It was only then that she thought about his pain. How such an ambivalent response, one bordering on rejection, must have affected him. She lifted her gaze to meet his and wanted to hug him, to let him know he was perfect, that clearly she was crazy.

"I'm sorry," she whispered instead, working around a lump in her throat.

He watched with undisguised interest as her small hand gripped the ring. "It's fine," he said. "You were honest. That's all I could have asked for."

If he didn't stop being so understanding, she'd cry from the sheer unfairness of it all.

She extended the ring toward him. "You should probably keep this."

He shook his head, his arms still by his sides. "No, you keep it. I bought it for you."

The ring was still pressed between her fingers and, unable to have it between them anymore, mocking both of them with unfulfilled hopes, she hid it in her fist.

"Please stop," she said, unable to keep the waver out of her voice. "You have to stop." Closing her eyes, she ducked her chin down to her chest.

"Hey," he said, reaching out to touch her upper arm. "Hey."

She lifted her chin, moisture clinging to her lashes, but refusing to spill. "You've been so understanding, so nice—"

His fingers trailed down her arm to cover her white knuckles. "I don't think anyone's ever accused me of being nice before," he said, his smile wry.

She ignored his attempt at levity, staring down at their hands. Her skin was pale, almost translucent under the light, while his was a warmer gold. The heat from his palm fused through her and she felt her fist slacken a bit.

She bit her lip. "You've done so much for me already, please don't do more than I can repay you for."

He was still for a long moment and she kept her eyes trained down on their hands. Then he pulled her to him, cradling her between his torso and arm. Her bare legs stretched out over the sheet next to his.

Even pointed, her feet were nowhere near his and he was reminded, once again, of how small she was.

"Why," he started after they remained like that for a while, "would you think you owe me something?"

He felt her sigh seep into his skin. "You're letting me stay here, you've given up your room, you're being so great about the whole ring debacle…all without…" She leaned back to meet his eyes. Swallowing hard, she asked, "You realize I may never remember?"

His fingers tightened around her. He nodded.

"And you're still—"

"This is your home," he interrupted, adjusting himself on the bed to give her more room. "There's nothing to repay."

She was quiet and he moved away long enough to lean over her so he could read her face. "Do you hear me, Lexie? Because I don't want this hanging between us."

Nodding mutely, she gazed up at him. The darkness bisected his face, throwing parts of his features in stark relief and she could make out the small groove on the underside of his straight nose. As she stared at his mouth, following the line of his lower lip, she felt her grasp on the ring loosen.

He stared down at her and then groaned, letting his head fall against the pillow next to her head.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, his voice muffled.

"I—"

"You're not ready," he continued, head still hidden. She wondered if he was talking to her or himself.

She nodded even though he couldn't see the movement. Moving to get up, she found his arms were still on either side of her, forming an effective cage.

When he finally lifted his head, she had turned the other way, her eyes on the lampshade. He laughed and she felt his breath stir the hair near her temple.

"What?"

He shook his head above her, the light catching a few silver strands of his hair. His eyes were so blue they were almost diaphanous. "You're wearing my shirt."

She shifted under him, her knees meeting out of instinct. "Sorry," she said.

"No, no, it's just…" he trailed off and then smiled. "I couldn't have forced you into that thing two weeks ago."

She cocked her head to the side, squinting one eye in question.

"You went to Harvard. I once caught you trying to give it to Goodwill."

She looked down at her chest, the white lettering scrunched.

"It looks good on you," he said.

"Thanks." She smiled and he returned it. She then nodded once, as if realizing something. "Sucks to be you," she said softly.

The words were so gentle, her face so serene, he thought he'd misheard her. "What?"

She nodded again. "To have a resident go to a better school than you? Sucks." She let out a low whistle.

He gave her a caustic chuckle before lifting a pillow in one deft motion and pressing it over her face. "Smartass."

She yelped beneath the down case, her hands flailing up to slap him away. When he finally eased up to give her air, she remained docile, using her fingers to pull away the chunks of hair flung across her face.

"I," she began tragically, "am recovering from head trauma." She gripped the edge of her pillowcase. "And you," she said, "are a Neanderthal." Thumping him with the pillow once, she moved out from under him.

Or tried to. Grabbing a fistful of his own shirt, he hauled her back under him. From there, it was the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arms around his neck when he lowered his head to hers. There was nothing out of ordinary in the way they lay on their sides, legs intertwined as they kissed, his lips sipping at her lower lip, hers cradling his upper.

The beginnings of her laughter took even her by surprise. Her mouth shook against his, her lips widening as her eyes opened. He pulled back a fraction, his brow scrunched as he looked at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, still laughing. "It's not you." She laughed harder, rolling on her back to look at the ceiling.

He propped his head on his palm. "You don't say?"

"It's just that that was my first kiss." Still on her back, she rolled her head on the pillow to meet his eyes. His face was suffused with color, she noticed, even his ears were a bit pink. But he didn't look embarrassed, just…warm. "I mean, I know it isn't, but it's the only one I can remember."

He thought that one over and decided the liked the sound of those words on her lips. Leaning over to kiss her forehead before dropping back to the pillow, he said, "Turn off the light."

She obliged and in the darkness, through some memorized choreography, his arm found her waist. There were a few inches between their bodies, but his palm was flush against her lower abdomen. She rested her own hands atop his and slept.

*****

Five the next morning found her staring into the refrigerator, attempting to figure out what she liked. Ten minutes later, she had just settled onto a stool at the breakfast bar when he entered the kitchen.

His pajama bottoms, black and rumpled, rode low on his hips and when he bent to grab the carafe of orange juice out of the fridge, she was afforded an unrestricted view of his back. She wrapped her lips around her fork, forgetting it held no food.

She made sure her eyes were on her plate when he turned with a glass and smile for her.

"Morning," she murmured, lifting her fork once again.

It met the counter with a dull click as he snatched the plate away. Too stunned to say anything, she just looked at him incredulously as he dumped her eggs down the sink.

"I thought you said I could cook. I'm sure it's edible."

"You're allergic," he said. "Drink your juice."

"Oh," was her brilliant reply. She stared down at the glass in front of her, useless fork still in hand. "Thanks."

"No problem." He finished his glass and set it down in the sink.

"Any other allergies I should know about?"

"No." He paused thoughtfully. "But you hate apples. Or you used to."

She filed that away, making a mental note to try one later. She shifted in her stool, watching with a wary eye as he started the cappuccino maker. "So did Derek say anything about when I could start working again?"

The muscles in his back froze and she knew her attempt to make the question offhand had failed. He turned to face her slowly. "You were hit in the head with a baseball bat," he said slowly, as if the accident had affected her hearing

She sighed. "Yes, but it's been ten days. And…" She swiveled to look around the apartment. "I can't just spend my life here."

"So see a movie, read a book, take naps." With one hand flat against the counter while the other one rode his hip, he stared her down.

She glared back. "I have amnesia, I'm not stupid. I still have my skill memory. Just because I'm fuzzy with facts doesn't mean I'm incompetent—"

"Did I say you were?"

"You suggested it!"

"Damn it, Lexie! Just do me a favor and take it easy for a few days, will you?" He turned back to the machine, mug in hand. "I'm already half—" He cut himself off with a curse as he jerked away from the machine, sucking the skin below his thumb.

"Are you okay?" she asked, a twinge of guilt in her voice.

"Fine," he said, assessing the burn for a moment before returning it to his mouth.

"Cold water might help," she said, leaning over the bar to turn on the tap. She smiled widely when he gave her a quelling look. "Maybe some aloe vera."

"All right," he said wryly, running his hand under the stream. "I get it. You're a doctor."

She beamed, her brown eyes curving up with what Mark could only call satisfaction.

"I'll talk to the Chief about it today."

She nodded. "When are you done for the day?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm not staying. Just postponing some surgeries."

"What?" She sat up straighter. "Why?"

"I'm staying with you for a couple of days."

She bristled, her grasp on the fork tightening. His eyes honed in on her weapon of choice with two careful, blue eyes. "I don't need a babysitter. I won't burn the place down."

Irritation flickered across his face. "Did I say that? Can't I just want to stay home with you? Maybe enjoy the pleasure of your charming company?"

The fight deflated out of her. How did he go from making her militant to repentant in less than three seconds?

She blew out her breath in the way of a martyr. "I suppose I am charming."

He snorted. "As a cold sore."

She let that one pass. "Listen, do the surgeries you have scheduled for today. Then," she continued over the beginnings of his protest, "we can start our vacation tomorrow."

Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I want to wash my hair and watch bad television." She smiled. "And I want to snoop through your things and I can't do that with you here."

He studied at her for a long moment and she was certain he was going to refuse. "I'll be back around four."

She nodded and watched him leave for their bedroom. Less than half an hour later he was dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, his hair still wet from his shower.

"Four," he repeated when he bent to kiss her goodbye. She tilted her chin up automatically and his mouth landed square against hers. "Second kiss," he said, his words the texture of an unpaved road. If she closed her eyes, she could swear his voice fairly rumbled.

Then he kissed her again and this time his tongue swept the inside of her mouth, the movement quick with practiced ease. "Third," he said over his shoulder, the front door closing behind him.

Restraint, she told herself, and managed to count up to five before launching herself off the stool and into their bedroom. Dragging the vanity stool up to her closet, she stood on it while rummaging through clothes, trying to find something, anything of importance.

Success arrived in the form of a shoebox. Curiosity piqued, she stretched upward until she had a firm grasp on the box. Two minutes later, closet doors still flung open, she was cross-legged on the bed, tearing through the photographs and various objects.

After two hours of staring at frozen images and holding random rubbish, she came to the conclusion a memory box was only useful if one actually remembered. If one didn't, it was all nonsense.

A pressed flower.

A slab of what looked like jagged concrete.

Letters and cards filled with illegible scrawls.

She had given up, idly holding a miniature trombone charm when her eyes fell on bright red foil shaped like rose. Putting the charm back in the box, she picked up the foil, surprised by how light it was. The chocolate was gone, but the foil had been carefully preserved to maintain its flower shape. She turned it over in her palm.

And promptly dropped it in surprise.

AN: Please review!