Silhouettes Chapter 5

Thank you guys so much! Sorry about the wait! My trip was great and work started today. It's all been a blast.

Wonderful feedback, I greatly appreciate it.

To make up for my absence, here is a super-long chapter. WARNING: There is a bit of a rant at the end.

-XXX-

Without discussion, Ben selects the town's popular pub. It caters traditional foods, is locally famous for it's shepherd's pie with garlic-seasoned mash, and is one of the last places I'd pick. For starters, it is a little too public for my taste; we'll be on display for sure. Our little appearance will definitely hit the gossip mill hard tomorrow. I can't stand the thought of Marge peeking at me over shelves next time I go to the shop, then asking oh-so casually as I check out whether I'm seeing that "Holly bloke?" Besides this, there is always the off-chance Dad will be in for a pint or two and spot us, which would definitely lead to some questions.

I am not ashamed of Ben, or trying to keep him a secret. There isn't anything to hide. However, I do not think Dad particularly approves of me spending time with him. He's simply not gotten the evidence or real reasoning to broach the subject with me.

We enter, and I swear the room's noise drops about thirty decibels. More than a few lingering glances come our way. I can name more than half the room, from the bartender, Eddie, to the elderly Mrs. Berkin seated at the bar. I hail the cook, Tyson, as we pass the open door of the kitchen. We're seated in one of the corners, a booth that is within view of everything and everyone. I slide in, crossing my arms uncomfortably. Either Holly doesn't notice or doesn't care about the attention, because he picks up a menu and beings browsing it disinterestedly. I order water for myself, and Ben, to my surprise, selects a stout brew.

Our waitress, Sharon, can't take her eyes off of Ben. She hasn't even spared me a hello – and we graduated together only two years ago – she is so preoccupied with my partner. With the order taken, she slinks away.

"Well. This is uncomfortable."

"What makes you say that?" Ben asks, feigning ignorance as he examines the painting hanging over our booth. It's a grubby little oil thing, depicting crashing waves and a sinking ship against a cloudy background.

"Maybe it's the fact that everyone is staring at us and undoubtedly taking notes and probably eavesdropping," I hiss lightly. "You've never lived in a small town before, have you? Because anything new or weird tends to catch people's eye. And guess what Ben? At the moment we're both of those things."

He meets my eyes, only a mild interest alight in his. "I don't care."

"That's bully for you, but I do. My father already has suspicion about me, I have no doubt that after tonight he'll have even more ideas."

"You weren't protesting while we were leaving."

"I knew there wasn't any point! You don't listen, you're pushy -"

He cuts me off abruptly. "Ideas. What sorts of ideas?"

I'm at a loss. "Oh, deduce it, Ben."

Sharon has selected that moment to return with our drinks. She sets them before us, and I note the thick, purple acrylic nails she sporting with a shudder. They're the type of nails you could tear a heart out with. The harpy. "Your food will be a few minutes," she tells Ben sweetly. I almost gag into my water.

"You know, Sharon, I'll take a Newcastle Brown to go with my beef," I tell her, all but physically dragging her attention towards me. There is no way I'll get through this night and it's embarrassments without some alcohol in my system. "And keep it in the bottle, please."

There is a slight pout to her lips, but she adds it to the ticket and moves to the bar. In a minute she's back, handing me the bottle. Once she's gone, Ben leans forward.

"Your father suspects we're dating."

"Something like that, yeah."

"But I've not done any of those traditional courting…things," he says, an edge of disgust colouring his words.

"You don't need to," I reply scornfully, taking a heavy swig of Newcastle. "Dates and all that aren't necessary. It's the mere fact that you're spending time with me. A lot of time."

He considers this. "Do you mind it?"

"What, that Dad's under the impression I'm dating a recluse?" Focusing on the bottle, I use my nail to pick at the label. "No. Because I know the truth. He couldn't stop me, anyways."

This seems to satisfy Ben, for he moves on to other subjects.

"Have you spoken to him anymore about your wish to move to New York?"

I had and the memory of the conversation – filled with sharp words and watery eyes – causes me to flinch. "Yeah. It didn't go well."

"Pity."

This reminds me. "Speaking of cities…you've never told me, Ben, where you lived before coming here."

Lips cast in a half-smile, he takes a drink of his pint. "I have not."

I sigh. "Oh, come on. You know practically everything about me, Holly. Throw me a bone. It's only fair."

"Is it?" He gives me a more legitimate smile now. "I fail to see how. Most everything I know about you I've simply…seen. It is no failing of mine that you're not nearly as adept at deducing from what is already before you."

"Ben, you know that's not fair. I'm not nearly as observant or whatever as you are."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Please?" I beg.

He is silent. I flop against the pleather of the booth, scowling.

"Alright, well, you said you missed eating out. I'd guess that where you lived before allowed for greater convenience, so I'd guess some kind of a city with a lot of take-out and restaurants everywhere. Am I close?"

He inclines his head briefly.

"What about a job? What do you do? Are you a scientist?"

"Of sorts," he allows.

"Give me details."

"Find them," he challenges. Around us, I can feel the attention shift. Our heated conversation is attracting attention. Blushing, I speak softer.

"I'm not like you, I can't just pick things up by looking at someone's jacket lint."

"It's not just lint, and you can try." His eyes glitter. "Come on, Viola, you're better than that."

Sharon has returned again, bearing a plate and a bowl. I tuck into my roast, while across the table Ben delicately picks at his soup.

"Why did you come here?"

"To the pub?" asks Ben vaguely, stirring his spoon. I'd say he looks absentminded, but there is a calculated ways his eyes are lazily scanning the room. This inevitably leads me to wonder why he selected the public house for dinner rather than another establishment, if he came here with some kind of cause, but I brush these thoughts aside to focus on the conversation at hand.

"The county, obviously.

He doesn't even bother glancing up. "I'm not going to tell you."

"Something happened," I suggest. "Something with your job – that's why you don't have a proper one at the moment. Whatever it was, it was bad. You needed to get away. That's why everyone comes here, you know. To hide. They just have different ways of doing it."

There is no reply, so I go on.

"It must have been very bad, too. I'd guess you probably haven't even told most people where you are, or…or they don't care enough to see you. It's been months, and you've had no visitors, no mail, except for those letters. So either you're avoiding people or people are avoiding you. But why?"

"Very astute," he says quietly, patting his lips with his napkin. He folds it, along with his hands, back onto his lap. "You are not bad at the game, Viola. Better than you thought you would be."

I wait. "So…."

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Tell me about the letters, then," I say. I'm frustrated, but no more than usual.

"Tell me what you see," he shoots back.

It's then that we're interrupted by Mr. Davies. He runs the hardware shop, and is great friends with my dad. It's not unusual to see them both at the bar on a Saturday night. He's been an almost-uncle to me since I was a toddler.

"Viola," he crows. He's clearly had a few pints already tonight. "My girl, it's been to long. I had no idea you were back from school!"

"Yeah, Mr. Davies, I got back from uni a few weeks ago." More like a month, but I wasn't about to tell him. "Have you seen my dad lately?"

"Your old man? Oh yeah, last Friday he came out with me and a few of the boys for a bit o' a hunt. Who's this lad? One of your mates from university?" Davies winks, slapping Ben on the shoulder. I can see Ben stiffen automatically.

"Um, no, Ben lives here," I say quickly. Clearly a few pints – anyone with eyes could see Ben is far past a university age, and therefore not likely to be attending with me. "He's renting a cottage from us for the summer, uh, he's studying native plants."

"Eh, one of those science-types?" Davies squints. "I was wondering. You taking care of this girl, eh? Her father might not be a thick bloke, but he'll take on any lad disrespecting his daughter. As will I. I seen the pair of you arguing, just now, and I won't take it, no sir. Our girl isn't to be treated so."

The conversation has taken a quick and unexpected turn. Stunned, I touch Davies's elbow. "There's no need for that, sir, we're merely –"

"I wasn't under the impression the young lady's father was so proactive in her life. Though, I am undoubtedly sure Viola can take care of things herself, should any fellow choose to disrespect her. I certainly have not. And I would ask that you not interfere yourself with matters that clearly do not involve you."

The entire restaurant falls into a hush. Davies, who is more than a little surprised, releases Ben's elbow. "Oy," Davies growls. "We don't take kindly to outside folk meddling with our girls, and I sure as hell don't take to strangers telling me off so –"

His hand goes for Ben's collar. He's got something of a reputation for bar fighting – something Eddie, the bartender, seems to pointedly ignore in favor of Davies money. The booze makes him keener on violence. Dad's seen him take on guys before, even knocked a few out. Ben, reedy and wiry, likely wouldn't stand a chance against him. Without thinking, I push the hand away, crying out, "Stop!"

Davies halts, looking to me. "Vi?"

"We're going." I rise swiftly, plucking up my jacket from the seat. Ben follows suit. I throw Sharon a few bills at the register, then we practically fly from the pub.

Outside, it's raining. I curse, remember the umbrella I'd forgotten back in the cottage. Swinging around to Ben, I ball my fists in an attempt not to cry. He's looking perfectly unruffled, despite the weather and the fact that we'd only just escaped a bar fight.

"Why did you have to do that?" I cry. "You could tell he was itching to punch you."

Ben steps forward. He's close enough that I can feel his body heat. "Because he was being obnoxious and I could have easily subdued him."

I can't help it – I laugh. "You're a weed, Ben."

A hand goes to my forearm, tightening with a grip that seems to contradict my assumption of his strength. He seems to want to assure me that he's perfectly capable of holding his own through a bar brawl. He's staring down at me, rain dripping down his face and plastering his hair to his skin. It's a little overwhelming, really, when paired with his ridiculous eyes, which are shadowed in the dark.

"That was stupid," I insist softly. "A stupid thing to fight over."

"It was his foolishness and not mine, Viola. He was making assumptions."

"And you were just furthering them. My father will be so mad, now, I can't even…this will ruin New York for me."

His eyes are bright. "Then leave. Go on your own."

"I -" Words aren't to be found. I don't even know how we've manage to change subjects so fast. A part of me whispers that he's trying to distract me.

"Nothing is stopping you," he insists. "Go, Viola."

"My father –"

"Is holding you back." This is said calmly.

"It isn't that easy."

"It can be. The only thing stopping you is yourself." He is disinterested in the topic now. Looking up, he remarks, "You forgot to bring an umbrella."

I decidedly hit him on the shoulder. Ben tugs me a little closer, the grip on my arm tightening.

"You should've brought it yourself. But it doesn't matter now, we're both wet. Let's go…I'll dry off at your place then wait out the rain."

Ben grunts. He doesn't make any immediate moves to go. The rain has soaked us both through. I'm shivering. But Ben doesn't seem to want to move. He's just looking at me. Biting my lip, I remove my arms from his grasp to take up one of his hands. Despite the cold of the rain, he's warm. With a sharp tug, I lead us away from town, through the night's downpour.

-XXX-

Once we've reached Ben's house, I begin removing clothing. My shoes go first, then my jacket and socks. This about as far as I can go while still remaining descent. Ben goes to stand before the fire, which is not more than a few embers at this point. I duck upstairs to the linen closet to remove two towels. Downstairs, I hand Ben one. He's placed a roll of newspaper on the embers to encourage flame, and a fire now crackles nicely around the fresh logs.

As I towel off my hair, Ben peels off his jacket. He dries his hands and face, then takes up an armchair. I roll my eyes and retrieve a blanket from upstairs to toss around his broad shoulders. He doesn't respond.

Without invitation, I fill the kettle and set out two mugs. Seeing that Ben is still immobile, I return upstairs for a third time. I enter his bedroom – a first – and go to the beside table. The bottom drawer houses socks – just as I suspected – and I pull out one woolly pair. From the wardrobe, I find a pajama set. I leave them folded on the bed. Before I leave, however, I make another interesting discovery: beneath the pajamas, a worn pair of heather sweatpants, with the word CAMBRIDGE emblazoned on the side.

I return downstairs and say nothing of the pants.

"I've got pajamas waiting for you on the bed," I tell him. Sitting on the floor, back to the fire, I roll on the sock I'd borrowed. "If you want to change."

Wordless, he stands and disappears upstairs, dropping the blanket onto the nearest chair. He returns a few minutes later, dressed in pajamas and wrapped in a blue bathrobe. It's odd to see him so very casual. Unlike most people, Ben doesn't sort of automatically sink into relaxing when he puts on his jim-jams. He's still just as wired, just as tense as he was before. His hair is a little messier, with a flop of dark and wet curls falling over his forehead. But his manner is unaltered. I pass him a mug. We sit in silence.

"I think the rain has let up a little."

Ben doesn't even glance at the window. "Yes."

I run a finger along the rim of the mug. "I'll just borrow your umbrella, then, and…and head home."

He nods. After another pause, he speaks slowly. "Why did you stop him?"

Frowning, I tilt my head. "Because he was going to hurt you. I didn't want to cause a scene. Why do you think?"

Ben stares into the fire. "I was merely…unsure of your motives."

I sigh. "It doesn't matter. Let's just say I had no desire to be soaking your shirt tomorrow, trying to get rid of blood stains."

His lips quirk. "Fair enough."

"Why did you egg him on?"

Ben's brows rise in a "Whatever-are-you-speaking-of?" manner. I cast him a scornful look.

"You know what I mean. You could see he was tanked-up and eager for a tussle."

Quietly, Ben says, "He was toxic. That level of unintelligence shouldn't go so out of line. And he was bothering you," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

It is not the answer I was predicting. Staring into the fire, I wonder what would've happen if I'd allowed Davies to take that swing.

"I should go." I stand. The mug is place in the sink. I return to the sitting room. "I'll bring your umbrella back tomorrow, yeah?"

My back is to him, as I'm sliding on my wet jacket – it has gotten moderately dry-ish sitting by the fire – and straightening my purse. When I turn, he's there. Just behind me. I hadn't heard him come up. I start, nearly knocking against the little bar table by the front door. It hits my hips, sending sparks of pain up my side. Ben reaches out to steady me. I freeze in his grasp. Eyes hidden by dark, Ben hands me the umbrella. I accept it quietly.

"Thanks. I…I'll see you."

I walk to the door and out into the night. Halfway down the hill, I turn back. Ben is a shadow against the window, silhouetted by firelight and his own inability to act as a whole person.

-XXX-

It's a big debate on whether Sherlock was an Oxford or Cambridge man. Some speculate both. I decided on Cambridge.

I'm going to get on a soap box for a minute.

It's a kind of sleazy thing to log out to post a guest review that is really critical and unnecessarily rude. Cowardly, even. If you're willing to give the heat at least allow the author the chance to open a dialogue with you. Besides this, being a douche while on anon is a low thing in general. I have no problem with criticism – I welcome and encourage it, though there was a time in my life where I was very resistant to it. I would ask that people keep in mind that there are writers on this site who are very young, inexperienced, and just excited to do this. Fanfiction is a great gateway to starting original work, it is a fantastic exercise in writing, and to scare someone off of it by being an arse is just pathetic and inconsiderate and a load of other adjectives. I'll admit, when I was younger and more of an asshole I gave some reviews that were harsh and I greatly regret them now.

Basically, what I am trying to day is, don't be rude. Some people are budding writers, and yeah, they might kinda suck, but one of the pillars of Fanfiction is to create a supportive community in which people can both grow as fans and writers. We need to support each other. That support does include critiques, however, it is so very possible to be both helpful and kind when telling someone something in their piece doesn't work.

It didn't happen with particular story, but it did happen recently to me, and while the exact content of what I didn't do particularly right in that readers eyes was fair and something I will consider in the future, the way they went about telling me wasn't conducive to self-esteem.

Off the soap box!

Sorry about the wait!

If you're a social media addict such as myself and would be interested, I have a Twitter ( DaniOnTheFritz), tumblr (WordsAreArt), and Instagram ( DaniOnTheFritz) you're free to follow. I take questions there, too, and I love interacting with fellow reader/writers.

Reviews, questions, comments, concerns and critiques, I take 'em all/1