Note: You know what I love about this story? Surprising myself. This story just loves to evolve on its own, and even though I've got a beginning and an ending, the middle does whatever the heck it wants to get there. And though my swearing has admittedly been stilted (haha, I don't get enough practice in using it correctly, I guess) I hope you don't mind it in this chapter. It's pretty drama-tastic, this one, and Skye's little scene gave me endless trouble. :D
Chapter Fourteen: Limbo
"I know we haven't spoken in a while. But I'm doing the best I can—you know that." Her hand played with the phone anxiously; her nails felt they'd snap off in her tightened grasp. "You can't do that. You need me. Damn it, what do you want me to do? I'm not a miracle-worker." Her teeth clenched; sweat dripped down her brow. "It's not my fault that Skye's still out there. I didn't exactly plan for a platoon of agents to flop. This isn't my concern, okay? It's yours. You're the one in charge of—"
The voice cut through like a knife, and she froze, the phone immobile in her hand. "I see. Of course I understand. Good-bye, then."
With a crash of plastic against the floor, the cellphone slipped from her shaking fingers, and Nami Stone listened to it crack into little metallic, fragmented pieces.
Useless.
Taking someone's breath away is a cliché, a silly little token of love. It's not associated with pain—but taking away someone's breath hurts them, doesn't it? Changing someone's reality by imposing yours upon it is risky, dangerous, and unsure. With the simple response to her "Hello," Claire found herself thrown into that cliché, a single, "Claire?" knocking her off her feet, stealing her breath away, and rendering her speechless.
"Wh-who is this?" she managed. Her hand tightened about the phone in a fist; no, this was a trick. Her husband never called, not even when he'd still lived in this house. Hell, he never spoke to her at all anymore—by phone or otherwise. "Hello?"
"Claire, it's…it's me."
Stunned silence persisted for minutes more as Claire twirled her fingers in the cord in silence: It's him, it's him, oh God, it's him, what do I do or say or hang up or oh God, why is he calling me, why why why...?
"Your letter came. I read it."
"Oh." She swallowed. "Um, that's good."
Trent's voice rose then fell in volumes, unable to decide if confidence or meekness would best convey his words. "I, uh, appreciate you trying to fix things between us. I really do."
"A-and I appreciate you reading the letter, and calling me," Claire added. Her arms wrapped about herself protectively, and she murmured, "You didn't have to, you know."
"And you didn't have to tell me the truth, either." He cleared his throat: a rush of static through the speaker. "I know this has been hard on you. There's no way it couldn't have been, and truthfully, it's been hard on me, too. I'm sorry that—"
"No, don't apologize, please. This…" Claire breathed in deeply, released it, and smiled. "I needed this. I needed some time to myself. To reflect. And…and I think you did, too. Maybe. So, don't worry about it, please, Trent."
"…But I do worry." Claire blinked as he continued, "Dr. Hardy tells me you're seeing someone about…you know, about some things. Is it—well, I suppose what I'm saying is, are you quite alright?"
The farmer leaned forward, turning her head left then right, and finally admitted, "Not entirely. I'm almost there; it's just not all the way, not yet." She paused. "There's a woman I'm seeing for counseling: Gina Aires. I'm trying to sort through some things with her, like…like Willow, Skye, my past. And you."
"And me." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Well, I don't blame you if you hate me for leaving, Claire."
"No! No, no, no, you were right, Trent," his wife insisted. "I was wrong to hide things from you, to think that you were some crutch for me to rely on. I never learned how to shoulder my own problems, and that—that and the hatred I still feel towards that man, towards myself—that's what ripped us apart."
A heavy sigh sounded on his end. "So where does that leave us now?"
"Confused." Claire laughed. "Somewhere between together and apart. In limbo, I guess."
"That sounds fairly accurate."
She trained her eyes on the wall, lines running up and down the wood in jagged seams. "Makes me wish none of this had ever happened all over again. You, oblivious, and me, holding onto my suffering like a bomb ready to burst. Waiting for you to smell the smoke and stop it. Waiting for a miracle."
"Claire…"
"Most people say that holding in stuff like this—adultery, past mistakes, all of it—is the best way to go, isn't it?" Claire continued. "Just lie, let it go, forget. And then I look at Skye, think of the daughter we might never see again, and I realize…there are some people that won't let you forget, not ever." Her voice broke. "And they won't forgive you, either."
"I'll forgive you." He hadn't expected the words any more than she had, and he marveled at how easily, how sincerely, they fell from his tongue. Claire remained in a revered silence, murmuring only, "Trent…" in the most thankful of whispers. "I…I don't know if I trust you," the doctor continued, "or if my word means anything to you anymore, or if you've been as miserable as I have this past season and a half, but…I can forgive you. Forget, no, but I can forgive you—I know I can. Because you're right." She could almost see his smile through the speaker, and she feebly returned it. "You chose me over him, didn't you? And for what it's worth—" He paused, a strange tremor creeping in. "Claire, I—I love you, too."
"Baby, I—" Grateful sobs bubbled over, and Claire covered her eyes, tears slipping one by one onto her outstretched palm. "Oh, Trent, I…I don't know what to say."
"Say we'll fix this. Say we'll meet again."
She ran her fingers through her hair, threading the gold strands about her fingertips. "We will fix this," Claire answered firmly, "and we will meet again. But not now." She bit her tongue and glanced at Kate's cat sleeping on the floor, at the empty teacup abandoned hours before, at the vacant cradle by her bed. "I'm not ready yet, Trent."
"What do you mean, not ready?"
"I've still got some growing up to do," Claire explained, standing up. "And, when we do meet, I…" She took in a steady breath to calm herself. "I need to tell you something then. Something else you need to know. Just wait until I'm ready to face you, please."
His voice lowered some in reply. "Don't keep me waiting too long. You worry me."
"Everything worries us," she replied, and though it was meant lightly, the words rang true in both their ears. She pressed her hand against the speaker, and it was silly, she knew, but she almost felt connected to him this way, their voices merging and catching on the current of sound. "I'll see you. Soon."
"…I love you, Claire."
"And I love you."
They just both hoped, valiantly, that it would be enough.
"Something's bothering you."
Skye stabbed the cake with his fork and shrugged vaguely. "I don't see what that something could be. It's the Thanksgiving festival, Gwen—eat some cake. Let the sugar do its job and stop you from thinking."
She chuckled, leaning on the table and letting her hair spill behind her in a curtain of gold. "As appetizing as that sounds," Gwen replied, "I'd rather know what's on your mind. I can't just watch you there, silently caught in some sort of problem, and just say 'oh, not my problem,' as I stuff my face full."
"I'd rather you did."
"Since when has your opinion stopped me from having mine?" she teased.
"In the most ideal scenario, since now." The thief swallowed another mouthful—God, too sweet, too sweet—and tried to take another without offending the chef. Any other day, he might've loved a treat like this. But today? From her? "I just don't get it, Gwen."
A grin tied to a smirk appeared on her lips. "Ah, and herein lies the problem. What don't you get?"
The fork dropped from his hand, and Skye rubbed his temples almost meditatively. Each sentence had its own censor; each emotion had past angles held under lock and key. "…The simplest way of saying this, Gwen, is that I don't see why you chose me for this cake of yours."
"This is about me giving you a cake?" Gwen laughed despite herself. "Wow. Uh, it's Thanksgiving, Steiner. You give people cakes to show you're thankful for them. And," she blushed, "I'm thankful I met you."
He gripped the tabletop. "Don't be," he muttered to himself. "Be anything but that."
"Why not? It's true." To her disbelief, he turned further away from her, and Gwen scooted closer to bridge the gap he'd created between them. "Hey, don't act like I'm making this up, Steiner. You know you've done us a big favor working here—sure, you're getting room and board, but we have so many empty rooms that this is a cake-walk for my uncle to pay for labor. Then we can't forget cute little Claire melting all our hearts, and you melti—" A second too late she caught herself. "W-well, you get my point. We owe you, Steiner."
Skye grimaced. "That's ridiculous."
"No, not entirely." The blonde brought her hand to his forehead and pressed it there, brushing away sweat—was he sweating? Of course not, no—and ruffling through his silver locks. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you. The cake—maybe I came on too strong about whatever it is I've been feeling lately. It's just, I don't know, it felt like the right way to show you. I mean, if you don't feel the same way about me, I'm a big girl, Steiner. I can handle it."
You're only eighteen. Who am I to make you grow up?
His heart slammed hard against his chest, throbbing, pounding, wrenching—oh God, it hurt to see her waiting there like that. She seemed so vulnerable, why, his secrets could break a girl like that into nothing. It wasn't fair that she'd chosen to be his vessel; it wasn't fair that he'd accepted her, knowing fully well the consequences. God? If there is a God? Just this once. Help me. Her little pulse beat against his brow, and Skye felt his resolve slipping away at her touch. Or was it finally taking hold?
"What if," Skye began, taking her hand in his own, "being in love made you do something terrible?"
Gwen raised an eyebrow; of all the possible responses, she had not expected this. "Steiner, what do you think I'd—?"
"No, not you specifically," he insisted. "I mean anyone. You, me, Bob, Tina—anyone at all." The thief squeezed her hand tighter, eyes focusing on hers with an intensity that caused Gwen to shiver. "What if—what if I told you that I'd done something? Something I couldn't explain, that you couldn't understand, and that might frighten you away from me once and for all?"
Her smiled vanished; her hand snapped away. "What are you talking about?"
"You know almost nothing about me." The censor screamed in his ears, but he'd evaded it somehow; all the words poured out in a stream of emotional panic, overshadowing an innocent Gwen with confusion. "I could hurt you, Gwen," he hissed into her ear. "I could show you pain that your little break-up with Bob couldn't compare to. You—you don't want me."
"C-c'mon, you'd never hurt me," she protested. "Stop joking around like that, would you? You'd never hurt anyone, Steiner; I know you."
"No, you don't." He paced the room, circles and circles leading nowhere. "You don't know what happened with Claire's mother. You don't know what I did—if I was deserving of what she did to me. If I'd do it again." Skye turned to the girl and softened. "You can't love someone you don't know, Gwen. Take it from my experience."
"But I do know you," she persisted through gritted teeth. Advancing towards him and clamping his shoulders in her hands, Gwen snapped, "I know that out of all the people I've met through working at this inn, I have never met any father more dedicated to his child; any man more willing to overcome his faults; any…any friend so kind, so welcoming, and so understanding of a complete and total stranger." She bit her lip, eyes wet with tears, and shook him in her bewildered rage. "Why can't you just tell me the truth?!" she shouted. "This hurts so, so much more than just being rejected, Steiner. It's cruel of you."
He had no choice; he forced the words out: "You have no idea how cruel I can be."
"Liar!" She shoved him again, and this time she wiped her eyes, something twisting out of her throat in the most alien of sounds. "You're a good person! You—you're just acting stupid, you know that? So you've made mistakes. Who hasn't? You think I don't know what it's like to make a mistake?"
"Gwen—"
"I'm not the little porcelain doll you always make me out to be! I can handle things, Steiner. Believe it or not, I can make sacrifices for the people I love; I don't expect to always be the one who's coddled and blind. If you ask me," Gwen retorted heatedly, "I'd say either you're too nice to tell me I'm not your type, or too scared to tell me that I am. And scared of what? Making mistakes? Being human?"
"I'm the biggest mistake you'll ever make, Gwen," Skye warned her quietly. "Don't do this."
Her lip quivering, Gwen banished the tears from her eyes and let her boots take deliberate, even steps across the floor. She opened her lips to speak, red eyes flaring, and announced, "Steiner, I was brave enough to show you how I feel. At least give me the same courtesy."
Skye the Phantom Thief lied so often, the truth should have stopped mattering at all. After all, when repercussions are removed, what is a sin but a single lapse in judgment? Harmless. Innocent. Too venial to matter. Everything Skye had fed this girl was a complete and total lie, from his name, to his past, to his intentions: sugarcoated to blissful, ignorant perfection.
Yet one bitter white lie could save her from his fate. Lying, just this once, could untangle her from his string of crimes.
But Skye had grown tired of lies.
His hands alighted upon her head, twirling her ponytail about his finger as he brought his lips to her brow. Hesitantly, he brushed them against her skin before pulling back, her eyes wild with alarm. "I think I love you, Gwen," he murmured. "Don't make the mistake of loving me back."
In answer, she returned his innocent kiss with one of her own, stealing the protest from his lips gently. Probing each other's mouths, it felt as if something had finally connected them outside of the ordinary; dreams and reality meshed with their tongues, tasting a confusing mix of emotions tainted by urgency. All of her life, Gwen had wondered what her first kiss would be like—passionate, suave, sensual, innocent. Instead, she found a strange word imprinted in her mind: honest. Her red eyes fluttered up to meet his own and she smiled. "Let me make my own mistakes."
Neither could, for the life of them, explain why their eyes were wet with tears.
"May I ask you something?"
Nami raised an eyebrow to her roommate in reply. "What on earth could you possibly want to ask me?"
The nurse leaned forward in her seat, blushing. The redhead hadn't said more than five sentences to her a day, normally quite biting or insincere. Sometimes, on a good day, both. "Is it true that you and Gustafa are, well, an item?"
"Who the hell gave you that idea?"
She blushed brighter. "You did."
Furious, the detective stood flung her book—the same blasted paperback from before—at the wall. "Me? I said I was interested in that lowlife? Is this your idea of a joke?"
"I never said that you told me that," Gina replied softly. "All I said was that you were the one who gave me that idea. I judge by actions, Detective Stone, not words."
"Well, aren't you Miss High-and-Mighty." Nami stalked towards the door, the anger flaring with each word out of that mousy nurse's throat. "Guess you should have been a judge instead of mental help."
"I know you don't mean that," Gina murmured.
Nami laughed. "Oh, right, you're God, too. Omniscient."
"And you don't mean that, either."
"Listen, let's just—drop it, okay?" The redhead tossed her head left then right, furious blue eyes piercing through innocent brown ones. "I don't do the whole girly pow-wow thing. I don't cry over my problems like some of your customers do, and I certainly can handle them just fine on my own. And if you think I've got the hots for some stupid guitarist now, of all times, well." Nami smirked. "Then aren't you the insane one?"
Gina quivered but said nothing. Scoffing, the detective stomped over to her dresser and snatched up some photos: blurred images of those portraits of Skye and Willow, the footprints in the mud outside the farm, and beneath it all a warrant for Skye's arrest. One, to be bluntly honest, that she'd probably never use.
"Gustafa," Nami sighed, "is the least of my worries right now, Miss Aires. And if you know what's good for you, you'll leave me alone right now."
"Nami—"
"Dammit, I said leave me alone." Nami jerked herself away from the nurse's extended hand and rummaged through her pocket to grab a cellphone fixed up with scotch-tape. Dialing away, the detective glanced up and frowned. "I see I need to repeat myself."
"You need to be alone. I see." Gina nodded slowly and left towards the door with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry to bother you, Detective Stone. I understand how it is."
"No, you don't." Something hitched in Nami's voice; the phone lowered in her palm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in shame. "I got a call today." She swallowed, and without ceremony, announced, "Apparently, I've been fired."