Note: A small bit from my WIP ghost fic. It's another scene set in the past, written in second person. (Still not sure I like that.) Not edited by anyone other than me. Cheers!
Past (2)
You hate days when you have to dress in anything more formal than casual. It isn't that you don't like to look nice—that part, you love. No, it's the insane footwear society has forced upon you. You hate, hate, hate heeled shoes and the way they make your calves ache. You know it's your own damn fault, though, because you're too vain to wear flats that, while more comfortable, make you look completely ass-less in your long skirts and tailored pants.
You've learned a few tricks over the years, though. You wear slip on shoes as you make the short-but-just-long-enough-to-hurt-your-feet trek from your (okay, Matt's, since his is the only name on the lease) apartment to the Metro. You keep the comfortable shoes on for the first leg of your trip because there's really no rush to change when you're going to have to wait for your connecting train at one of the hub stops, anyway.
Unfortunately, when you're seated between an older black woman with a colorful suit and some tourists who look more confused than anything else, you know the inevitable can no longer be avoided. Opening your briefcase, which you carry mostly to look professional as it only holds your shoes and purse, you remove the dreaded pumps. They're really cute and fit like a dream but you know that will not save you.
Bending over to make the exchange, you get a different perspective of the people riding the Metro that morning. There's a caramel skinned man in a suit who looks about your father's age and a scowling teenager whose arms are crossed sullenly as he listens to some sort of MP3 playing device seated across from you. On the other side of the man is a couple sharing a seat. You pause with only one heeled shoe on to watch them for a moment.
The man, who can't be any older than you if that, is leaning into the corner of the car with his arms wrapped around the woman on his lap. Their heads are bent as if they're sharing secrets and you feel a pang in your heart. It's been a long time since there was anybody to whisper into your ear… longer still since you sat on someone's lap (unless you count Santa, which you don't). You offer them a lopsided smile when the man notices your less-than-veiled attention.
His eyes widen, as if surprised, and he opens his mouth. The brakes on the train slam suddenly and you have to concentrate fully on not being thrown into the older woman who, while sturdy looking, probably wouldn't appreciate being bombarded by a twenty-something with only one shoe on. You slip your other shoe on and close up your briefcase before you glance back over to the couple. They're gone, though, and there's only a stack of newspaper in the seat they previously occupied.
You furrow your brows for a moment wondering what that was all about, and then shrug it off. You have only two more stops before you get off and suddenly a wave of nerves hits you. You've never met your Representative before, and, even though you're only going to speaking with one of her aides regarding her stance on education policy, it's still kind of a big deal to you. Suddenly, you're almost glad you have your shoes to be annoyed about—it helped you forget to be terrified for a while.
You decide to send a thank you letter to Steve Madden when you get a chance as you stand up and prepare to exit. You even indulge in a smile before terror (and maybe a bit of excitement) overtakes you again.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
13. don't lose any sleep tonight, I'm sure everything will end up alright
Notes: I'm less experienced than a novice when it comes to chess but I had inspiration for a story involving it all the same. (Note the vagueness to which I describe the game. ;)) I was sort of trying something by starting in the middle and filling in the background as the plot progressed from there, though I'm not sure how successful I was in making the characters well-rounded and compelling. Also, mostly only I've edited this piece, so all mistakes belong to me and me alone.
Tears raced down her face as she tore her arm from her grasp. "Stop it! Just stop it!" She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "It's not funny! I won't be your joke anymore! Just stop and leave me be!"
Dumbstruck, he gaped at her for a moment. "What are you on about?" he asked, brows furrowed.
"I don't understand," she continued, ignoring his question. "I thought you were my friend but—" She pulled herself up and faced him head on. "Do you laugh when I'm not around? Amusement for you and your real mates. How could you?" Now her tear filled eyes bored holes into him.
He ran a hand through his hair, obviously bewildered. "Lily, I have no idea what you're talking about. Just—"
She waved him off, thrusting a piece of parchment toward him. "I can't believe you knew. It would be one thing if you just-just didn't feel the same but that you would string me along for so long for your own sick pleasure—how could you be so cruel?" She shook her head. "God, Aiden, I don't even know you."
His mouth opened to try and piece together some semblance of sense but she just shook her head as she slid into her car. She was gone in a screech, leaving a flurry or leaves unsettled behind her.
Blinking, he glanced down at the paper she'd thrust into his hands. There were water drops—tears, he realized belatedly—but the print was still readable.
Hugh—
I can't believe school's only been out for a week! It feels like an age. My mum's already on me about my A-Levels, though, can you believe it? You'd think we were already halfway through next year or something!
Anyway, I've not got long. I just wanted to check—are you still planning to visit Town next week? I was hoping we could get tea...without our parents. They are horrible bores, after all.
One last thing before I go; I never could work up the nerve to say anything during the year. Please don't be mad—I just didn't want to upset you. I know how much you care for Lily, even if she is a terrible nag at times.
See, my older sister mentioned she overheard Aiden Milton laughing about her—about how she's always following him like a puppy dog and obviously infatuated with him. I know they're meant to be friends but apparently he and his mates are always mocking what she says and other things behind her back.
I'm so sorry, Hugh. I honestly didn't know how to tell you. I can't imagine what I'd do if it were my sister and… well, I just hope you can forgive me for taking so long. We can chat more next week or over IM.
Aurelia Santoro xoxo
Face set in a deep scowl, Aiden raced into his parent's posh flat. Unlike Lily, he still wasn't quite old enough to get his license. Instead, he was stuck using cabs and the generosity of others. It wasn't long before he was on his father's computer, using Skype to call the Santoro household. (They summered in Italy and he highly doubted his parents would appreciate a long distance phone charge.)
A maid with dark skin and darker eyes answered the call. She appeared to have been cleaning the office. "Signore Aiden, sir," she said in a heavily accented voice. "You wish to be speaking with Signorina Giulia?"
"Yes," he barked, forgoing the usual pleasantries in his agitated state.
The woman gave a serene nod, apparently not bothered by his tone, and moved out of the webcam's range.
It wasn't long before Giulia's tanned face popped into view. "Aiden?" she questioned curiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu call?"
He did not spare her any pleasantries. "Lily has just been here, Giulia. She was in an absolute state because of something your sister wrote to her brother. Something you apparently shared with Aurelia about me." His expression darkened. "I just have one question: why?"
Giulia had the audacity to look innocent. "Am I not allowed to share things with my sister now? How was I to know she was friends with Hugh Dixon?" She crossed her arms. "I'm not the one who told all those stories about the 'stupid flower' and that 'pansy cow'."
Instantly his face fell. "That—you thought..." Aiden growled with irritation. "I called her that pansy cow because the stories were about Pansy King and my father!" He grit his teeth. "You insufferable busybody. Instead of coming to me or having all the facts, you just—ugh!" Throwing his hands up, he waved off her hasty apologies. "Never mind. I've got a mess to clean up."
After closing Skype, Aiden began pacing. He couldn't very well cab over to the Dixon household or wherever Lily had chosen to hide out. If her mum and dad didn't do him in, her brother and cousins would surely finish the job. No, despite his inclination to try to fix this that moment, it would probably be best to wait. Forcing himself to sit, Aiden began to formulate a plan.
It was late morning when Aiden called a cab take him to Lily's small suburban neighborhood. It was a short ride during which he alternated between looking anxiously at his cell phone (no missed calls from Lily) and pretending to listen to the Pakistani man ramble about traffic and weather. Soon enough, he was standing on a corner and left to his own devices.
Wandering down the lane, it wasn't hard for him to find a small park. A cursory look confirmed that it was the park. The park that Lily always chatted about. It really wasn't much to look at—just a few benches, a nice lawn with some flowers around the edges and a handful chess tables in the centre. But for the child of Robert Dixon, rabid chess enthusiast, it was enough.
He spotted her almost instantly. Her red hair shone like a beacon—a splash of color in an utterly gray world.
For a moment, he paused. An anxious hand ran through his blond hair and he considered running away. But, no. He'd made it this far, he wasn't going to call another cab (or worse, one of his parents) to return home with his tail between his legs. Not without at least speaking with her first.
Steeling himself, Aiden marched forward. As he closed in on her, he could see Lily was waiting for another opponent. He gave the evil eye to anyone that even glanced her way and swooped into the seat across from her.
Lily's gaze snapped up, and she froze. "Aiden?" Her mouth formed a thin line as she started to stand.
Covering her hand with his, his gray eyes pleaded with her. "Please, Lil. Hear me out."
Maybe it was his sincerity. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes from a night of restless sleep. Maybe it was nothing more than some kind of morbid curiosity. Whatever the reason, though, she gave a small nod and sat again. "Fine," she said stiffly. "But, if you want to sit there, you're playing."
"Fine," he agreed. Because he was the challenger, he let her make the first move.
They played in silence for at least ten minutes before Lily's irritation outweighed any lingering mortification. "You were going to say something?" she prompted, bringing her bishop out to take one of his pawns.
"So I was," Aiden confirmed with a nod, eying the board for a moment. Scowling at what he saw, he moved his castle. Then he looked up to meet her gaze evenly. "Thing is, I don't know where to start."
Her lips were pursed as she toyed with her pawn, finally moving it. "The beginning is usually a good place," was her dry response.
Aiden shrugged. "Fine. I don't like to disrespect the girls I know but boys are boys. So, one day, after a good deal of ribbing—" here, he moved his queen, taking her knight, "—I finally acquiesced. I told them a story; a story about Pansy King and my father."
Busying herself with making her move, Lily didn't comment at first. "But Aurelia—"
"Santoro heard a bunch of nonsense from her sister who didn't know what the bloody hell she was talking about." Aiden frowned and moved one of his pawns. "It's not my fault you lot are named after sodding flowers, is it?" he added under his breath.
Lily heard him. Crossing her arms, she huffed a little. "Well, I—"
"Nuh-uh," he cut in, wagging his finger. "You don't get to argue right now, Lil. Way I see it, there can be only one of two reasons you believed this load of nonsense. Either you really do have that little faith in me as a friend or there was more going on here than I've been aware of." He cocked a brow at her as he moved his bishop into place. "So which is it? And check."
Scowling, Lily looked down at the board and made a quick move. "I don't have to answer that."
Aiden nodded. "True, I suppose," he agreed, pushing his knight forward. "Check."
"But I suppose if I don't, you'll be inclined to think I have little-to-no faith in the strength of our friendship," she said in a long-suffering tone, moving her king out of danger.
He smirked a little. "Well, there is that," he drawled in typical rich boy fashion as he prepared his bishop for attack. "I am more interested, though, in what I think was going on in that head of yours."
Lily chose not to comment, instead concentrating on the game. After a minute of contemplation, she pulled out the big gun—her queen.
"Aren't you interested in my theory?" Aiden pressed, putting his pawn up for sacrifice.
"Not especially," she muttered, taking said pawn.
Now he smiled a little, tapping her wrist so she'd look at him. "Not even if I think the same thing?" he asked, slipping his queen behind her defenses. "Checkmate."
Lily wasn't looking at the board, though. She was standing, expression fierce. "Aiden, I swear on all that is holy, if you are screwing with me—"
That was as far as he'd let her go. "I'm not," he interrupted, making his way to her. "And, unless I've completely misread everything, I'm going to kiss you now." He smirked again as he leaned forward. "Feel free to shove me away if this is an unwanted attack."
She laughed a little at that, though it had a distinctly higher pitch than her usual.
It didn't matter. The next moment, his lips met hers and even though it was awkward and fumbling and he completely forgot where to put his hands, it was still warm and sweet and he wanted more. Much more.
They pulled apart, noses just centimeters away from each other. Wide blue eyes met wide brown and neither quite knew what to say.
Lily recovered first, clearing her throat. "Well."
"Okay," Aiden agreed without actually agreeing to anything.
She nodded. "So?"
He matched the movement. "Yeah."
They both still looked like deer caught in headlights for another moment, then Aiden reached forward and grabbed her hips the same time Lily wrapped her arms around his neck. The next instant, she was plastered against him and they were full on snogging.
Half an hour later, they were discovered by a myriad of her cousins and other, more homicidal, family members. Aiden wasn't certain he'd live through the day but with Lily's hand clasped in his he found he couldn't mind too much.
Gambit
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gambit (noun) (1) a chess opening in which a player seeks to obtain some advantage by sacrificing a pawn or piece; (2) any maneuver by which one seeks to gain an advantage; (3) a remark made to open or redirect a conversation-------------------------------------------------
Tears raced down her face as she tore her arm from her grasp. "Stop it! Just stop it!" She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "It's not funny! I won't be your joke anymore! Just stop and leave me be!"
Dumbstruck, he gaped at her for a moment. "What are you on about?" he asked, brows furrowed.
"I don't understand," she continued, ignoring his question. "I thought you were my friend but—" She pulled herself up and faced him head on. "Do you laugh when I'm not around? Amusement for you and your real mates. How could you?" Now her tear filled eyes bored holes into him.
He ran a hand through his hair, obviously bewildered. "Lily, I have no idea what you're talking about. Just—"
She waved him off, thrusting a piece of parchment toward him. "I can't believe you knew. It would be one thing if you just-just didn't feel the same but that you would string me along for so long for your own sick pleasure—how could you be so cruel?" She shook her head. "God, Aiden, I don't even know you."
His mouth opened to try and piece together some semblance of sense but she just shook her head as she slid into her car. She was gone in a screech, leaving a flurry or leaves unsettled behind her.
Blinking, he glanced down at the paper she'd thrust into his hands. There were water drops—tears, he realized belatedly—but the print was still readable.
Hugh—
I can't believe school's only been out for a week! It feels like an age. My mum's already on me about my A-Levels, though, can you believe it? You'd think we were already halfway through next year or something!
Anyway, I've not got long. I just wanted to check—are you still planning to visit Town next week? I was hoping we could get tea...without our parents. They are horrible bores, after all.
One last thing before I go; I never could work up the nerve to say anything during the year. Please don't be mad—I just didn't want to upset you. I know how much you care for Lily, even if she is a terrible nag at times.
See, my older sister mentioned she overheard Aiden Milton laughing about her—about how she's always following him like a puppy dog and obviously infatuated with him. I know they're meant to be friends but apparently he and his mates are always mocking what she says and other things behind her back.
I'm so sorry, Hugh. I honestly didn't know how to tell you. I can't imagine what I'd do if it were my sister and… well, I just hope you can forgive me for taking so long. We can chat more next week or over IM.
Aurelia Santoro xoxo
Face set in a deep scowl, Aiden raced into his parent's posh flat. Unlike Lily, he still wasn't quite old enough to get his license. Instead, he was stuck using cabs and the generosity of others. It wasn't long before he was on his father's computer, using Skype to call the Santoro household. (They summered in Italy and he highly doubted his parents would appreciate a long distance phone charge.)
A maid with dark skin and darker eyes answered the call. She appeared to have been cleaning the office. "Signore Aiden, sir," she said in a heavily accented voice. "You wish to be speaking with Signorina Giulia?"
"Yes," he barked, forgoing the usual pleasantries in his agitated state.
The woman gave a serene nod, apparently not bothered by his tone, and moved out of the webcam's range.
It wasn't long before Giulia's tanned face popped into view. "Aiden?" she questioned curiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu call?"
He did not spare her any pleasantries. "Lily has just been here, Giulia. She was in an absolute state because of something your sister wrote to her brother. Something you apparently shared with Aurelia about me." His expression darkened. "I just have one question: why?"
Giulia had the audacity to look innocent. "Am I not allowed to share things with my sister now? How was I to know she was friends with Hugh Dixon?" She crossed her arms. "I'm not the one who told all those stories about the 'stupid flower' and that 'pansy cow'."
Instantly his face fell. "That—you thought..." Aiden growled with irritation. "I called her that pansy cow because the stories were about Pansy King and my father!" He grit his teeth. "You insufferable busybody. Instead of coming to me or having all the facts, you just—ugh!" Throwing his hands up, he waved off her hasty apologies. "Never mind. I've got a mess to clean up."
After closing Skype, Aiden began pacing. He couldn't very well cab over to the Dixon household or wherever Lily had chosen to hide out. If her mum and dad didn't do him in, her brother and cousins would surely finish the job. No, despite his inclination to try to fix this that moment, it would probably be best to wait. Forcing himself to sit, Aiden began to formulate a plan.
-------------------------------------------------
It was late morning when Aiden called a cab take him to Lily's small suburban neighborhood. It was a short ride during which he alternated between looking anxiously at his cell phone (no missed calls from Lily) and pretending to listen to the Pakistani man ramble about traffic and weather. Soon enough, he was standing on a corner and left to his own devices.
Wandering down the lane, it wasn't hard for him to find a small park. A cursory look confirmed that it was the park. The park that Lily always chatted about. It really wasn't much to look at—just a few benches, a nice lawn with some flowers around the edges and a handful chess tables in the centre. But for the child of Robert Dixon, rabid chess enthusiast, it was enough.
He spotted her almost instantly. Her red hair shone like a beacon—a splash of color in an utterly gray world.
For a moment, he paused. An anxious hand ran through his blond hair and he considered running away. But, no. He'd made it this far, he wasn't going to call another cab (or worse, one of his parents) to return home with his tail between his legs. Not without at least speaking with her first.
Steeling himself, Aiden marched forward. As he closed in on her, he could see Lily was waiting for another opponent. He gave the evil eye to anyone that even glanced her way and swooped into the seat across from her.
Lily's gaze snapped up, and she froze. "Aiden?" Her mouth formed a thin line as she started to stand.
Covering her hand with his, his gray eyes pleaded with her. "Please, Lil. Hear me out."
Maybe it was his sincerity. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes from a night of restless sleep. Maybe it was nothing more than some kind of morbid curiosity. Whatever the reason, though, she gave a small nod and sat again. "Fine," she said stiffly. "But, if you want to sit there, you're playing."
"Fine," he agreed. Because he was the challenger, he let her make the first move.
They played in silence for at least ten minutes before Lily's irritation outweighed any lingering mortification. "You were going to say something?" she prompted, bringing her bishop out to take one of his pawns.
"So I was," Aiden confirmed with a nod, eying the board for a moment. Scowling at what he saw, he moved his castle. Then he looked up to meet her gaze evenly. "Thing is, I don't know where to start."
Her lips were pursed as she toyed with her pawn, finally moving it. "The beginning is usually a good place," was her dry response.
Aiden shrugged. "Fine. I don't like to disrespect the girls I know but boys are boys. So, one day, after a good deal of ribbing—" here, he moved his queen, taking her knight, "—I finally acquiesced. I told them a story; a story about Pansy King and my father."
Busying herself with making her move, Lily didn't comment at first. "But Aurelia—"
"Santoro heard a bunch of nonsense from her sister who didn't know what the bloody hell she was talking about." Aiden frowned and moved one of his pawns. "It's not my fault you lot are named after sodding flowers, is it?" he added under his breath.
Lily heard him. Crossing her arms, she huffed a little. "Well, I—"
"Nuh-uh," he cut in, wagging his finger. "You don't get to argue right now, Lil. Way I see it, there can be only one of two reasons you believed this load of nonsense. Either you really do have that little faith in me as a friend or there was more going on here than I've been aware of." He cocked a brow at her as he moved his bishop into place. "So which is it? And check."
Scowling, Lily looked down at the board and made a quick move. "I don't have to answer that."
Aiden nodded. "True, I suppose," he agreed, pushing his knight forward. "Check."
"But I suppose if I don't, you'll be inclined to think I have little-to-no faith in the strength of our friendship," she said in a long-suffering tone, moving her king out of danger.
He smirked a little. "Well, there is that," he drawled in typical rich boy fashion as he prepared his bishop for attack. "I am more interested, though, in what I think was going on in that head of yours."
Lily chose not to comment, instead concentrating on the game. After a minute of contemplation, she pulled out the big gun—her queen.
"Aren't you interested in my theory?" Aiden pressed, putting his pawn up for sacrifice.
"Not especially," she muttered, taking said pawn.
Now he smiled a little, tapping her wrist so she'd look at him. "Not even if I think the same thing?" he asked, slipping his queen behind her defenses. "Checkmate."
Lily wasn't looking at the board, though. She was standing, expression fierce. "Aiden, I swear on all that is holy, if you are screwing with me—"
That was as far as he'd let her go. "I'm not," he interrupted, making his way to her. "And, unless I've completely misread everything, I'm going to kiss you now." He smirked again as he leaned forward. "Feel free to shove me away if this is an unwanted attack."
She laughed a little at that, though it had a distinctly higher pitch than her usual.
It didn't matter. The next moment, his lips met hers and even though it was awkward and fumbling and he completely forgot where to put his hands, it was still warm and sweet and he wanted more. Much more.
They pulled apart, noses just centimeters away from each other. Wide blue eyes met wide brown and neither quite knew what to say.
Lily recovered first, clearing her throat. "Well."
"Okay," Aiden agreed without actually agreeing to anything.
She nodded. "So?"
He matched the movement. "Yeah."
They both still looked like deer caught in headlights for another moment, then Aiden reached forward and grabbed her hips the same time Lily wrapped her arms around his neck. The next instant, she was plastered against him and they were full on snogging.
Half an hour later, they were discovered by a myriad of her cousins and other, more homicidal, family members. Aiden wasn't certain he'd live through the day but with Lily's hand clasped in his he found he couldn't mind too much.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
12. with downcast eyes; there's more to living than being alive
Notes: I wrote this a few years ago and recently happened upon it again. Cleaned it up some and... I dunno, I kind of like it. Sort of high school drama-y but with deeper undertones. Hasn't been edited (at least not recently) by anyone but me. Cheers!
It was supposed to be everything she'd ever dreamed of. It was supposed to be perfect. She'd spent so much time dreaming of it—of him. Of their moment together. And then to get it—get him—and for real… It should have been prefect. Didn't she deserve it? After all her pining and wasted time, all the hurt and crushed spirits; why couldn't the real thing live up to her ideal? Just this once? The pedestal in her mind wasn't that high, really.
But it wasn't perfect, not even close. It was better than anything she'd found before, though. Not perfect but still… good. Nice. Worthwhile. Sometimes she'd forget he was hers, just for a moment. Then it'd hit her, just like it had when he asked her to prom, and she'd wonder how she'd gotten so lucky. Even if it wasn't perfect, somehow he was still hers. And it felt like she'd hit the jackpot and won the lottery—at the same time. It was amazing. Wonderful. Almost perfect.
She should've known it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Even when he was hers he was never really hers. He never really belonged to anyone, not for too long. He always had his eyes open, just in case. Like he didn't want to miss something better. Someone better. She should've known it would only be a matter of time before someone new caught his attention. It was his nature. But, true to her own way, she'd been drawn in like a moth to a flame. Too blinded by the flame to feel the fire.
It'd been no surprise (to anyone other than herself) when she'd ended up just like the moth: burned. It should've been perfect. She wasn't stupid. She'd always known wouldn't last forever. But if it couldn't last, why couldn't it live up to her perfect dreams? If she was going to have her heart broken by him yet again, didn't she deserve at least that? This had been her chance to live her dream. And, if she had, maybe she'd have had the memory to comfort her on the lonely nights that followed his leaving.
She didn't, though. There was no comfort. But, before too long, those nights began to be fewer and farther between. She still had her friends and, as luck would have it, a new (super cute) transfer student with a really adorable accent who dug her hairstyle. So maybe it still hurt to see him walking down the hall, arm slung around Girlfriend #53's neck; she could handle it. And, slowly but surely, that empty feeling she'd been sure she'd never be able to fill again faded.
Until one day it was gone, just like that. As if it'd never really been there in the first place. She'd moved on and without even really noticing it. Suddenly, her smile seemed just a little bit brighter. Her steps a little bit bouncier. And her memory of being with him? It was just that: a memory. Imperfect as always. He'd done her a great service, she decided, by being his imperfect self. (Not that he could be any other way but still. She could finally appreciate it.)
Because those imperfections—all those little things that made their time together not quite as special as she'd wished and hoped and dreamed—without them, she might've never been able to get over him. She might've spent her whole life broken and depressed over the boy she couldn't make love her enough to be her perfect boyfriend forever instead of finding a way to move on. Move forward. Worse, she might've missed out on other great guys (like Serge) because of it.
It hadn't been perfect, not even close. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.
Perfect
It was supposed to be everything she'd ever dreamed of. It was supposed to be perfect. She'd spent so much time dreaming of it—of him. Of their moment together. And then to get it—get him—and for real… It should have been prefect. Didn't she deserve it? After all her pining and wasted time, all the hurt and crushed spirits; why couldn't the real thing live up to her ideal? Just this once? The pedestal in her mind wasn't that high, really.
But it wasn't perfect, not even close. It was better than anything she'd found before, though. Not perfect but still… good. Nice. Worthwhile. Sometimes she'd forget he was hers, just for a moment. Then it'd hit her, just like it had when he asked her to prom, and she'd wonder how she'd gotten so lucky. Even if it wasn't perfect, somehow he was still hers. And it felt like she'd hit the jackpot and won the lottery—at the same time. It was amazing. Wonderful. Almost perfect.
She should've known it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Even when he was hers he was never really hers. He never really belonged to anyone, not for too long. He always had his eyes open, just in case. Like he didn't want to miss something better. Someone better. She should've known it would only be a matter of time before someone new caught his attention. It was his nature. But, true to her own way, she'd been drawn in like a moth to a flame. Too blinded by the flame to feel the fire.
It'd been no surprise (to anyone other than herself) when she'd ended up just like the moth: burned. It should've been perfect. She wasn't stupid. She'd always known wouldn't last forever. But if it couldn't last, why couldn't it live up to her perfect dreams? If she was going to have her heart broken by him yet again, didn't she deserve at least that? This had been her chance to live her dream. And, if she had, maybe she'd have had the memory to comfort her on the lonely nights that followed his leaving.
She didn't, though. There was no comfort. But, before too long, those nights began to be fewer and farther between. She still had her friends and, as luck would have it, a new (super cute) transfer student with a really adorable accent who dug her hairstyle. So maybe it still hurt to see him walking down the hall, arm slung around Girlfriend #53's neck; she could handle it. And, slowly but surely, that empty feeling she'd been sure she'd never be able to fill again faded.
Until one day it was gone, just like that. As if it'd never really been there in the first place. She'd moved on and without even really noticing it. Suddenly, her smile seemed just a little bit brighter. Her steps a little bit bouncier. And her memory of being with him? It was just that: a memory. Imperfect as always. He'd done her a great service, she decided, by being his imperfect self. (Not that he could be any other way but still. She could finally appreciate it.)
Because those imperfections—all those little things that made their time together not quite as special as she'd wished and hoped and dreamed—without them, she might've never been able to get over him. She might've spent her whole life broken and depressed over the boy she couldn't make love her enough to be her perfect boyfriend forever instead of finding a way to move on. Move forward. Worse, she might've missed out on other great guys (like Serge) because of it.
It hadn't been perfect, not even close. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.
11. was this over before... before it ever began?
Note: Just a little something I had an idea for a few years back. I'm not 100% sure I like the ending (despite the fact that I've reworked it several times) but that's all right. Not edited by anyone but me. Um, yeah. Cheers!
They were friends for a long time—years and years. They were both five when they met for the first time, battling it out on the handball court. She was never any good. He was one of the best on the playground. A few lucky hits one day and she managed to unseat him. It was then that he grudgingly admitted she was all right (for a girl). Back then, it was more their parent's friendship that kept them together.
At some point, though, they realized they actually got along (when they weren't insulting each other). Friendship was easy for them. They fell into a pattern of comfort. He'd steal her fries at lunch and she'd copy his German homework. Sometimes it seemed like they shared everything—friends and schoolwork, family and vacations, even secrets. But that was okay, they were comfortable together. Good friends (and even better partners in crime). It worked for them. It was natural. Those days, it felt like nothing could tear them apart.
Until something did. His name was Chris and he was her first boyfriend. Like more first loves, it eclipsed everything, even her friendships. Not long after Chris popped onto the scene, Denise became his first girlfriend. Denise was followed by Vanessa, then Lilly, Natalia and Jesse. At some point along the way, Chris was replaced by John. They drifted apart but always ended up back together again. It was never a question between them. It just kind of… was.
Then one day, when they were sprawled in his backyard, he asked her something he'd never asked before. He looked her in the eye and said, "Why not me?"
She didn't understand at first. Their friends had always teased them. But it was just a joke. They'd never even talked about it. She tried to answer, but she couldn't. She wasn't even sure where to start. So she offered the only thing she could think of: "You never asked." So he asked and their routine became something new.
They weren't the kind of couple that inspired love songs or an excess of gossip or interest. They were friends first and a couple second. But that worked for them too. It was comfortable and they were happy. It probably would've lasted forever if she let it. She could've been content if she stayed. He was a nice boy turned into a good man. One of her best friends. She loved him with all her heart. In her soul, she knew she always had.
But she wanted more. She dreamed of more. She deserved more. So she made herself a plan. She made decisions. She chose a life that she wanted for herself. It was time to be independent. To stand on her own two feet and see where they took her. She couldn't do that with him beside her, no matter how much she loved him. Because she did love him and it wasn't enough. And nothing he could do could change that.
She knew it was cowardly to just leave. She knew he deserved better. But she was weak, and she knew that a few well-chosen words from him would be enough to stop her from ever leaving. It still felt wrong writing him a Dear John letter (if it could be called that, being half lyric quotes and sentence fragments scratched on the back of a postcard) to say good-bye. She wished it could've been different. That she could've had one last kiss. (Not that she deserved it.)
It was strange, leaving everything she knew behind. Venturing out on her own, trying to find what it was she'd been missing. It was so hard. But when she got there—when she reached that place on her own—it felt good. It felt so good.
It was like she finally got it. All those sappy chick flicks like The Butterfly Effect, The Break-Up, and even Bedazzled finally made sense to her. Loving someone meant putting them first, even at your own expense. That was the one thing she hadn't been able to give.
But that was okay. She built herself a life that she loved living from the deepest part of her soul. She didn't need anyone else to do that for her. It was her and her alone, becoming the person she wanted to be. It felt right.
Sometimes she still thought of him and sighed. She wondered if he thought of her, too. It was selfish but she hoped he did. She hoped the thought left him with a smile. Because the memory of him—of them, as they'd been together—always brought a bittersweet one to her lips.
Bittersweet
They were friends for a long time—years and years. They were both five when they met for the first time, battling it out on the handball court. She was never any good. He was one of the best on the playground. A few lucky hits one day and she managed to unseat him. It was then that he grudgingly admitted she was all right (for a girl). Back then, it was more their parent's friendship that kept them together.
At some point, though, they realized they actually got along (when they weren't insulting each other). Friendship was easy for them. They fell into a pattern of comfort. He'd steal her fries at lunch and she'd copy his German homework. Sometimes it seemed like they shared everything—friends and schoolwork, family and vacations, even secrets. But that was okay, they were comfortable together. Good friends (and even better partners in crime). It worked for them. It was natural. Those days, it felt like nothing could tear them apart.
Until something did. His name was Chris and he was her first boyfriend. Like more first loves, it eclipsed everything, even her friendships. Not long after Chris popped onto the scene, Denise became his first girlfriend. Denise was followed by Vanessa, then Lilly, Natalia and Jesse. At some point along the way, Chris was replaced by John. They drifted apart but always ended up back together again. It was never a question between them. It just kind of… was.
Then one day, when they were sprawled in his backyard, he asked her something he'd never asked before. He looked her in the eye and said, "Why not me?"
She didn't understand at first. Their friends had always teased them. But it was just a joke. They'd never even talked about it. She tried to answer, but she couldn't. She wasn't even sure where to start. So she offered the only thing she could think of: "You never asked." So he asked and their routine became something new.
They weren't the kind of couple that inspired love songs or an excess of gossip or interest. They were friends first and a couple second. But that worked for them too. It was comfortable and they were happy. It probably would've lasted forever if she let it. She could've been content if she stayed. He was a nice boy turned into a good man. One of her best friends. She loved him with all her heart. In her soul, she knew she always had.
But she wanted more. She dreamed of more. She deserved more. So she made herself a plan. She made decisions. She chose a life that she wanted for herself. It was time to be independent. To stand on her own two feet and see where they took her. She couldn't do that with him beside her, no matter how much she loved him. Because she did love him and it wasn't enough. And nothing he could do could change that.
She knew it was cowardly to just leave. She knew he deserved better. But she was weak, and she knew that a few well-chosen words from him would be enough to stop her from ever leaving. It still felt wrong writing him a Dear John letter (if it could be called that, being half lyric quotes and sentence fragments scratched on the back of a postcard) to say good-bye. She wished it could've been different. That she could've had one last kiss. (Not that she deserved it.)
It was strange, leaving everything she knew behind. Venturing out on her own, trying to find what it was she'd been missing. It was so hard. But when she got there—when she reached that place on her own—it felt good. It felt so good.
It was like she finally got it. All those sappy chick flicks like The Butterfly Effect, The Break-Up, and even Bedazzled finally made sense to her. Loving someone meant putting them first, even at your own expense. That was the one thing she hadn't been able to give.
But that was okay. She built herself a life that she loved living from the deepest part of her soul. She didn't need anyone else to do that for her. It was her and her alone, becoming the person she wanted to be. It felt right.
Sometimes she still thought of him and sighed. She wondered if he thought of her, too. It was selfish but she hoped he did. She hoped the thought left him with a smile. Because the memory of him—of them, as they'd been together—always brought a bittersweet one to her lips.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
10. I don't know if I should stay or turn around and run; I know that I hurt you, things will never be the same
Notes: This was the first Scorpius/Rose thing I attempted. I'm still not 100% sure I like it (I was contemplating not having a happy ending, too) but it's certainly not the worst thing I've ever sent out into the ether. I sort of tried to do one of those one-scene-per-year stories (though I cheated and added a couple extra bits) but, uh, yeah. It was mostly just a first try at the next-gen kids. *shrug* Also, it could use a title.
Disclaimer: Characters mentioned are used without permission; they are owned by J.K. Rowling and are trademarks of Warner Brothers. I do not own them and am simply borrowing for my purposes. Please don't sue.
First Year
Nobody had been surprised when Rose Weasley was sorted into the Ravenclaw house. She was as bright as her mother and as stubborn as her father. Determined not to live her life in the shadow of her large family, she'd decided long before boarding the Hogwarts Express that she would not be in Gryffindor. From there, it had been a simple process of elimination.
Slytherin would have peeved her family, she knew, but that alone wasn't enough to knock it off the list. In the end, it was her lack of cunning and the fact that she was a completely rubbish liar that spurned her from the snake house. Hufflepuff was easier to cross off. Simply told, she knew the amount of teasing she would have to endure from her family if that was her house. It would be foolish to give them such an easy and permanent excuse.
Ravenclaw it was. The sorting hat barely had to touch her head before it agreed. The cleverness of her thinking was all it really took to sway the magical singing hat.
On the other hand, nearly everyone had been shocked with Albus Severus Potter was sorted into Ravenclaw. It wasn't that he wasn't clever—he was. And his aptitude for magic came almost straight from his father. But with his older brother in Gryffindor and both of his parents as honored graduates, everyone had expected the Potter legacy to continue in the lion's den.
The fact that James was a Gryffindor was the precise reason that Al didn't want to be in that house. He loved his brother, grudgingly, but he was something of a bully to Al. His silent chant of, Not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, made the sorting hat's decision rather easy. (It still remembered his father's sorting, after all.) The fact that his cousin and best friend, Rose, was sorted into the same house was just an added bonus.
There wasn't much comment when Scorpius Malfoy was sorted into Ravenclaw. His parents had made it clear that they were more interested in him assisting in the resurrection of the so-called family name than plebeian things like house sorting. Though he figured they were relieved he was in neither Hufflepuff or Gryffindor—for vastly different reasons, of course.
Truthfully, Scorpius wasn't surprised, either. He didn't have the constitution to be a Slytherin, the bravery for Gryffindor or the good heart of a Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw was all that was left. It probably didn't hurt that he'd found his father's library more enticing than the Slytherin spawn his parents had tried to make his friends, either, though his self-deprecating attitude hardly considered that factor.
Rose elbowed Al pointedly when Malfoy was sorted into their house. "My dad told me to stay away from him," she whispered, brown eyes wide. Then she smirked. "Maybe we should make friends with him instead."
"Rose," Al chided. "You can't make friends with someone to anger your parents."
"Not anger!" she objected. "Just… rile." She nudged her cousin. "Things are always so much more interesting when there's a little drama in the Weasley house."
He shook his head but didn't comment further. A determined Rose was impossible to deter.
She stood up and made for the other end of the table where Scorpius was starting to tuck in. "Oi," she called with a smile and a wave. "I'm Rose Weasley." She offered her hand to him.
Giving her a funny look, he shook her hand once and released it. "Okay," he said, obviously a bit bewildered. "Scorpius Malfoy."
Despite his lukewarm reply, she pushed on. "Want to come eat with us?" Rose offered, gesturing toward where Al was pointedly ignoring her.
There was a pause where he tried to discern if she was sincere or not. His father had warned him that the Weasley and Potter children might try to exact some sort of retribution against him due to his parentage—he just hadn't thought they'd do it on their first night! "Um, no, that's all right," Scorpius replied, choosing caution over politeness. "I'm fine here."
Rose, whose temper was not unlike her father's, was decidedly put out. "Hmmph!" Hands on her hips, she was like a tiny, red-haired version of her mother. "My father was right about you," she declared, wagging a finger at him. "Rude little ferret spawn!" Then she spun around and stalked back to where Albus was sitting, fuming all the way.
Pausing in his shoveling of food into mouth, Al pat her on the shoulder. "Come on, hurry up and eat. When we're done, we can visit Hagrid and Uncle Neville."
That thought cheered Rose up considerably, though she continued to mumble about blond gits who were bloody unfriendly wankers periodically.
Second Year
Quidditch tryouts were generally only for third years and up. That's why, when Scorpius Malfoy was announced as the new Ravenclaw seeker, Rose Weasley led the charge against him. She marched up to the sixth year captain and poked him sharply in the chest. "Oi, Musgrave, what're you playing at?"
The tall blonde boy, over a head taller than Rose, blinked down at her. "Can I help you, Weasley?" he asked in a tone that implied he'd rather she buggered off than continue the conversation.
"What did he do?" she spat, raising herself to her full height. "Get his daddy to buy him a spot on the team? The rest of us—" now she gestured toward where Al and several other first and second years were sitting, "weren't allowed to try out but somehow Scorpius Malfoy becomes the new seeker?"
Now Ralph Musgrave laughed, something that only served to enrage Rose further. "Look, Professor Flitwick called me into his office and suggested Scorpius for the position when he learned our try-outs had been for naught."
Rose sneered. "And why did he do that?"
"Because Madame Hooch told Headmistress McGonagall who told him about the incident during flying class last year," a new voice spoke up. It was Scorpius Malfoy himself.
The incident he was referring to involved her falling off her broom while goofing around with Albus. (She had, sadly, inherited her mother's flying skills, which was to say none.) It had been Scorpius who caught her by the robes, just above the ground. She had grudgingly thanked him after prodding from her cousin and sworn off brooms for life.
Her ears burned bright red at the humiliating memory and, "Oh," was all Rose could come up with. She looked up at the tall Musgrave again. "Well, it's still not fair." Then she stalked over Al and plopped down beside him, seething.
Al turned the page of the book he was reading. "Told you not to push it," he said with a sigh, eyes never leaving the page.
Rose blushed more furiously. "Shut up, Al."
Third Year
Rose Weasley, Karen Stafford and James Potter all raced down to the Quidditch pitch at the end of the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match. "Great job, Al!" Rose cried, throwing her arms around him.
James grinned proudly at his younger brother. "You were bloody brilliant, mate," he said, ruffling his hair. (Not that it made much of a difference—he followed his father and grandfather in having unflattenable hair.) "Not that it'll make much difference when you face my house…"
Pushing his brother away, he grinned. "You are so full of shite, James."
"Care to put your Quaffle where your mouth is?" the Gryffindor seeker asked, eyes bright behind his glasses.
Albus snorted. "You are a nutter," he commented with a long suffering sigh. There was a grin on his face, though, as the boys had bonded over their love of the game when Al was named the newest chaser on the Ravenclaw team.
James waved him off before sauntering over to his housemates.
It was then that Karen, a blonde muggle-born member of their house who Rose had become friendlier with that year, stepped forward. "It was an impressive display," she complimented diplomatically.
Furrowing his brows, Al cast a quick glance at Rose before replying. "Er, thank you, Karen."
Smothering a laugh, Rose thread her arm through Karen's and prepared to be off. Her bright eyes darkened perceptibly when Scorpius Malfoy came up beside Al to say something to his teammate and she stalled taking leave. Al listened intently, shooting Rose a look that clearly told her to be nice.
Pursing her lips, she finally acquiesced just before the pale boy left. "You were good as well, Malfoy," she offered quickly.
He paused, visibly surprised. "Thank you, Rose," he said, bowing his head slightly before heading off.
Shaking her head, she tugged on Karen's arm and they headed off. The blonde glanced back at Scorpius then looked at Rose. "He's a bit odd, isn't he?"
Rose laughed all the way back to their common room.
Fourth Year
"I can't believe it!" Rose cried, throwing herself onto a couch in the common room.
Albus didn't look up from where he was playing chess with Victor Carmichael, used to her antics by then. When she huffed loudly enough, he threw her a bone. "What happened now?"
Sitting up, she scowled at the lack of attention her best friend was paying her. "I'm second in Defense Against the Dark Arts," she said quietly. "I asked Professor Flitwick—I wanted to see if I was on track for my prefect badge. I'm first in all my classes except D-A-D-A."
"Okay, so?" Al prompted, taking Vic's Bishop violently.
"So?" Rose repeated. "So? So, I'm never second! I'm the smartest witch in our class! I can't be second!" She threw herself down against the couch again, moaning. "This is horrible."
Al rolled his eyes and mouthed a, "Be right back," to Vic. Standing, he crossed to Rose and pat her on the back. "First of all, this is not that big of a deal. You're still the smartest witch in our class, regardless of your standing in one class. Secondly, you could always study harder." Here, Rose glared at him. "Or you could ask the student ahead of you for help."
Now Rose avoided his gaze.
"What?" Al asked.
She mumbled something into a cushion.
Nudging her, he frowned. "What is it, Rose?" he pressed.
"It's Scorpius," she mumbled, pouting.
Al rolled his eyes. Of course it was. He thought she'd finally let go of those prejudices she'd made in her younger years. "What about him?"
She threw her hands up in defeat and sighed. "He's the top of our Defense Against the Dark Arts class!" she all but wailed. "I can't ask him for help."
That was about all Al could take. "Then settle for second best," he said with a shrug. "I'm going to finish my game now. If you want to whine more, find Karen or Lucy."
"You suck, Albus Severus," she grumbled, sitting up again and crossing her arms.
Al's smile was lopsided. "Yeah, but who else would put up with you, cuz?"
That was when Rose decided that the Potter family was not allowed to go on holiday to America again. What kind of word was ‘cuz'? Honestly.
Fifth Year
It took a lot for Rose Weasley to admit she needed help. It took even more for her to do it with someone she disliked so incredibly. But desperate times and all that. Unfortunately, his opening greeting saw that he didn't appreciate just what a sacrifice it was for her to come to him. "So you've finally swallowed your pride and come to ask me for help?"
She glared at the side of Scorpius Malfoy's head, crossing her arms defensively. "Hmmph, I see your oversized pride has finally grown in."
Scorpius's pale eyes flicked up to meet her darker ones. "You may be clever," he drawled, "but your delivery leaves something to be desired."
"Argh!" Rose cried, stamping her foot. Her famous Weasley temper was coming out, despite her attempts to quash it with her logical side. "You-you're infuriating."
He smirked. "Only to you, Weasley."
Taking a deep breath, she forced her anger down. "Yeah, yeah." Rose sighed. "Malfoy, would you please help me study for the Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s?"
For some reason, it was hard not to squirm under his gaze. That only served to irritate her further. "What do I get out of it?" he asked casually.
"The pleasure of my company," she offered with a sickeningly sweet smile.
He gave her a once over, then shook his head. "Pass."
Rose rolled her eyes, ignoring the injury to her pride as best she could. "That was sarcasm, Malfoy," she pointed out condescendingly. He returned her gesture but said nothing. The urge to squirm grew again. "Fine, what do you want?" she asked.
There was a bit of a pause as he mulled it over. "Introduce me to Lucy Davies," Scorpius answered finally.
She blinked. Then she blinked again. "That's it?" Her tone was incredulous, as was her expression.
He nodded. "That's it."
"But you're popular—practically a shoo-in for Quidditch captain next year—and smart—why else would I ask you to help me?" Rose admitted grudgingly, ignoring his grin, "—and, well, you're good-looking for an albino." Here Scorpius scowled. "Why would you want me to introduce you? You don't need it…"
Shrugging, he looked back at his books. "That's none of your business," he replied stiffly. "Those are my terms. Do you accept them?"
Rose considered for a moment, swallowed her pride again, and nodded. "Yes, I do. You help me and I'll set you up with Lucy next Hogsmade trip." Suppressing a sigh, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "When do we start?"
"Thursdays after Quidditch practice, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom," Scorpius said easily.
"Classroom?" she repeated skeptically.
He shrugged. "We're both prefects," he pointed out. "I doubt we'll get in trouble for studying."
Despite herself, she found she had to agree. Besides, despite Al's practical nature, they did have a habit for finding themselves on the other side of the law. As far as rule breaking went, this was practically benign. "Fair enough. See you Thursday."
"See you then," Scorpius agreed.
Summer Between Fifth and Sixth Year
Scorpius—
Thank you so much for the help last year! I got an O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I know I couldn't have done it without you. Really, I'm quite indebted to you. Expect a large bag of sweets courtesy of me sometime in the near future.
If you're interested, I'd like to continue studying together. I was sorry to hear about you and Lucy—she's always been a bit of a tart. Just remember what I told you: popular, smart and good-looking. You'll find someone new. Someone better.
If you want something else in exchange for studying, let me know. If you like, I could tell you the secret of nicking food from the kitchen…
Your stubbornly reluctant friend,
Rose W.
Rose,
You know your achievements are your own. I played only a small role. However, I will happily accept your sweets as they include all of my favorites. Thank you kindly.
Lucy and I were a poor match from the start. I should've realized it sooner, but I was taken in by those innocent dark eyes. Once I finish licking my wounds, I'm certain you're correct. There are most assuredly girls I will be better suited to out there. As of now, though, I am happy to have the reprieve of summer.
I will take your assistance in Arithmacy in exchange for our continued study sessions in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I found myself floundering toward the end of the previous year. Though, I would not be opposed to learning the secret of entering the kitchen.
Your proudly awkward friend,
Scorpius M.
Sixth Year
"Lazlo Zambini? Really?" Albus shook his head at his best friend. "I thought you had better taste than that prat, Rose."
Rose made a face at him. "Said the boy who snogged my friend!" she shot back. "Don't think I didn't hear about you and Karen on the Quidditch pitch last month."
Al's cheeks colored and he scowled. "Damn James and his big fat mouth." Rose gave him a look that said that reply wasn't going to cut it and he ducked his head. "She really came into her own over the summer," he mumbled. "And, anyway, we're not talking about me."
"Agreed," Scorpius piped up from where he was sitting nearby. "My dad is good friends with Lazlo's dad and I hear he's busy ‘sowing his oats'—whatever that is."
Now Rose rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said, hands on hips. "You two act like I've accepted an offer of marriage or something from the boy. All we're doing is going to Hogsmade together."
Al and Scorpius exchanged a look, then the former took his cousin's hand in his. "Rose, he's just using you. Can't you see—"
Suddenly, she burst out laughing. "What am I—new? Of course, he's just using me. And as all I want is a fling, that's just fine with me." She grinned at both boys, reaching to pinch their cheeks. "You two are so cute when you're overprotective."
Scorpius swatted her hand away, returning his attention to the potions essay that was due the next day. "You owe me a knut, Potter," he said as an afterthought.
Now Rose's dark eyes were flashing dangerously. "You bet on me?" she asked in a slow tone.
Both boys eyes widened perceptibly and began moving away from the irate red head. "If it's any consolation," Albus offered, hands up in an innocent gesture, "we hexed Flint for what he said about this development…"
It wasn't but, lucky for Al and Scorpius, the majority of her rage was taken out on revenge against the Slytherin seventh year once she heard just what he'd said. The two Ravenclaw boys were just glad to escape with the majority of their pride in tact.
Seventh Year
Rose threw down her book and get out an aggravated growl. "That's it, that's it! These damn N.E.W.T.s are trying to drive me insane!" She rubbed her eyes and slouched into the chair. "And I think they're succeeding…"
Al, who was sitting on a loveseat beside her with his girlfriend of over a year, Karen, gave her hand a comforting pat. "Don't worry," he said easily. "They're taking us all with you."
"Yeah," Lucy agreed from the other side of Karen with a sigh. "We'll all have brilliant company in St. Mungo's."
Standing up and stretching, Rose began collecting her books and parchment. "I should probably get back to the Head's Common Room before I really am committed," she told the others. "Same time tomorrow?"
Karen nodded, smiling at her friend. "Scorpius said he'd bring snacks, too," she said with thinly veiled excitement.
Absentmindedly, Rose frowned. Where was Scorpius, anyway? Al had muttered some excuse but she couldn't recall what he'd said now. She had a fleeting thought that he had snuck out to meet some chit but that thought was quickly quashed, if only to maintain her sanity. "He only knows that trick because I showed him," she tossed out, joining the conversation again with a small smile. "See you all tomorrow."
Her housemates called various good-byes as she headed out of the tower. She yawned as she wandered down the steps at a lazy pace, hitching her bag higher onto her shoulder. Another yawn had her colliding with a wall.
A wall that caught her with a grunt?
Looking up, she saw Scorpius peering down at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. "Better watch where you're going, Rose," he teased, helping her straighten again before releasing her. (Strangely, she felt cold when he did.) "Next time you might hit someone with worse reflexes."
"Lucky I ran into the Ravenclaw seeker then, isn't it?" she tossed back with a grin, shrugging off her odd feelings. "Speaking of—where have you been hiding yourself? Don't you know we have N.E.W.T.s to be studying for?"
He gave a dramatic gasp complete with over the top gesticulation. "You don't say! Well, damn, I wish I'd known sooner…"
Rose socked him in the shoulder none too gently. "I'm so pleased you're finally learning the finer points of sarcasm," she commented dryly, "but I never would've spent so much time teaching you if I'd known you'd use it against me."
Holding his hands up in surrender, Scorpius smiled genuinely. "I was down in the dungeons tutoring Callie Warrington in Potions."
For some reason, she felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her. "Oh." She forced a smile, though it was more of a quirk of her mouth, really. "What'd you get from her for that?"
Scorpius shrugged. "Nothing. Professor Hobskins asked me to, since I've got such an aptitude for it."
And because you like her, was Rose's irrational thought, not that she'd admit that. Or say it aloud. Instead, she smirked dangerously. "Figures. You never could deny a compliment to your vanity." There was a distinct undercurrent of anger in her tone, which took away from the teasing nature of their conversation.
Unamused, he frowned at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Rose?"
"Figure it out yourself," she shot back, voice raising just a hair. "I can't stand to be in this stairwell another moment—your ego is suffocating me!" Then she turned and raced off, ignoring his shouts echoing after her.
Furious tears raced down her cheeks and she had no idea why. Her dad had always claimed her mum was crazy but never before had Rose felt so completely out of control of her person. If this was growing up, she wanted no part of it. She had no idea why she felt this way; what it meant. No idea why she'd overreacted so totally and completely at someone she now considered a valued friend. None of it made sense.
It wasn't until she was back in the Head's common room, bawling her eyes out that the truth revealed itself. She fancied Scorpius Malfoy.
"Fuck."
Graduation
Despite Al's questions and prodding (especially after he and Karen broke up), Rose continued to make excuses about why she was so scarce their last months at Hogwarts. She claimed Head duties and studying—anything to avoid the Ravenclaw common room. Anything to avoid Scorpius.
She knew she should apologize—it wasn't his fault she'd gone off her rocker and had a minor meltdown at him—but her pride and humiliation was just great enough to keep that from happening. He didn't seem too keen on seeing her, either, so she figured it was mutually beneficial.
Soon enough, her time at Hogwarts came to a quiet, if anti-climatic, close.
To celebrate their achievement of matriculation, there was a lovely ceremony during which Rose tried desperately not to fall asleep. It wasn't that it was boring, really, she was just seated between two dreadfully dull people. It was moments like these that she longed for Al, Karen or Lucy's company. Even Scorpius would almost be welcome. Well, maybe not.
They received their magical diplomas, marching up one at a time so parents could take pictures and cry. Both of Rose's parents had glistening gazes as they watched her, though her mother was more outright in her emotion. It was all very lovely. Once it was all over, Rose put up with the dull conversation and generic congratulations for as long as she was able.
When her tolerance was reached, though, she made her brilliant escape. Racing from the magically altered Quidditch pitch, she took refuge by the greenhouse. She knew she should spend her time saying farewell to classmates and the like but it wasn't like the wizarding community was so overly large she'd really lose touch with those she cared about.
Feeling more exhausted than she remembered, Rose lay back in the prickly grass and gazed up at the clouds in the sky. The sun felt lovely on her face and she sighed contently, closing her eyes. They opened again when a shadow fell over her. There, towering above her in all his spiky pale blond glory, was none other than Scorpius himself.
Rose immediately sat up, ignoring the way her stomach dropped. "Hi," she said quietly, looking down at her hands.
Sitting beside her, Scorpius didn't reply at first. He glanced at her, then looked away. He repeated the process a few times. Finally, he settled for looking over her shoulder at the castle. "You should have never been nice to me at all," he commented casually, as if they were discussing the weather.
"What?" Rose spluttered, too surprised to remember to be mortified. She looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.
Scorpius gave her the famously condescending Malfoy look. "If you'd never been nice," he explained slowly, "then I wouldn't have missed you when you went all lionel richie on me."
Temper rising, Rose glared ferociously at him. "I did not go lionel richie on you," she hissed angrily. "And you—you have no idea what you're talking about!"
"Then enlighten me, please," he retorted, arms crossed. "I think you owe me that much."
Rose felt herself deflate. "I-I can't," she stuttered, looking away from his icy gaze. She wanted to say more—to apologize but the words wouldn't come.
Jaw clenched, Scorpius shook his head. "That's not good enough, Rose. You may not be a Gryffindor but I'm not going to let you take the cowardly way out. You're better than that."
"I'm sorry," she whispered to her lap.
There was a long pause before he replied. "Fine. Consider this friendship dissolved." He started to rise but Rose latched onto his wrist. He growled in frustration. "Rose—"
She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. Kneeling, she moved her hand to cup his cheek and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. It was warm and sweet and made her stomach flutter in a way it never had before.
When she pulled away, there were tears in her eyes. "Now do you understand?"
"No," Scorpius said, leaping to his feet. He began to pace furiously in front of her, running an agitated hand through his hair. "You-you can't just…" Suddenly he stopped and faced her, gesturing wildly between them. "That doesn't fix this."
Rose nodded solemnly. "I know." She should've never done it. She should've let him walk away, friendship be damned. But if she was going to lose him anyway, her gut had told her to just go for it. It would be too ironic otherwise. Unfortunately, now she just wanted to crawl in a hole and hide until the whole thing was forgotten.
He was pacing again, brows furrowed. "Did Albus tell you? I told him about my feelings in confidence!" He began to slow, fixing her with a serious look. "You can't just use people, Rose. You can't kiss me when you know it means more to me than you."
"What are you on about?" she asked incredulously. "I was trying to—" Well, hell, it wasn't like she was going to escape this with her dignity in tact. "I fancy you, you prat! Why do you think I reacted like a complete nutter when I found out you were tutoring Callie? Why do you think I couldn't muster up an apology? I was embarrassed! I knew you wouldn't feel the same. I knew it would ruin our friendship. And look at that—it did!" Rose wiped her eyes and tried to pull forth all her remaining stubbornness. "Ugh! I should have never—"
It was right about then that Scorpius cut her off with another kiss. This one was hot and urgent and caught her completely off guard. When he pulled away, she blinked up at him in surprise. "I've fancied you ever since the first time I saw you angry." He smiled. It was just a little bashful and completely lovely. "You're beautiful when you're angry."
Rose's cheeks were warm with flush, but she shot him a dubious expression. "Then why did you ask me to set you up with Lucy?"
"Well, I could hardly expect you to want to date me when you were so keen on hating me, could I?" he pointed out. "So I put those thoughts out of my mind."
Fair enough. "But what about when we became friends?" she pressed.
Scorpius had the good grace to look abashed. "Would you believe I didn't want to ruin our friendship, either?"
Now Rose laughed. It seemed like she hadn't smiled—really smiled in a long time. It felt lovely. "We really are quite the pair, aren't we?"
He took her hand in his and gave it a kiss. "Yes, we are." There was more in his words, though, than a simple agreement.
Needless to say, when Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy returned to the graduation celebratory chaos hand-in-hand, more than one parent blanched. Albus, however, grinned proudly at his friends. And Harry thanked Ginny for waiting to give him a daughter.
Disclaimer: Characters mentioned are used without permission; they are owned by J.K. Rowling and are trademarks of Warner Brothers. I do not own them and am simply borrowing for my purposes. Please don't sue.
First Year
Nobody had been surprised when Rose Weasley was sorted into the Ravenclaw house. She was as bright as her mother and as stubborn as her father. Determined not to live her life in the shadow of her large family, she'd decided long before boarding the Hogwarts Express that she would not be in Gryffindor. From there, it had been a simple process of elimination.
Slytherin would have peeved her family, she knew, but that alone wasn't enough to knock it off the list. In the end, it was her lack of cunning and the fact that she was a completely rubbish liar that spurned her from the snake house. Hufflepuff was easier to cross off. Simply told, she knew the amount of teasing she would have to endure from her family if that was her house. It would be foolish to give them such an easy and permanent excuse.
Ravenclaw it was. The sorting hat barely had to touch her head before it agreed. The cleverness of her thinking was all it really took to sway the magical singing hat.
On the other hand, nearly everyone had been shocked with Albus Severus Potter was sorted into Ravenclaw. It wasn't that he wasn't clever—he was. And his aptitude for magic came almost straight from his father. But with his older brother in Gryffindor and both of his parents as honored graduates, everyone had expected the Potter legacy to continue in the lion's den.
The fact that James was a Gryffindor was the precise reason that Al didn't want to be in that house. He loved his brother, grudgingly, but he was something of a bully to Al. His silent chant of, Not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, made the sorting hat's decision rather easy. (It still remembered his father's sorting, after all.) The fact that his cousin and best friend, Rose, was sorted into the same house was just an added bonus.
There wasn't much comment when Scorpius Malfoy was sorted into Ravenclaw. His parents had made it clear that they were more interested in him assisting in the resurrection of the so-called family name than plebeian things like house sorting. Though he figured they were relieved he was in neither Hufflepuff or Gryffindor—for vastly different reasons, of course.
Truthfully, Scorpius wasn't surprised, either. He didn't have the constitution to be a Slytherin, the bravery for Gryffindor or the good heart of a Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw was all that was left. It probably didn't hurt that he'd found his father's library more enticing than the Slytherin spawn his parents had tried to make his friends, either, though his self-deprecating attitude hardly considered that factor.
Rose elbowed Al pointedly when Malfoy was sorted into their house. "My dad told me to stay away from him," she whispered, brown eyes wide. Then she smirked. "Maybe we should make friends with him instead."
"Rose," Al chided. "You can't make friends with someone to anger your parents."
"Not anger!" she objected. "Just… rile." She nudged her cousin. "Things are always so much more interesting when there's a little drama in the Weasley house."
He shook his head but didn't comment further. A determined Rose was impossible to deter.
She stood up and made for the other end of the table where Scorpius was starting to tuck in. "Oi," she called with a smile and a wave. "I'm Rose Weasley." She offered her hand to him.
Giving her a funny look, he shook her hand once and released it. "Okay," he said, obviously a bit bewildered. "Scorpius Malfoy."
Despite his lukewarm reply, she pushed on. "Want to come eat with us?" Rose offered, gesturing toward where Al was pointedly ignoring her.
There was a pause where he tried to discern if she was sincere or not. His father had warned him that the Weasley and Potter children might try to exact some sort of retribution against him due to his parentage—he just hadn't thought they'd do it on their first night! "Um, no, that's all right," Scorpius replied, choosing caution over politeness. "I'm fine here."
Rose, whose temper was not unlike her father's, was decidedly put out. "Hmmph!" Hands on her hips, she was like a tiny, red-haired version of her mother. "My father was right about you," she declared, wagging a finger at him. "Rude little ferret spawn!" Then she spun around and stalked back to where Albus was sitting, fuming all the way.
Pausing in his shoveling of food into mouth, Al pat her on the shoulder. "Come on, hurry up and eat. When we're done, we can visit Hagrid and Uncle Neville."
That thought cheered Rose up considerably, though she continued to mumble about blond gits who were bloody unfriendly wankers periodically.
Second Year
Quidditch tryouts were generally only for third years and up. That's why, when Scorpius Malfoy was announced as the new Ravenclaw seeker, Rose Weasley led the charge against him. She marched up to the sixth year captain and poked him sharply in the chest. "Oi, Musgrave, what're you playing at?"
The tall blonde boy, over a head taller than Rose, blinked down at her. "Can I help you, Weasley?" he asked in a tone that implied he'd rather she buggered off than continue the conversation.
"What did he do?" she spat, raising herself to her full height. "Get his daddy to buy him a spot on the team? The rest of us—" now she gestured toward where Al and several other first and second years were sitting, "weren't allowed to try out but somehow Scorpius Malfoy becomes the new seeker?"
Now Ralph Musgrave laughed, something that only served to enrage Rose further. "Look, Professor Flitwick called me into his office and suggested Scorpius for the position when he learned our try-outs had been for naught."
Rose sneered. "And why did he do that?"
"Because Madame Hooch told Headmistress McGonagall who told him about the incident during flying class last year," a new voice spoke up. It was Scorpius Malfoy himself.
The incident he was referring to involved her falling off her broom while goofing around with Albus. (She had, sadly, inherited her mother's flying skills, which was to say none.) It had been Scorpius who caught her by the robes, just above the ground. She had grudgingly thanked him after prodding from her cousin and sworn off brooms for life.
Her ears burned bright red at the humiliating memory and, "Oh," was all Rose could come up with. She looked up at the tall Musgrave again. "Well, it's still not fair." Then she stalked over Al and plopped down beside him, seething.
Al turned the page of the book he was reading. "Told you not to push it," he said with a sigh, eyes never leaving the page.
Rose blushed more furiously. "Shut up, Al."
Third Year
Rose Weasley, Karen Stafford and James Potter all raced down to the Quidditch pitch at the end of the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match. "Great job, Al!" Rose cried, throwing her arms around him.
James grinned proudly at his younger brother. "You were bloody brilliant, mate," he said, ruffling his hair. (Not that it made much of a difference—he followed his father and grandfather in having unflattenable hair.) "Not that it'll make much difference when you face my house…"
Pushing his brother away, he grinned. "You are so full of shite, James."
"Care to put your Quaffle where your mouth is?" the Gryffindor seeker asked, eyes bright behind his glasses.
Albus snorted. "You are a nutter," he commented with a long suffering sigh. There was a grin on his face, though, as the boys had bonded over their love of the game when Al was named the newest chaser on the Ravenclaw team.
James waved him off before sauntering over to his housemates.
It was then that Karen, a blonde muggle-born member of their house who Rose had become friendlier with that year, stepped forward. "It was an impressive display," she complimented diplomatically.
Furrowing his brows, Al cast a quick glance at Rose before replying. "Er, thank you, Karen."
Smothering a laugh, Rose thread her arm through Karen's and prepared to be off. Her bright eyes darkened perceptibly when Scorpius Malfoy came up beside Al to say something to his teammate and she stalled taking leave. Al listened intently, shooting Rose a look that clearly told her to be nice.
Pursing her lips, she finally acquiesced just before the pale boy left. "You were good as well, Malfoy," she offered quickly.
He paused, visibly surprised. "Thank you, Rose," he said, bowing his head slightly before heading off.
Shaking her head, she tugged on Karen's arm and they headed off. The blonde glanced back at Scorpius then looked at Rose. "He's a bit odd, isn't he?"
Rose laughed all the way back to their common room.
Fourth Year
"I can't believe it!" Rose cried, throwing herself onto a couch in the common room.
Albus didn't look up from where he was playing chess with Victor Carmichael, used to her antics by then. When she huffed loudly enough, he threw her a bone. "What happened now?"
Sitting up, she scowled at the lack of attention her best friend was paying her. "I'm second in Defense Against the Dark Arts," she said quietly. "I asked Professor Flitwick—I wanted to see if I was on track for my prefect badge. I'm first in all my classes except D-A-D-A."
"Okay, so?" Al prompted, taking Vic's Bishop violently.
"So?" Rose repeated. "So? So, I'm never second! I'm the smartest witch in our class! I can't be second!" She threw herself down against the couch again, moaning. "This is horrible."
Al rolled his eyes and mouthed a, "Be right back," to Vic. Standing, he crossed to Rose and pat her on the back. "First of all, this is not that big of a deal. You're still the smartest witch in our class, regardless of your standing in one class. Secondly, you could always study harder." Here, Rose glared at him. "Or you could ask the student ahead of you for help."
Now Rose avoided his gaze.
"What?" Al asked.
She mumbled something into a cushion.
Nudging her, he frowned. "What is it, Rose?" he pressed.
"It's Scorpius," she mumbled, pouting.
Al rolled his eyes. Of course it was. He thought she'd finally let go of those prejudices she'd made in her younger years. "What about him?"
She threw her hands up in defeat and sighed. "He's the top of our Defense Against the Dark Arts class!" she all but wailed. "I can't ask him for help."
That was about all Al could take. "Then settle for second best," he said with a shrug. "I'm going to finish my game now. If you want to whine more, find Karen or Lucy."
"You suck, Albus Severus," she grumbled, sitting up again and crossing her arms.
Al's smile was lopsided. "Yeah, but who else would put up with you, cuz?"
That was when Rose decided that the Potter family was not allowed to go on holiday to America again. What kind of word was ‘cuz'? Honestly.
Fifth Year
It took a lot for Rose Weasley to admit she needed help. It took even more for her to do it with someone she disliked so incredibly. But desperate times and all that. Unfortunately, his opening greeting saw that he didn't appreciate just what a sacrifice it was for her to come to him. "So you've finally swallowed your pride and come to ask me for help?"
She glared at the side of Scorpius Malfoy's head, crossing her arms defensively. "Hmmph, I see your oversized pride has finally grown in."
Scorpius's pale eyes flicked up to meet her darker ones. "You may be clever," he drawled, "but your delivery leaves something to be desired."
"Argh!" Rose cried, stamping her foot. Her famous Weasley temper was coming out, despite her attempts to quash it with her logical side. "You-you're infuriating."
He smirked. "Only to you, Weasley."
Taking a deep breath, she forced her anger down. "Yeah, yeah." Rose sighed. "Malfoy, would you please help me study for the Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s?"
For some reason, it was hard not to squirm under his gaze. That only served to irritate her further. "What do I get out of it?" he asked casually.
"The pleasure of my company," she offered with a sickeningly sweet smile.
He gave her a once over, then shook his head. "Pass."
Rose rolled her eyes, ignoring the injury to her pride as best she could. "That was sarcasm, Malfoy," she pointed out condescendingly. He returned her gesture but said nothing. The urge to squirm grew again. "Fine, what do you want?" she asked.
There was a bit of a pause as he mulled it over. "Introduce me to Lucy Davies," Scorpius answered finally.
She blinked. Then she blinked again. "That's it?" Her tone was incredulous, as was her expression.
He nodded. "That's it."
"But you're popular—practically a shoo-in for Quidditch captain next year—and smart—why else would I ask you to help me?" Rose admitted grudgingly, ignoring his grin, "—and, well, you're good-looking for an albino." Here Scorpius scowled. "Why would you want me to introduce you? You don't need it…"
Shrugging, he looked back at his books. "That's none of your business," he replied stiffly. "Those are my terms. Do you accept them?"
Rose considered for a moment, swallowed her pride again, and nodded. "Yes, I do. You help me and I'll set you up with Lucy next Hogsmade trip." Suppressing a sigh, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "When do we start?"
"Thursdays after Quidditch practice, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom," Scorpius said easily.
"Classroom?" she repeated skeptically.
He shrugged. "We're both prefects," he pointed out. "I doubt we'll get in trouble for studying."
Despite herself, she found she had to agree. Besides, despite Al's practical nature, they did have a habit for finding themselves on the other side of the law. As far as rule breaking went, this was practically benign. "Fair enough. See you Thursday."
"See you then," Scorpius agreed.
Summer Between Fifth and Sixth Year
Scorpius—
Thank you so much for the help last year! I got an O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I know I couldn't have done it without you. Really, I'm quite indebted to you. Expect a large bag of sweets courtesy of me sometime in the near future.
If you're interested, I'd like to continue studying together. I was sorry to hear about you and Lucy—she's always been a bit of a tart. Just remember what I told you: popular, smart and good-looking. You'll find someone new. Someone better.
If you want something else in exchange for studying, let me know. If you like, I could tell you the secret of nicking food from the kitchen…
Your stubbornly reluctant friend,
Rose W.
Rose,
You know your achievements are your own. I played only a small role. However, I will happily accept your sweets as they include all of my favorites. Thank you kindly.
Lucy and I were a poor match from the start. I should've realized it sooner, but I was taken in by those innocent dark eyes. Once I finish licking my wounds, I'm certain you're correct. There are most assuredly girls I will be better suited to out there. As of now, though, I am happy to have the reprieve of summer.
I will take your assistance in Arithmacy in exchange for our continued study sessions in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I found myself floundering toward the end of the previous year. Though, I would not be opposed to learning the secret of entering the kitchen.
Your proudly awkward friend,
Scorpius M.
Sixth Year
"Lazlo Zambini? Really?" Albus shook his head at his best friend. "I thought you had better taste than that prat, Rose."
Rose made a face at him. "Said the boy who snogged my friend!" she shot back. "Don't think I didn't hear about you and Karen on the Quidditch pitch last month."
Al's cheeks colored and he scowled. "Damn James and his big fat mouth." Rose gave him a look that said that reply wasn't going to cut it and he ducked his head. "She really came into her own over the summer," he mumbled. "And, anyway, we're not talking about me."
"Agreed," Scorpius piped up from where he was sitting nearby. "My dad is good friends with Lazlo's dad and I hear he's busy ‘sowing his oats'—whatever that is."
Now Rose rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said, hands on hips. "You two act like I've accepted an offer of marriage or something from the boy. All we're doing is going to Hogsmade together."
Al and Scorpius exchanged a look, then the former took his cousin's hand in his. "Rose, he's just using you. Can't you see—"
Suddenly, she burst out laughing. "What am I—new? Of course, he's just using me. And as all I want is a fling, that's just fine with me." She grinned at both boys, reaching to pinch their cheeks. "You two are so cute when you're overprotective."
Scorpius swatted her hand away, returning his attention to the potions essay that was due the next day. "You owe me a knut, Potter," he said as an afterthought.
Now Rose's dark eyes were flashing dangerously. "You bet on me?" she asked in a slow tone.
Both boys eyes widened perceptibly and began moving away from the irate red head. "If it's any consolation," Albus offered, hands up in an innocent gesture, "we hexed Flint for what he said about this development…"
It wasn't but, lucky for Al and Scorpius, the majority of her rage was taken out on revenge against the Slytherin seventh year once she heard just what he'd said. The two Ravenclaw boys were just glad to escape with the majority of their pride in tact.
Seventh Year
Rose threw down her book and get out an aggravated growl. "That's it, that's it! These damn N.E.W.T.s are trying to drive me insane!" She rubbed her eyes and slouched into the chair. "And I think they're succeeding…"
Al, who was sitting on a loveseat beside her with his girlfriend of over a year, Karen, gave her hand a comforting pat. "Don't worry," he said easily. "They're taking us all with you."
"Yeah," Lucy agreed from the other side of Karen with a sigh. "We'll all have brilliant company in St. Mungo's."
Standing up and stretching, Rose began collecting her books and parchment. "I should probably get back to the Head's Common Room before I really am committed," she told the others. "Same time tomorrow?"
Karen nodded, smiling at her friend. "Scorpius said he'd bring snacks, too," she said with thinly veiled excitement.
Absentmindedly, Rose frowned. Where was Scorpius, anyway? Al had muttered some excuse but she couldn't recall what he'd said now. She had a fleeting thought that he had snuck out to meet some chit but that thought was quickly quashed, if only to maintain her sanity. "He only knows that trick because I showed him," she tossed out, joining the conversation again with a small smile. "See you all tomorrow."
Her housemates called various good-byes as she headed out of the tower. She yawned as she wandered down the steps at a lazy pace, hitching her bag higher onto her shoulder. Another yawn had her colliding with a wall.
A wall that caught her with a grunt?
Looking up, she saw Scorpius peering down at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. "Better watch where you're going, Rose," he teased, helping her straighten again before releasing her. (Strangely, she felt cold when he did.) "Next time you might hit someone with worse reflexes."
"Lucky I ran into the Ravenclaw seeker then, isn't it?" she tossed back with a grin, shrugging off her odd feelings. "Speaking of—where have you been hiding yourself? Don't you know we have N.E.W.T.s to be studying for?"
He gave a dramatic gasp complete with over the top gesticulation. "You don't say! Well, damn, I wish I'd known sooner…"
Rose socked him in the shoulder none too gently. "I'm so pleased you're finally learning the finer points of sarcasm," she commented dryly, "but I never would've spent so much time teaching you if I'd known you'd use it against me."
Holding his hands up in surrender, Scorpius smiled genuinely. "I was down in the dungeons tutoring Callie Warrington in Potions."
For some reason, she felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her. "Oh." She forced a smile, though it was more of a quirk of her mouth, really. "What'd you get from her for that?"
Scorpius shrugged. "Nothing. Professor Hobskins asked me to, since I've got such an aptitude for it."
And because you like her, was Rose's irrational thought, not that she'd admit that. Or say it aloud. Instead, she smirked dangerously. "Figures. You never could deny a compliment to your vanity." There was a distinct undercurrent of anger in her tone, which took away from the teasing nature of their conversation.
Unamused, he frowned at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Rose?"
"Figure it out yourself," she shot back, voice raising just a hair. "I can't stand to be in this stairwell another moment—your ego is suffocating me!" Then she turned and raced off, ignoring his shouts echoing after her.
Furious tears raced down her cheeks and she had no idea why. Her dad had always claimed her mum was crazy but never before had Rose felt so completely out of control of her person. If this was growing up, she wanted no part of it. She had no idea why she felt this way; what it meant. No idea why she'd overreacted so totally and completely at someone she now considered a valued friend. None of it made sense.
It wasn't until she was back in the Head's common room, bawling her eyes out that the truth revealed itself. She fancied Scorpius Malfoy.
"Fuck."
Graduation
Despite Al's questions and prodding (especially after he and Karen broke up), Rose continued to make excuses about why she was so scarce their last months at Hogwarts. She claimed Head duties and studying—anything to avoid the Ravenclaw common room. Anything to avoid Scorpius.
She knew she should apologize—it wasn't his fault she'd gone off her rocker and had a minor meltdown at him—but her pride and humiliation was just great enough to keep that from happening. He didn't seem too keen on seeing her, either, so she figured it was mutually beneficial.
Soon enough, her time at Hogwarts came to a quiet, if anti-climatic, close.
To celebrate their achievement of matriculation, there was a lovely ceremony during which Rose tried desperately not to fall asleep. It wasn't that it was boring, really, she was just seated between two dreadfully dull people. It was moments like these that she longed for Al, Karen or Lucy's company. Even Scorpius would almost be welcome. Well, maybe not.
They received their magical diplomas, marching up one at a time so parents could take pictures and cry. Both of Rose's parents had glistening gazes as they watched her, though her mother was more outright in her emotion. It was all very lovely. Once it was all over, Rose put up with the dull conversation and generic congratulations for as long as she was able.
When her tolerance was reached, though, she made her brilliant escape. Racing from the magically altered Quidditch pitch, she took refuge by the greenhouse. She knew she should spend her time saying farewell to classmates and the like but it wasn't like the wizarding community was so overly large she'd really lose touch with those she cared about.
Feeling more exhausted than she remembered, Rose lay back in the prickly grass and gazed up at the clouds in the sky. The sun felt lovely on her face and she sighed contently, closing her eyes. They opened again when a shadow fell over her. There, towering above her in all his spiky pale blond glory, was none other than Scorpius himself.
Rose immediately sat up, ignoring the way her stomach dropped. "Hi," she said quietly, looking down at her hands.
Sitting beside her, Scorpius didn't reply at first. He glanced at her, then looked away. He repeated the process a few times. Finally, he settled for looking over her shoulder at the castle. "You should have never been nice to me at all," he commented casually, as if they were discussing the weather.
"What?" Rose spluttered, too surprised to remember to be mortified. She looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.
Scorpius gave her the famously condescending Malfoy look. "If you'd never been nice," he explained slowly, "then I wouldn't have missed you when you went all lionel richie on me."
Temper rising, Rose glared ferociously at him. "I did not go lionel richie on you," she hissed angrily. "And you—you have no idea what you're talking about!"
"Then enlighten me, please," he retorted, arms crossed. "I think you owe me that much."
Rose felt herself deflate. "I-I can't," she stuttered, looking away from his icy gaze. She wanted to say more—to apologize but the words wouldn't come.
Jaw clenched, Scorpius shook his head. "That's not good enough, Rose. You may not be a Gryffindor but I'm not going to let you take the cowardly way out. You're better than that."
"I'm sorry," she whispered to her lap.
There was a long pause before he replied. "Fine. Consider this friendship dissolved." He started to rise but Rose latched onto his wrist. He growled in frustration. "Rose—"
She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. Kneeling, she moved her hand to cup his cheek and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. It was warm and sweet and made her stomach flutter in a way it never had before.
When she pulled away, there were tears in her eyes. "Now do you understand?"
"No," Scorpius said, leaping to his feet. He began to pace furiously in front of her, running an agitated hand through his hair. "You-you can't just…" Suddenly he stopped and faced her, gesturing wildly between them. "That doesn't fix this."
Rose nodded solemnly. "I know." She should've never done it. She should've let him walk away, friendship be damned. But if she was going to lose him anyway, her gut had told her to just go for it. It would be too ironic otherwise. Unfortunately, now she just wanted to crawl in a hole and hide until the whole thing was forgotten.
He was pacing again, brows furrowed. "Did Albus tell you? I told him about my feelings in confidence!" He began to slow, fixing her with a serious look. "You can't just use people, Rose. You can't kiss me when you know it means more to me than you."
"What are you on about?" she asked incredulously. "I was trying to—" Well, hell, it wasn't like she was going to escape this with her dignity in tact. "I fancy you, you prat! Why do you think I reacted like a complete nutter when I found out you were tutoring Callie? Why do you think I couldn't muster up an apology? I was embarrassed! I knew you wouldn't feel the same. I knew it would ruin our friendship. And look at that—it did!" Rose wiped her eyes and tried to pull forth all her remaining stubbornness. "Ugh! I should have never—"
It was right about then that Scorpius cut her off with another kiss. This one was hot and urgent and caught her completely off guard. When he pulled away, she blinked up at him in surprise. "I've fancied you ever since the first time I saw you angry." He smiled. It was just a little bashful and completely lovely. "You're beautiful when you're angry."
Rose's cheeks were warm with flush, but she shot him a dubious expression. "Then why did you ask me to set you up with Lucy?"
"Well, I could hardly expect you to want to date me when you were so keen on hating me, could I?" he pointed out. "So I put those thoughts out of my mind."
Fair enough. "But what about when we became friends?" she pressed.
Scorpius had the good grace to look abashed. "Would you believe I didn't want to ruin our friendship, either?"
Now Rose laughed. It seemed like she hadn't smiled—really smiled in a long time. It felt lovely. "We really are quite the pair, aren't we?"
He took her hand in his and gave it a kiss. "Yes, we are." There was more in his words, though, than a simple agreement.
Needless to say, when Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy returned to the graduation celebratory chaos hand-in-hand, more than one parent blanched. Albus, however, grinned proudly at his friends. And Harry thanked Ginny for waiting to give him a daughter.
09. fallen angels at my feet; whispered voices at my ear
Notes: This story is a work-in-progress chapter thing. I was somewhat inspired by the style of a book called Catfish and Mandala where the story is told in three ways--the present narrative, memories from the past and stories about the protagonist's family he wasn't present for. With that in mind, this Untitled Ghost Story Thing is going to be told similarly. There will be present narrative, memories from the past and stories about how the ghosts the protagonist sees lived/died. This here is the first bit I wrote and pretty unedited. Also, I'm not sure I like that it's in second person present tense as the other two chapter types are in third person past tense (for now, anyway).
Past (1)
It's late and even though you told yourself you'd be asleep by eleven, that time's long since passed. You know you could punish yourself but having to be at work by eight in the morning will be punishment enough and you know it. You'll be lucky if you don't drag all day and, since you work with elementary school aged children, that means you're almost guaranteed to be wrecked by three.
None of that matters now, though. You're in the zone. And, even though it's just a hobby to you now, you know that someday this art thing could be a career. (Well, really, you dream that it will be, hope that it could be and think it probably won't be. But that's neither here nor there.) You've even sold a couple paintings in your time but that was back when you lived in the suburbs. Here in the city, things aren't quite the same.
The real problem with working late is how tired you get. There are dark circles under your eyes, which will still be present tomorrow, you're certain. You've been fighting yawns for the past half hour, but you love the subject of your latest work so much that stopping is simply inconceivable to you. You don't so much want to finish as need to. His passing hit you hard and this is the only way you know how to cope. (Though you'd give up every iota of your talent if you could have him back.)
Those are the thoughts that make your heart break all over again. There's still a part of you that doesn't believe it's true—that he's really gone. He wasn't just a grandfather to you, is the thing. He was the man who showed you what caring really looked like. Sure, he was flawed—who isn't?—but he was also good. Good in the way that you (and your aunt and grandmother) aren't. Good like your mom and younger brother.
He did things like volunteer with Planned Parenthood and work for pro-choice legislation. When you asked about it once, he was surprised. "Why wouldn't I?" he'd asked you. "I have a sister, a wife, two daughters and a granddaughter. Almost everyone I love the most is a woman. I want them to have the same rights and education as men." Those words touched you like you'd never been touched before. They comfort you when you think about your dream man, wherever he may be.
"Do they really?" You swear that you can hear him asking the question in your minds eye. "Angel, you never told me that…"
It's only when he says his nickname for you—Angel—that you realize it's not in your head. The grip on your paint brush and mug of cocoa tightens and, slowly, you turn in your swivel chair. You've braced yourself for whatever you may see but, still, the sight of your grandfather standing before you with a pensive expression is shocking enough to make you drop both the brush and mug. The ceramic shatters when it hits the floor but you barely notice. "Pop-pop?" you whisper, voice uncharacteristically timid as you reach toward the image in front of you.
"Jelly!" the loud voice from the master bedroom shocks you out of your reverie and you promptly fall off your chair. "It's after midnight, could you please keep it down! Some of us care if we do good work at our jobs."
From the heap of limbs that is your new position, you scowl but don't respond with the witty retort just begging to be hollered back. You might hate your roommate (with a violent burning passion) but he is the best friend of the sweetest ex-boyfriend you ever had. Moreover, he did let you stay your first few months rent free.
Suddenly, remembering your grandfather, your eyes snap back to where he stood. But he's not there any longer. You wonder if that anchovy and artichoke pizza was a mistake because surely you didn't actually see your deceased grandfather standing in the middle of the room. You decide you must still be reeling from the funeral and all the hectic family time you suffered the week before.
Sighing, you clean up the mess that is your ex-favorite mug and begin packing up your supplies. If nothing else, you know that it really is time you head to bed. Hallucinations and angry roommates aside, you don't want to break anymore of your favorite things. And you know how clumsy you get when you're tired. Still, there's a pang in your chest when you close your eyes because you can still see him standing there, smiling just a little as he looks down at you with love in his eyes.
When you finally fall asleep, you're crying and it isn't the first time that week. Deep down, you know it won't be the last, either.
Past (1)
It's late and even though you told yourself you'd be asleep by eleven, that time's long since passed. You know you could punish yourself but having to be at work by eight in the morning will be punishment enough and you know it. You'll be lucky if you don't drag all day and, since you work with elementary school aged children, that means you're almost guaranteed to be wrecked by three.
None of that matters now, though. You're in the zone. And, even though it's just a hobby to you now, you know that someday this art thing could be a career. (Well, really, you dream that it will be, hope that it could be and think it probably won't be. But that's neither here nor there.) You've even sold a couple paintings in your time but that was back when you lived in the suburbs. Here in the city, things aren't quite the same.
The real problem with working late is how tired you get. There are dark circles under your eyes, which will still be present tomorrow, you're certain. You've been fighting yawns for the past half hour, but you love the subject of your latest work so much that stopping is simply inconceivable to you. You don't so much want to finish as need to. His passing hit you hard and this is the only way you know how to cope. (Though you'd give up every iota of your talent if you could have him back.)
Those are the thoughts that make your heart break all over again. There's still a part of you that doesn't believe it's true—that he's really gone. He wasn't just a grandfather to you, is the thing. He was the man who showed you what caring really looked like. Sure, he was flawed—who isn't?—but he was also good. Good in the way that you (and your aunt and grandmother) aren't. Good like your mom and younger brother.
He did things like volunteer with Planned Parenthood and work for pro-choice legislation. When you asked about it once, he was surprised. "Why wouldn't I?" he'd asked you. "I have a sister, a wife, two daughters and a granddaughter. Almost everyone I love the most is a woman. I want them to have the same rights and education as men." Those words touched you like you'd never been touched before. They comfort you when you think about your dream man, wherever he may be.
"Do they really?" You swear that you can hear him asking the question in your minds eye. "Angel, you never told me that…"
It's only when he says his nickname for you—Angel—that you realize it's not in your head. The grip on your paint brush and mug of cocoa tightens and, slowly, you turn in your swivel chair. You've braced yourself for whatever you may see but, still, the sight of your grandfather standing before you with a pensive expression is shocking enough to make you drop both the brush and mug. The ceramic shatters when it hits the floor but you barely notice. "Pop-pop?" you whisper, voice uncharacteristically timid as you reach toward the image in front of you.
"Jelly!" the loud voice from the master bedroom shocks you out of your reverie and you promptly fall off your chair. "It's after midnight, could you please keep it down! Some of us care if we do good work at our jobs."
From the heap of limbs that is your new position, you scowl but don't respond with the witty retort just begging to be hollered back. You might hate your roommate (with a violent burning passion) but he is the best friend of the sweetest ex-boyfriend you ever had. Moreover, he did let you stay your first few months rent free.
Suddenly, remembering your grandfather, your eyes snap back to where he stood. But he's not there any longer. You wonder if that anchovy and artichoke pizza was a mistake because surely you didn't actually see your deceased grandfather standing in the middle of the room. You decide you must still be reeling from the funeral and all the hectic family time you suffered the week before.
Sighing, you clean up the mess that is your ex-favorite mug and begin packing up your supplies. If nothing else, you know that it really is time you head to bed. Hallucinations and angry roommates aside, you don't want to break anymore of your favorite things. And you know how clumsy you get when you're tired. Still, there's a pang in your chest when you close your eyes because you can still see him standing there, smiling just a little as he looks down at you with love in his eyes.
When you finally fall asleep, you're crying and it isn't the first time that week. Deep down, you know it won't be the last, either.
Friday, April 10, 2009
08. and as the years go by; boys, our friendship will never die
Notes: So, I have to admit, I was pretty moved by the ads for Benton (and Carol's) return to ER. But I always really liked Carter and Chen's friendship, so I wrote a little something before that episode about what I thought it'd be like if she returned, too. Because it was prior to the episode's airing, there are a few canon mistakes (most notably, the location of Dr. Carter). However, since it's basically AU territory (though only slightly), I forgive myself. ;) It's not a romance, just a nice friendship fic about the ER family that I remember.
Disclaimer: Do not own ER. All rights are solely those of NBC or whoever owns/produces the show. Please do not sue.
It's been the better side of five years since Jing-Mei Chen stepped through the doors of Chicago's County General hospital. It only figures that when she finally returns to the place she learned to be a doctor, she does it with the same brazen attitude she carried the first time she returned after a long absence.
Passing the threshold, she stalls momentarily. All the faces she doesn't recognize stun her—because it's so different but still the same, too. That's the emergency room, though; always changing, always in flux. And, with that thought, she picks up her pace again.
Spotting a familiar face, she marches straight to him. "Jerry," is her only greeting, face tight and serious. This isn't a time for pleasantries. She's on a mission—one that predicates everything, even politeness.
The affable admit attendant gapes at her for a moment, obviously surprised by her sudden appearance, before a familiar smile falls into place. "Dr. Chen, what brings you back to County?" he inquires in his typical friendly fashion.
She rolls her eyes. As if they both don't already know. "Jerry, where's Carter?"
His smile is instantly replaced by a worried expression, hidden partially by his ridiculous beard. "He's been given a room in the ICU."
With a nod, Jing-Mei is about to make the short walk upstairs but pauses. She has always been determined and headstrong but this—this isn't something she can just plow through, no matter how much she may want to. "How is he, Jerry?" she asks, concern leaking into her tone.
Jerry meets her gaze evenly and she doesn't miss the sadness in his eyes. "Unless he gets a kidney, he hasn't got long." He shrugs, shoulders hunched. "Maybe a few weeks if he's lucky."
Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she nods again. "Thanks, Jerry," she say, a ghost of a smile on her face. "And—it's good to see you." Because it is and she probably owes him the courtesy of saying so. She turns on her heal, then, and marches toward the elevators. She still has her mission, after all.
Cowardly, that's how Jing-Mei feels. She's been standing outside the room belonging to Dr. John Truman Carter III for a good ten minutes and is no closer to entering than when the nurse pointed it out to her upon her arrival.
It's ironic, she thinks. She spent the entire train ride from Cleveland psyching up for this moment and now that she's arrived, she's stuck in her head. Second-guessing herself and what she's even doing there. Because it's John. (She wouldn't have come for anyone else. Except for Greg and she really missed the boat with that one. But now isn't the time for thinking about that.)
The problem is, she still doesn't know what to say. He's always had such an easy way about him (not like her at all) and now… now they're different—older, maybe wiser if they're lucky—but what does that really mean? She has no idea. Just like with her internship at County, she's starting to realize that all the prepping the world isn't ever going to mean she's ready.
Biting her lip, she takes a deep breath and pushes her way into the room. John is there, of course, lying in the ridiculously white bed and looking paler than she ever remembers him being. Christ, he looks worse than when he was a med addicted junkie.
And just like that, reality crashes down around Jing-Mei. She doesn't move or speak, her eyes locked on his prone figure.
She didn't know how long she stands there before John's eyes flutter open. When they do, though, she can practically feel time starting again. Despite the obvious pain he's in, he smiles at her. "Deb," he says, knowing she hates the nickname and loves the familiarity, "long time no see."
"John," she replies, mouth dry and eyes drier, "it's been a while." She tries to smile but it's pained, and she knows it. There's a moment of (not entirely comfortable) silence between them as their eyes meet and she looks away first. Taking a breath, she dives right in. "You could've called." She looks at him again, hurt. "I would've come."
John's smiling, though. It's sort of bittersweet, she thinks, and she doesn't like that. It feels too much like he's resigned—like he's given up. "I know," he tells her and she believes him. "Got a long line of people who probably would've come if I called." And she knows who he means—Peter, Susan, Kerry, Abby and Anna to name a few. They weren't just co-workers here, they were a family.
Family. It still hurts her to think. Because it reminds her of all she lost—and all she gave up. She ignores those feelings and takes his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over the edges of tape holding a needle in place. "They would," she assures him. And she is sure. She's there, after all, and she's always considered herself tenaciously stubborn.
He nods, though she isn't sure if he's dismissing her or agreeing. "But after everything with Mark—" here, she winces a little, "I didn't want to put them through that again." He catches her eye and gives her hand a weak squeeze. "I don't want you to have to—"
"You're going to be fine, John," she interrupts, mostly because it feels like the right thing to say. She knows his prospects aren't quite end stage yet but they also aren't anything to be overly optimistic about, either. Still, he didn't survive everything he's survived over the years just to die now. He's got many more years ahead of him and far too much potential to be taken now. It's just fact—it has to be.
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he pushes himself up on one elbow and gives her a full once over. His expression is shrewd and she knows what's coming next. "Deb, how'd you—?"
Again, she doesn't let him finish. "Does it really matter?" she asks him, eyebrows raising high with the question. She moves her hand from his grasp to his shoulder. "You were there for me more times than I can count," she continues, eyes glittering just a little with the memories; "let me be here for you this time." She can see he wants to object and she squeezes his shoulder. "Please, John. Let me do this."
This is important to her. Throughout her pregnancy and with her father, he was there. Her rock. Even when she quit, his memory kept her grounded. And, despite what she likes to believe about her abilities, she's never felt like she's fully reciprocated. But this time—this time, she's going to do her damnedest to hold strong. To be his rock for a change.
He deserves at least that much. He deserves the support of those who care about him.
Jing-Mei isn't the least bit surprised to see Peter Benton when she returns from one of her numerous coffee runs. She's never been particularly close to the surgeon, but she acutely remembers the way Peter handled himself when John was losing to his addiction. More than that, though, she remembers the way John looked at Peter that night. It's something that always stuck with her.
"Dr. Benton," she says, alerting him to her presence. Her voice is low so as not to wake John but it carries over the beeping of the various machines in the room. She can't think of how to continue, so she just leaves it there.
Peter has that arrogant amused expression on his face and it's enough to remind her what she hasn't missed about him. "Chen," he returns easily. "Thought you quit this place."
Nodding absently, she moves closer to John. Her eyes sometimes play tricks and she wants to be sure everything is as well as it can be. "I did. I'm here for John." Her gaze flicks over to Peter and she gives him a pointed look. "Just like you."
It's the truth and he doesn't argue with it. "Haleh call you, too?" he questions instead, obviously curious.
"Chuny, actually," she replies. She still isn't sure how the nurse knew where to find her (maybe Greg's brother?), but she doesn't care. She's just grateful she did.
Since her answer doesn't require a response, they lapse into silence. They're an unlikely pair but both have their attention trained on the sleeping Carter heir, so the oddness is lost on them.
After a spell, Peter stands and stretches. "Think I'll get some coffee," he comments off-handedly. "You need a refill?" She's almost surprised by the courtesy—almost but not quite. (Doctor's bedside manner and all that.)
His tone has her smiling a little. "No, thank you," she replies because 1) she still has half a cup left, 2) it tastes as stale and disgusting as when she worked there, and 3) if she has any more caffeine, she'll probably have to run laps around the hospital later. It's still a nice gesture, though, and she thinks more than his hair cut and her job title have changed.
Which, actually, worries her a little. What does this change mean for John? Could he be in more danger than she originally thought? She doesn't think so—she's still a doctor in her own right, after all, capable of reading his charts and diagnosing his symptoms—but there's always the chance…
No, no. She's not thinking that way. This is only temporary until John finds his donor. He's her rock and she still needs him, even if it's only to know that he's out there holding strong. She'll do it for the time being (she's always been good at picking up his slack), but she won't reconcile herself to having to hold up without him. Not yet.
Not ever if she has her way.
It's a full three days before Jing-Mei finally confronts Peter about his continued presence. It's not that she thinks he has any ulterior motives—quite the opposite, really—but John's condition is in steady (if slow) decline and she refuses to just stand by for any longer. That's not the way she's built. It's not how she operates. Period.
"What the hell are you doing here, Peter?" she asks him outside of John's room as he returns from a coffee refill.
He's obviously not expecting her ambush because he looks torn between confusion and irritation by it. "What are you talking about, Chen?" he responds brusquely, irritation clearly winning the battle.
She points toward the room, eyes angry slits. "You've been here for three days!" Her hands move to her hips. "When are you going to do something already?"
Now he looks more confused than frustrated. "Do?" he repeats, brows furrowed. "What, you think I'm just sitting on a kidney or something?"
Rolling her eyes, she growls a little in frustration. "Of course not," she snaps.
Peter crosses his arms, one brow raised in a way that again reminds her why she loathed being his intern. Arrogant ass. "Then what is it?"
There's a pregnant pause between them until she suddenly throws her hands up in the air. "I don't know!" she cries finally and her expression cracks. She holds her ground, though, refusing to be cowed. "But you have to fix him, Peter."
His face softens and he puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. It's then that she realizes she's crying. "It doesn't work that way, Jing-Mei," he tells her, much calmer than he has any right to be. "You know that."
She shrugs off his hand and crosses her arms, trying to be angry again. Anger is safe. "I don't know that," she says, shaking her head a bit wildly. "Don't tell me I know that!"
"Jing-Mei…"
"Damn it, Peter, you save him!" she cries suddenly, interrupting whatever he'd been planning to say to placate her. She shoves his shoulder, her own shaking with repressed sobs. "You have to!"
His hands are on his head and he looks almost as distressed as she feels. "I don't know if I can!" he shouts back, a pained expression on his face.
She can tell it hurts him to admit it, but she doesn't care. "You have to, Peter," she pleads, visibly deflating. Her eyes are wide and filled with an innocence she doesn't normally possess. "I know you; that's what you do for him—what you've always done!"
There's an apology written all over his face but he doesn't say the words. (Not his style.) "He's not my student anymore, Jing-Mei," he says instead, voice tight with unexpressed emotions. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. "And there isn't anything anyone can do without a kidney."
"I know," she admits quietly, gaze dropping to the floor.
They're both silent, lost in thought, until she breaks it with a sniffle. A loud sniffle.
Eyes shining, she turns to him again. "I'm just… it's so…" She bites her lip, then the bullet. "I don't know what I'd do without him." And it's true. Because she needs him—period.
Peter pulls her into a hug, uncharacteristic but comforting. "Me either," he murmurs above her head.
A few tears leak out and she sniffles again, wiping her cheeks behind his back. "Yeah." They stay like that for longer than either will admit later.
If there's one thing people know about Jing-Mei, it's her dedication to the job. She's always tried for first (because second place is the first loser). And, even though she doesn't have anything to prove to anyone anymore (except herself, of course), she's still driven. So driven, in fact, that she's in line to be Chief of Medicine at her hospital.
It's not decided yet, though, and she knows it will be (in a way she does not want) if she stays in Chicago too much longer. She's torn between her loyalty to John and the aspirations she has in the life she's built for herself since leaving. In the end, it's really no contest. She sits beside John and knows she'll never begrudge him for her choice to stay until they find a kidney. (Because they will, damn it.)
But he's perceptive—always has been. And he doesn't miss the terse conversations she has about PTO and her career just outside his room. Eventually he confronts her and insists she go back home. She tries to convince him it's no big deal—that she wants to stay and he shouldn't be alone, anyway—but he won't hear it. He has rebuttals for all her arguments.
And suddenly she's in his room with her tiny suitcase and a train ticket back to her life, not sure what to say. Not good-bye—that's too final. "It's good to see you," is what she settles on eventually, kissing his cheek gently and giving his hand a squeeze. She smiles teasingly and adds, "Maybe next time you'll even get out of bed."
"I'll do my best," he promises and she believes him. He gives her a squeeze back and they share a smile.
Then she turns to Peter, giving him a quick (if awkward) hug. "Look after him," she instructs sternly, tossing a teasing look at John. She sobers quickly, meeting the surgeon's gaze. "And let me know…" she trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence. She can only think of negative ways to go from there and that's not the attitude she wants to leave with.
Peter places a hand on her shoulder and smiles. "I'll keep you updated."
Visibly relieved, Jing-Mei nods. "Thank you." She picks up her bag and shrugs. "I guess I better get going. I'll call you tonight, John, okay?" Partly to let him know she's arrived home safely and partly because she still feels horribly guilty for leaving.
He's smiling from his bed and raises a hand in a wave. "Sounds good." She's still lingering, though, so he makes a shooing motion. "Go on, Deb, or you'll miss you're train." She moves to the door but hesitates again. "I'll see you soon," he adds for assurance.
She smiles, then, and nods. "See you soon," she replies as she finally leaves the room. And, for the first time since she arrived, she believes it. It may not be a kidney but it's enough to get her home.
Disclaimer: Do not own ER. All rights are solely those of NBC or whoever owns/produces the show. Please do not sue.
then is heard no more
It's been the better side of five years since Jing-Mei Chen stepped through the doors of Chicago's County General hospital. It only figures that when she finally returns to the place she learned to be a doctor, she does it with the same brazen attitude she carried the first time she returned after a long absence.
Passing the threshold, she stalls momentarily. All the faces she doesn't recognize stun her—because it's so different but still the same, too. That's the emergency room, though; always changing, always in flux. And, with that thought, she picks up her pace again.
Spotting a familiar face, she marches straight to him. "Jerry," is her only greeting, face tight and serious. This isn't a time for pleasantries. She's on a mission—one that predicates everything, even politeness.
The affable admit attendant gapes at her for a moment, obviously surprised by her sudden appearance, before a familiar smile falls into place. "Dr. Chen, what brings you back to County?" he inquires in his typical friendly fashion.
She rolls her eyes. As if they both don't already know. "Jerry, where's Carter?"
His smile is instantly replaced by a worried expression, hidden partially by his ridiculous beard. "He's been given a room in the ICU."
With a nod, Jing-Mei is about to make the short walk upstairs but pauses. She has always been determined and headstrong but this—this isn't something she can just plow through, no matter how much she may want to. "How is he, Jerry?" she asks, concern leaking into her tone.
Jerry meets her gaze evenly and she doesn't miss the sadness in his eyes. "Unless he gets a kidney, he hasn't got long." He shrugs, shoulders hunched. "Maybe a few weeks if he's lucky."
Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she nods again. "Thanks, Jerry," she say, a ghost of a smile on her face. "And—it's good to see you." Because it is and she probably owes him the courtesy of saying so. She turns on her heal, then, and marches toward the elevators. She still has her mission, after all.
-------------------------------------------------
Cowardly, that's how Jing-Mei feels. She's been standing outside the room belonging to Dr. John Truman Carter III for a good ten minutes and is no closer to entering than when the nurse pointed it out to her upon her arrival.
It's ironic, she thinks. She spent the entire train ride from Cleveland psyching up for this moment and now that she's arrived, she's stuck in her head. Second-guessing herself and what she's even doing there. Because it's John. (She wouldn't have come for anyone else. Except for Greg and she really missed the boat with that one. But now isn't the time for thinking about that.)
The problem is, she still doesn't know what to say. He's always had such an easy way about him (not like her at all) and now… now they're different—older, maybe wiser if they're lucky—but what does that really mean? She has no idea. Just like with her internship at County, she's starting to realize that all the prepping the world isn't ever going to mean she's ready.
Biting her lip, she takes a deep breath and pushes her way into the room. John is there, of course, lying in the ridiculously white bed and looking paler than she ever remembers him being. Christ, he looks worse than when he was a med addicted junkie.
And just like that, reality crashes down around Jing-Mei. She doesn't move or speak, her eyes locked on his prone figure.
She didn't know how long she stands there before John's eyes flutter open. When they do, though, she can practically feel time starting again. Despite the obvious pain he's in, he smiles at her. "Deb," he says, knowing she hates the nickname and loves the familiarity, "long time no see."
"John," she replies, mouth dry and eyes drier, "it's been a while." She tries to smile but it's pained, and she knows it. There's a moment of (not entirely comfortable) silence between them as their eyes meet and she looks away first. Taking a breath, she dives right in. "You could've called." She looks at him again, hurt. "I would've come."
John's smiling, though. It's sort of bittersweet, she thinks, and she doesn't like that. It feels too much like he's resigned—like he's given up. "I know," he tells her and she believes him. "Got a long line of people who probably would've come if I called." And she knows who he means—Peter, Susan, Kerry, Abby and Anna to name a few. They weren't just co-workers here, they were a family.
Family. It still hurts her to think. Because it reminds her of all she lost—and all she gave up. She ignores those feelings and takes his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over the edges of tape holding a needle in place. "They would," she assures him. And she is sure. She's there, after all, and she's always considered herself tenaciously stubborn.
He nods, though she isn't sure if he's dismissing her or agreeing. "But after everything with Mark—" here, she winces a little, "I didn't want to put them through that again." He catches her eye and gives her hand a weak squeeze. "I don't want you to have to—"
"You're going to be fine, John," she interrupts, mostly because it feels like the right thing to say. She knows his prospects aren't quite end stage yet but they also aren't anything to be overly optimistic about, either. Still, he didn't survive everything he's survived over the years just to die now. He's got many more years ahead of him and far too much potential to be taken now. It's just fact—it has to be.
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he pushes himself up on one elbow and gives her a full once over. His expression is shrewd and she knows what's coming next. "Deb, how'd you—?"
Again, she doesn't let him finish. "Does it really matter?" she asks him, eyebrows raising high with the question. She moves her hand from his grasp to his shoulder. "You were there for me more times than I can count," she continues, eyes glittering just a little with the memories; "let me be here for you this time." She can see he wants to object and she squeezes his shoulder. "Please, John. Let me do this."
This is important to her. Throughout her pregnancy and with her father, he was there. Her rock. Even when she quit, his memory kept her grounded. And, despite what she likes to believe about her abilities, she's never felt like she's fully reciprocated. But this time—this time, she's going to do her damnedest to hold strong. To be his rock for a change.
He deserves at least that much. He deserves the support of those who care about him.
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Jing-Mei isn't the least bit surprised to see Peter Benton when she returns from one of her numerous coffee runs. She's never been particularly close to the surgeon, but she acutely remembers the way Peter handled himself when John was losing to his addiction. More than that, though, she remembers the way John looked at Peter that night. It's something that always stuck with her.
"Dr. Benton," she says, alerting him to her presence. Her voice is low so as not to wake John but it carries over the beeping of the various machines in the room. She can't think of how to continue, so she just leaves it there.
Peter has that arrogant amused expression on his face and it's enough to remind her what she hasn't missed about him. "Chen," he returns easily. "Thought you quit this place."
Nodding absently, she moves closer to John. Her eyes sometimes play tricks and she wants to be sure everything is as well as it can be. "I did. I'm here for John." Her gaze flicks over to Peter and she gives him a pointed look. "Just like you."
It's the truth and he doesn't argue with it. "Haleh call you, too?" he questions instead, obviously curious.
"Chuny, actually," she replies. She still isn't sure how the nurse knew where to find her (maybe Greg's brother?), but she doesn't care. She's just grateful she did.
Since her answer doesn't require a response, they lapse into silence. They're an unlikely pair but both have their attention trained on the sleeping Carter heir, so the oddness is lost on them.
After a spell, Peter stands and stretches. "Think I'll get some coffee," he comments off-handedly. "You need a refill?" She's almost surprised by the courtesy—almost but not quite. (Doctor's bedside manner and all that.)
His tone has her smiling a little. "No, thank you," she replies because 1) she still has half a cup left, 2) it tastes as stale and disgusting as when she worked there, and 3) if she has any more caffeine, she'll probably have to run laps around the hospital later. It's still a nice gesture, though, and she thinks more than his hair cut and her job title have changed.
Which, actually, worries her a little. What does this change mean for John? Could he be in more danger than she originally thought? She doesn't think so—she's still a doctor in her own right, after all, capable of reading his charts and diagnosing his symptoms—but there's always the chance…
No, no. She's not thinking that way. This is only temporary until John finds his donor. He's her rock and she still needs him, even if it's only to know that he's out there holding strong. She'll do it for the time being (she's always been good at picking up his slack), but she won't reconcile herself to having to hold up without him. Not yet.
Not ever if she has her way.
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It's a full three days before Jing-Mei finally confronts Peter about his continued presence. It's not that she thinks he has any ulterior motives—quite the opposite, really—but John's condition is in steady (if slow) decline and she refuses to just stand by for any longer. That's not the way she's built. It's not how she operates. Period.
"What the hell are you doing here, Peter?" she asks him outside of John's room as he returns from a coffee refill.
He's obviously not expecting her ambush because he looks torn between confusion and irritation by it. "What are you talking about, Chen?" he responds brusquely, irritation clearly winning the battle.
She points toward the room, eyes angry slits. "You've been here for three days!" Her hands move to her hips. "When are you going to do something already?"
Now he looks more confused than frustrated. "Do?" he repeats, brows furrowed. "What, you think I'm just sitting on a kidney or something?"
Rolling her eyes, she growls a little in frustration. "Of course not," she snaps.
Peter crosses his arms, one brow raised in a way that again reminds her why she loathed being his intern. Arrogant ass. "Then what is it?"
There's a pregnant pause between them until she suddenly throws her hands up in the air. "I don't know!" she cries finally and her expression cracks. She holds her ground, though, refusing to be cowed. "But you have to fix him, Peter."
His face softens and he puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. It's then that she realizes she's crying. "It doesn't work that way, Jing-Mei," he tells her, much calmer than he has any right to be. "You know that."
She shrugs off his hand and crosses her arms, trying to be angry again. Anger is safe. "I don't know that," she says, shaking her head a bit wildly. "Don't tell me I know that!"
"Jing-Mei…"
"Damn it, Peter, you save him!" she cries suddenly, interrupting whatever he'd been planning to say to placate her. She shoves his shoulder, her own shaking with repressed sobs. "You have to!"
His hands are on his head and he looks almost as distressed as she feels. "I don't know if I can!" he shouts back, a pained expression on his face.
She can tell it hurts him to admit it, but she doesn't care. "You have to, Peter," she pleads, visibly deflating. Her eyes are wide and filled with an innocence she doesn't normally possess. "I know you; that's what you do for him—what you've always done!"
There's an apology written all over his face but he doesn't say the words. (Not his style.) "He's not my student anymore, Jing-Mei," he says instead, voice tight with unexpressed emotions. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. "And there isn't anything anyone can do without a kidney."
"I know," she admits quietly, gaze dropping to the floor.
They're both silent, lost in thought, until she breaks it with a sniffle. A loud sniffle.
Eyes shining, she turns to him again. "I'm just… it's so…" She bites her lip, then the bullet. "I don't know what I'd do without him." And it's true. Because she needs him—period.
Peter pulls her into a hug, uncharacteristic but comforting. "Me either," he murmurs above her head.
A few tears leak out and she sniffles again, wiping her cheeks behind his back. "Yeah." They stay like that for longer than either will admit later.
-------------------------------------------------
If there's one thing people know about Jing-Mei, it's her dedication to the job. She's always tried for first (because second place is the first loser). And, even though she doesn't have anything to prove to anyone anymore (except herself, of course), she's still driven. So driven, in fact, that she's in line to be Chief of Medicine at her hospital.
It's not decided yet, though, and she knows it will be (in a way she does not want) if she stays in Chicago too much longer. She's torn between her loyalty to John and the aspirations she has in the life she's built for herself since leaving. In the end, it's really no contest. She sits beside John and knows she'll never begrudge him for her choice to stay until they find a kidney. (Because they will, damn it.)
But he's perceptive—always has been. And he doesn't miss the terse conversations she has about PTO and her career just outside his room. Eventually he confronts her and insists she go back home. She tries to convince him it's no big deal—that she wants to stay and he shouldn't be alone, anyway—but he won't hear it. He has rebuttals for all her arguments.
And suddenly she's in his room with her tiny suitcase and a train ticket back to her life, not sure what to say. Not good-bye—that's too final. "It's good to see you," is what she settles on eventually, kissing his cheek gently and giving his hand a squeeze. She smiles teasingly and adds, "Maybe next time you'll even get out of bed."
"I'll do my best," he promises and she believes him. He gives her a squeeze back and they share a smile.
Then she turns to Peter, giving him a quick (if awkward) hug. "Look after him," she instructs sternly, tossing a teasing look at John. She sobers quickly, meeting the surgeon's gaze. "And let me know…" she trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence. She can only think of negative ways to go from there and that's not the attitude she wants to leave with.
Peter places a hand on her shoulder and smiles. "I'll keep you updated."
Visibly relieved, Jing-Mei nods. "Thank you." She picks up her bag and shrugs. "I guess I better get going. I'll call you tonight, John, okay?" Partly to let him know she's arrived home safely and partly because she still feels horribly guilty for leaving.
He's smiling from his bed and raises a hand in a wave. "Sounds good." She's still lingering, though, so he makes a shooing motion. "Go on, Deb, or you'll miss you're train." She moves to the door but hesitates again. "I'll see you soon," he adds for assurance.
She smiles, then, and nods. "See you soon," she replies as she finally leaves the room. And, for the first time since she arrived, she believes it. It may not be a kidney but it's enough to get her home.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
07. sometimes that mountain you've been climbing is just a grain of sand
Notes: My first (technically second but first posted) NCIS story! Set during the, oh, second half or so of Hiatus Part II (some dialogue is taken directly from said episode). I should also note that it's almost entirely Ziva-centric and from her POV. After seeing the episode, I just had a plot bunny that wouldn't hop away until it was satisfied. Haven't come up with a brilliant title as of yet but I'm sure inspiration will hit at some point, possibly with the assistance of my beta editor.
Disclaimer: Do not own NCIS. All rights are solely those of CBS or whoever owns/produces the show. Please do not sue.
Most of the time, Ziva David wasn't one for reflection. It wasn't that she held a lot of regrets in her life (well, not exactly, anyway) but more that making the hard decisions weighed easier on her soul when they were made and then done with. Especially when those decisions were of life and death. She didn't mind, though—in fact, she liked it that way. Living as she did worked for her. It had for years.
Unfortunately, Gibbs losing his memory added a new weight on her. This one lay deep within her chest, making it hard to think. Hard to breathe. Hard to function. The only way she could ignore something so heavy was to pretend everything was okay. To pretend that she wasn't concerned for Gibbs (because he would be fine, so what was the point, yes?) and act as though everything was business as usual.
Deep down, she knew it was not business as usual. But if she was going to be of any use on the case, she had to act as if it was. It didn't matter if it bewildered Tony or McGee. It didn't matter if it angered Abby, though she could have done without the subsequent provocation. (Frustration like this leading to violence only made her crave more violence and without a proper outlet, well…)
But the truth was simple. The case was not getting solved. Tony knew it. McGee knew it. Abby knew it. Jenny knew it. Hell, even Ducky knew it. They needed Gibbs. There was no option left. And if there was one thing Ziva David was good at (besides being a Mossad officer), it was doing whatever needed to get done in order to have justice served. Apparently the others couldn't. So she would.
It wasn't hard to slip past the nurse's desk, despite the late hour, and she didn't have any difficulty finding Gibbs' room. She had heard the number often enough in the last few days. Her footsteps were a quiet tapping as she glided into the room. He looked peaceful where he lay and she wondered if remembering would take that away from him. Ziva shook it off. It was a risk she had to take.
Before she fully prepared herself for waking him, she touched his arm absentmindedly. It was not the sort of thing she usually did—her movements were usually methodical and calculated—and it surprised her when he reacted. Part of her had needed to know that the tubes were real, though. (He'd always seemed so immortal before…) That he was real. Just to be sure.
There was no recognition in his eyes when he looked at her. No spark of any kind. Her heart had lifted when he mentioned September 11th (an odd occurrence) but it was for naught. He didn't remember the day. It was a relief to see him moving and asking questions, even standing. This was all good. Good but not good enough. She needed more. She needed to find a way to reach him—the Gibbs she knew.
It was so frustrating! She could hear herself losing her temper. But maybe that was what he needed? Everybody else handled him with kid gloves. She did not own these gloves. And it worked! Even for a moment, she saw the stare. She could feel tears of joy forming in the corners of her eyes upon seeing it but he was still so agitated. He didn't remember.
That's when it hit her. She grabbed his hand and made him slap her head. It was so Gibbs, surely it would jog something in his mind. His eyes widened and she saw it. She could see his mind working. Like he almost remembered, but wasn't enough. It was then that she realized the truth. The truth she'd been hiding from herself. They needed Gibbs for the case, yes, but that was just an excuse.
All of this—all the rationalizing and ignoring and waiting. She did it to hide because, in truth, she needed him to remember as much as the rest of them. More, even. He was the only one who knew what really happened that night with Ari. The only one because he had been there. The reports were false. The story she told her father was a lie. Nobody else knew and if he couldn't remember…
Then the memory of that ultimate truth would be hers and hers alone. It would be her burden to carry without any hope of relief. She had never spoken of losing her brother and never cried save that first night (and even that was short-lived due mostly to shock) and now she might never have a chance. Not with the one person who knew what she'd really lost that night.
Would it still be real, then? If she was left alone to remember and she ignored it, it would be like it never happened. It was just one shot. One single shot perfectly timed and aimed. One shot that had so fundamentally changed her course in life, she barely recognized her former self. But if Gibbs couldn't remember… it would be like losing all she'd gained. She couldn't explain why but it felt true.
She was crying, now, but only barely. She knew what she had to do and she knew it would hurt. "Ari." His name and she could barely keep her composure. "Ari killed Kate." The look again. It was working. Something in his mind was clicking. Taking a breath, Ziva pushed forward, "And I—" She could feel the sobs catch in her throat. She'd never said it aloud before. She couldn't then.
But right now, here with Gibbs, it felt like she needed to. No matter how it hurt. It was time to speak the truth. Because he was the one person that she could do this with. And maybe… maybe they both needed it (if for different reasons). "I killed Ari."
It sounded strange to her ears and the tears were coming full strength now. Ziva couldn't remember the last time she'd cried—really cried like this. Not at Ari's funeral. Maybe at Tali's? And that had been many years ago. Her mind was a mess, and she knew that things would never be fixed if he didn't remember that moment. (If they even could be fixed at all.)
"Your brother."
Even in the haze of her mind, Ziva could feel relief wash over her. He was remembering—truly remembering. She had not told him that. "Yes," was all she managed to get out, though. It was an effort just to keep from breaking. She couldn't be weak; she was Mossad. But Gibbs was… he was… all the hope she had to assure her she hadn't killed Ari—her flesh and blood—for nothing.
"You killed your brother," Gibbs continued, slowly with growing certainty. "To save me."
There was no option for a verbal response now. Ziva was, as Tony would say, a 'hot mess'. She nodded as the last of her resolve broke. She was shaking and sobbing but the weight in her chest was beginning to lift. Gibbs wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly and petting her hair. It was something her father would not have done, but she was eternally grateful all the same.
Minutes passed before her sobs quieted to whimpers and then she was only sniffling as she extracted herself from the embrace she'd so desperately needed (not that she'd admit or otherwise acknowledge that fact, even under pain of death). After a few deep breaths, she met his gaze evenly. "Thank you," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear—the only sign of her discomfort.
Gibbs smiled a little, the way he always did when he was amused by his agents' antics, but chose not to comment. She was grateful for the reprieve. "So, Pin Pin Pula?" he asked instead, running a hand over his recently shortened hair and pulling a face. Ziva nodded. "Are you waiting for an invitation, Officer David? Find me some clothes!" He scowled. "I'm not going to headquarters in this gown."
Still visibly relieved, Ziva smirked a little. "Yes, Gibbs." She wiped her eyes quickly and blew her nose with a tissue before heading for the door.
"And find the doctor, would ya?" he called after her. "I don't wanna spend another minute in this damn room!"
Ziva smiled as she followed her boss's orders. Gibbs was back. And that was enough for her.
Disclaimer: Do not own NCIS. All rights are solely those of CBS or whoever owns/produces the show. Please do not sue.
Most of the time, Ziva David wasn't one for reflection. It wasn't that she held a lot of regrets in her life (well, not exactly, anyway) but more that making the hard decisions weighed easier on her soul when they were made and then done with. Especially when those decisions were of life and death. She didn't mind, though—in fact, she liked it that way. Living as she did worked for her. It had for years.
Unfortunately, Gibbs losing his memory added a new weight on her. This one lay deep within her chest, making it hard to think. Hard to breathe. Hard to function. The only way she could ignore something so heavy was to pretend everything was okay. To pretend that she wasn't concerned for Gibbs (because he would be fine, so what was the point, yes?) and act as though everything was business as usual.
Deep down, she knew it was not business as usual. But if she was going to be of any use on the case, she had to act as if it was. It didn't matter if it bewildered Tony or McGee. It didn't matter if it angered Abby, though she could have done without the subsequent provocation. (Frustration like this leading to violence only made her crave more violence and without a proper outlet, well…)
But the truth was simple. The case was not getting solved. Tony knew it. McGee knew it. Abby knew it. Jenny knew it. Hell, even Ducky knew it. They needed Gibbs. There was no option left. And if there was one thing Ziva David was good at (besides being a Mossad officer), it was doing whatever needed to get done in order to have justice served. Apparently the others couldn't. So she would.
It wasn't hard to slip past the nurse's desk, despite the late hour, and she didn't have any difficulty finding Gibbs' room. She had heard the number often enough in the last few days. Her footsteps were a quiet tapping as she glided into the room. He looked peaceful where he lay and she wondered if remembering would take that away from him. Ziva shook it off. It was a risk she had to take.
Before she fully prepared herself for waking him, she touched his arm absentmindedly. It was not the sort of thing she usually did—her movements were usually methodical and calculated—and it surprised her when he reacted. Part of her had needed to know that the tubes were real, though. (He'd always seemed so immortal before…) That he was real. Just to be sure.
There was no recognition in his eyes when he looked at her. No spark of any kind. Her heart had lifted when he mentioned September 11th (an odd occurrence) but it was for naught. He didn't remember the day. It was a relief to see him moving and asking questions, even standing. This was all good. Good but not good enough. She needed more. She needed to find a way to reach him—the Gibbs she knew.
It was so frustrating! She could hear herself losing her temper. But maybe that was what he needed? Everybody else handled him with kid gloves. She did not own these gloves. And it worked! Even for a moment, she saw the stare. She could feel tears of joy forming in the corners of her eyes upon seeing it but he was still so agitated. He didn't remember.
That's when it hit her. She grabbed his hand and made him slap her head. It was so Gibbs, surely it would jog something in his mind. His eyes widened and she saw it. She could see his mind working. Like he almost remembered, but wasn't enough. It was then that she realized the truth. The truth she'd been hiding from herself. They needed Gibbs for the case, yes, but that was just an excuse.
All of this—all the rationalizing and ignoring and waiting. She did it to hide because, in truth, she needed him to remember as much as the rest of them. More, even. He was the only one who knew what really happened that night with Ari. The only one because he had been there. The reports were false. The story she told her father was a lie. Nobody else knew and if he couldn't remember…
Then the memory of that ultimate truth would be hers and hers alone. It would be her burden to carry without any hope of relief. She had never spoken of losing her brother and never cried save that first night (and even that was short-lived due mostly to shock) and now she might never have a chance. Not with the one person who knew what she'd really lost that night.
Would it still be real, then? If she was left alone to remember and she ignored it, it would be like it never happened. It was just one shot. One single shot perfectly timed and aimed. One shot that had so fundamentally changed her course in life, she barely recognized her former self. But if Gibbs couldn't remember… it would be like losing all she'd gained. She couldn't explain why but it felt true.
She was crying, now, but only barely. She knew what she had to do and she knew it would hurt. "Ari." His name and she could barely keep her composure. "Ari killed Kate." The look again. It was working. Something in his mind was clicking. Taking a breath, Ziva pushed forward, "And I—" She could feel the sobs catch in her throat. She'd never said it aloud before. She couldn't then.
But right now, here with Gibbs, it felt like she needed to. No matter how it hurt. It was time to speak the truth. Because he was the one person that she could do this with. And maybe… maybe they both needed it (if for different reasons). "I killed Ari."
It sounded strange to her ears and the tears were coming full strength now. Ziva couldn't remember the last time she'd cried—really cried like this. Not at Ari's funeral. Maybe at Tali's? And that had been many years ago. Her mind was a mess, and she knew that things would never be fixed if he didn't remember that moment. (If they even could be fixed at all.)
"Your brother."
Even in the haze of her mind, Ziva could feel relief wash over her. He was remembering—truly remembering. She had not told him that. "Yes," was all she managed to get out, though. It was an effort just to keep from breaking. She couldn't be weak; she was Mossad. But Gibbs was… he was… all the hope she had to assure her she hadn't killed Ari—her flesh and blood—for nothing.
"You killed your brother," Gibbs continued, slowly with growing certainty. "To save me."
There was no option for a verbal response now. Ziva was, as Tony would say, a 'hot mess'. She nodded as the last of her resolve broke. She was shaking and sobbing but the weight in her chest was beginning to lift. Gibbs wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly and petting her hair. It was something her father would not have done, but she was eternally grateful all the same.
Minutes passed before her sobs quieted to whimpers and then she was only sniffling as she extracted herself from the embrace she'd so desperately needed (not that she'd admit or otherwise acknowledge that fact, even under pain of death). After a few deep breaths, she met his gaze evenly. "Thank you," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear—the only sign of her discomfort.
Gibbs smiled a little, the way he always did when he was amused by his agents' antics, but chose not to comment. She was grateful for the reprieve. "So, Pin Pin Pula?" he asked instead, running a hand over his recently shortened hair and pulling a face. Ziva nodded. "Are you waiting for an invitation, Officer David? Find me some clothes!" He scowled. "I'm not going to headquarters in this gown."
Still visibly relieved, Ziva smirked a little. "Yes, Gibbs." She wiped her eyes quickly and blew her nose with a tissue before heading for the door.
"And find the doctor, would ya?" he called after her. "I don't wanna spend another minute in this damn room!"
Ziva smiled as she followed her boss's orders. Gibbs was back. And that was enough for her.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
06. as they took his soul they stole his pride; as he faced the sun he cast no shadow
Notes: Another Dani fic in my quest to do FanFic100 with her. This one's set around Uncanny X-Men #503 (with the car reference coming from that title, as well). The woman Logan mentions in his memory was seen in the Wolverine: Origins arc of Wolverine v3 (confused yet?) but I made up the details about her, so any mistakes are mine alone. Didn't come up with a title for this one as of yet but it's still unedited, so perhaps more marination will breed results. Hope springs eternal and all that.
Disclaimer: Do not own the X-Men or any of their off-shoots. All rights are solely those of Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Please do not sue.
It's rare to find her hair in braids these days. Rarer still for her to pair them with feathers and a headband. She's often seen sporting one (the headband in particular) but all at once? For whatever reason, that's no longer her style.
It's odd, he thinks, after she fought so hard for her individuality that she'd move more toward the social norm. He's never asked her about it, though, and he doesn't think that will change any time soon. They're not close—never have been, and it's not in his nature to pry. He has enough secrets to respect the right of others to keep theirs.
Still, when the light hits her that day—the day that she chooses to once again done her braids, headband and feathers—he's struck by a memory. It's not a feeling he's accustomed to, even after the time that's passed since M-Day.
He doesn't realize he's staring until she glances his way. "Morning, Logan," she greets, lifting her mug of coffee and crossing to the table where he's sitting. She doesn't hesitate to take a section of the newspaper from the pile in front of him but that doesn't surprise him. She's never been the type to tread lightly and, more to the point, she's never been afraid of him. Apparently, more than just her power status would have to change before that did.
"Dani," he responds with a nod before returning to the sports section. Yesterday was not a good day in hockey for the Canucks and it isn't long before he tosses it aside, scowling. The rustle of turning pages has him looking her way again and there's another flash of memory. It tugs at his mind and he can't help but think it's important. Things are rarely so insistent otherwise.
She must feel his gaze because she flips the top of the paper down to look him in the eyes. "Something I can help you with?" she asks pointedly.
He isn't sure if it's curiosity or discomfort that has pushed her to speak—she's never been one to mince words or fill comfortable silences unnecessarily—but it doesn't really matter. His answer is the same either way: "No."
One eyebrow arches delicately and he blinks. Whatever she's thinking, she brushes it off because the next moment she's looking at her paper again. "Okay," she says simply. "Let me have the sports section when you're done."
It's almost refreshing, not being pushed and prodded about his feelings and sharing. Maybe a little disappointing, though he'd never admit that. Silently, he hands her the offensive section and picks up the world news instead.
It's silent between them for a few long minutes, nothing but papers turning and coffee being sipped to break the monotony. Normally, it'd be strange to find the room so empty but it's early still and a weekend, too. It's comfortable save the memories gnawing at him, begging to be remembered.
"You're hair," he comments suddenly, not even realizing he's spoken until she looks at him with confusion written on her face as plain as day. "You don't wear it like that anymore."
Her eyebrows are furrowed and he has the distinct impression she thinks he's crazy but, slowly, she nods. Her lips are pursed and he notices that they're not quite as plump as the set in his memories. Her eyes are wider, too, and hair longer. The face shape is similar, though, and the skin. Tan skin that he remembers in more ways than could be considered decent.
"I don't," she agrees finally, touching the ends almost self-consciously. Then she shrugs. "Tastes change; people change. All part of growing up, I guess."
He grunts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It sounds like something she's recited at least a dozen times but he isn't sure if he's disappointed because it's so very trite or because she didn't answer his unasked questions.
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "If you don't mind me asking, Logan, why the sudden interest?" From her tone, it's obvious she doesn't care if he does mind or not. When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, "Because, if you're looking for a new style, I have to tell you—I don't think this one is the real you."
"Ha-ha," he replies dryly, emphasizing each syllable. He waves her off, though, content to keep his personal thoughts just that—personal. "It's nothing."
She's holding her coffee with both hands as she rolls her eyes at him. "Right. And Shan likes boys." The sarcasm in her voice doesn't impress him (little does at his age) but the defiance in her gaze does.
He thinks if he hadn't had Kitty, he probably would've liked to work with her for her attitude alone. Well, her or Rahne—the wolf thing always has resonated with him.
Taking his silence to mean he isn't going to answer her, she shrugs. "None of my business." There's a slight undercurrent of something like frustration in her words, though he isn't certain if it's at him for not satisfying her curiosity or herself for being curious in the first place.
He decides to let it lie and quiet falls between them again. He's just making his way onto the local news section when she speaks again. "He told me he liked the braids," she whispers, eyes glued to the paper. There's a glazed sort of look in her eyes and he's sure she's not seeing any of the words in front of her. Then she turns to him. "Jimmy—James, I mean. Told me when we were students."
Suddenly, he understands. As a Valkyrie, she didn't wear them—she wouldn't have been able to. But when she came back and he'd moved on... she didn't go back. Didn't want him to think she was doing it for him. That explained the brief resurrection when she came back to teach for Xavier and subsequent disappearance when James returned to be part of the team again.
"You think I'm ridiculous," she mutters, face ashen as she again misinterprets his silence. "Well, you're right. It was just a stupid crush but I can't stop remembering whenever I—"
He places a hand on her arm and she cuts herself off, big brown eyes blinking up at him. "I don't think you're ridiculous, Dani," he assures her with a squeeze. "Trust me, I know all about holding onto things that other people have long forgotten."
Despite her grim expression, she chuckles. It's just a bit watery but he dismisses it. He's found that people (READ: women) tend to be more emotional during the early and late hours of the day.
Awkwardly, he releases her and moves his hand away to run through his hair. His movements are agitated but only slightly. Finally, he comes to a decision. If she can be honest with him about something that obviously still hurts her, then he can do the same. It's not like she's Emma, who'd use it against him later, or 'Ro who, well-meaning or not, would likely gossip to at least one other team member. She's Dani and even though they're not close and probably never will be, he feels he owes her this.
"I still can't remember her name," he starts, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "I've tried but..." He can feel her eyes on him but it's the feather in her hair that has his gaze. Almost without meaning to, he reaches toward it. "She always had a red feather in her hair, though. She was an Indian, like you—Ottawa, I think. And she loved to braid her hair."
Understanding dawns on her face. "You loved her." It isn't a question.
He suppresses a sigh and nods. "I think I did." It's so hard to remember but he genuinely believes that. The realization is more comforting than he would have expected.
She's smiling as she takes his hand in her hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. Then she plucks a red feather from her hair and hands it to him. He tries to wave her off but she insists, placing it in his palm and curling his fingers around it.
In that moment, the sun shining brightly behind her head like a halo, she looks so much like the phantom in his memory it nearly breaks his heart. But it doesn't and he forces a gruff smile, nodding. "Thank you."
There's a heaviness between them now and he knows they won't be able to end the conversation there without feeling awkward. She must feel it, too, because the next moment she's grinning in a way that is completely Dani and no one else. "Talk is cheap," she informs him cheerfully. "Thank me by letting me drive the Maserati."
It's enough to snap him out of it. "I don't think so," he says with a smirk.
She's pouting just a little. "Why not?" she presses, not giving him a real chance to answer. Her track record may be better than most of the X-Men (no trashed jets, for instance) but everybody knows that no one drives his car but him. "Come on, Logan..."
"No way, kid." She looks torn between amusement and objecting to the title, so he saves her the trouble of settling for a response by moving on. "But I will give you a ride. Anywhere you want... at one-eighty-five."
Now she's smiling again. "Deal." She's absentmindedly untying her braids, a triumphant look on her face. "Sam and Bobby are going to be so jealous."
He laughs a little, shaking his head. Partly because she's right—the Hayseed and Brazilian Rich Boy will undoubtedly be green with envy, even if they both have pretty sweet rides—and partly because she's successfully diffused the situation. He thinks she probably is a pretty good teacher-slash-mentor for the kids; not only is she a survivor but she's smart. She knows people, and she knows how to get what she wants. Apparently Summers knew what he was doing (this time, anyway).
Disclaimer: Do not own the X-Men or any of their off-shoots. All rights are solely those of Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Please do not sue.
It's rare to find her hair in braids these days. Rarer still for her to pair them with feathers and a headband. She's often seen sporting one (the headband in particular) but all at once? For whatever reason, that's no longer her style.
It's odd, he thinks, after she fought so hard for her individuality that she'd move more toward the social norm. He's never asked her about it, though, and he doesn't think that will change any time soon. They're not close—never have been, and it's not in his nature to pry. He has enough secrets to respect the right of others to keep theirs.
Still, when the light hits her that day—the day that she chooses to once again done her braids, headband and feathers—he's struck by a memory. It's not a feeling he's accustomed to, even after the time that's passed since M-Day.
He doesn't realize he's staring until she glances his way. "Morning, Logan," she greets, lifting her mug of coffee and crossing to the table where he's sitting. She doesn't hesitate to take a section of the newspaper from the pile in front of him but that doesn't surprise him. She's never been the type to tread lightly and, more to the point, she's never been afraid of him. Apparently, more than just her power status would have to change before that did.
"Dani," he responds with a nod before returning to the sports section. Yesterday was not a good day in hockey for the Canucks and it isn't long before he tosses it aside, scowling. The rustle of turning pages has him looking her way again and there's another flash of memory. It tugs at his mind and he can't help but think it's important. Things are rarely so insistent otherwise.
She must feel his gaze because she flips the top of the paper down to look him in the eyes. "Something I can help you with?" she asks pointedly.
He isn't sure if it's curiosity or discomfort that has pushed her to speak—she's never been one to mince words or fill comfortable silences unnecessarily—but it doesn't really matter. His answer is the same either way: "No."
One eyebrow arches delicately and he blinks. Whatever she's thinking, she brushes it off because the next moment she's looking at her paper again. "Okay," she says simply. "Let me have the sports section when you're done."
It's almost refreshing, not being pushed and prodded about his feelings and sharing. Maybe a little disappointing, though he'd never admit that. Silently, he hands her the offensive section and picks up the world news instead.
It's silent between them for a few long minutes, nothing but papers turning and coffee being sipped to break the monotony. Normally, it'd be strange to find the room so empty but it's early still and a weekend, too. It's comfortable save the memories gnawing at him, begging to be remembered.
"You're hair," he comments suddenly, not even realizing he's spoken until she looks at him with confusion written on her face as plain as day. "You don't wear it like that anymore."
Her eyebrows are furrowed and he has the distinct impression she thinks he's crazy but, slowly, she nods. Her lips are pursed and he notices that they're not quite as plump as the set in his memories. Her eyes are wider, too, and hair longer. The face shape is similar, though, and the skin. Tan skin that he remembers in more ways than could be considered decent.
"I don't," she agrees finally, touching the ends almost self-consciously. Then she shrugs. "Tastes change; people change. All part of growing up, I guess."
He grunts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It sounds like something she's recited at least a dozen times but he isn't sure if he's disappointed because it's so very trite or because she didn't answer his unasked questions.
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "If you don't mind me asking, Logan, why the sudden interest?" From her tone, it's obvious she doesn't care if he does mind or not. When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, "Because, if you're looking for a new style, I have to tell you—I don't think this one is the real you."
"Ha-ha," he replies dryly, emphasizing each syllable. He waves her off, though, content to keep his personal thoughts just that—personal. "It's nothing."
She's holding her coffee with both hands as she rolls her eyes at him. "Right. And Shan likes boys." The sarcasm in her voice doesn't impress him (little does at his age) but the defiance in her gaze does.
He thinks if he hadn't had Kitty, he probably would've liked to work with her for her attitude alone. Well, her or Rahne—the wolf thing always has resonated with him.
Taking his silence to mean he isn't going to answer her, she shrugs. "None of my business." There's a slight undercurrent of something like frustration in her words, though he isn't certain if it's at him for not satisfying her curiosity or herself for being curious in the first place.
He decides to let it lie and quiet falls between them again. He's just making his way onto the local news section when she speaks again. "He told me he liked the braids," she whispers, eyes glued to the paper. There's a glazed sort of look in her eyes and he's sure she's not seeing any of the words in front of her. Then she turns to him. "Jimmy—James, I mean. Told me when we were students."
Suddenly, he understands. As a Valkyrie, she didn't wear them—she wouldn't have been able to. But when she came back and he'd moved on... she didn't go back. Didn't want him to think she was doing it for him. That explained the brief resurrection when she came back to teach for Xavier and subsequent disappearance when James returned to be part of the team again.
"You think I'm ridiculous," she mutters, face ashen as she again misinterprets his silence. "Well, you're right. It was just a stupid crush but I can't stop remembering whenever I—"
He places a hand on her arm and she cuts herself off, big brown eyes blinking up at him. "I don't think you're ridiculous, Dani," he assures her with a squeeze. "Trust me, I know all about holding onto things that other people have long forgotten."
Despite her grim expression, she chuckles. It's just a bit watery but he dismisses it. He's found that people (READ: women) tend to be more emotional during the early and late hours of the day.
Awkwardly, he releases her and moves his hand away to run through his hair. His movements are agitated but only slightly. Finally, he comes to a decision. If she can be honest with him about something that obviously still hurts her, then he can do the same. It's not like she's Emma, who'd use it against him later, or 'Ro who, well-meaning or not, would likely gossip to at least one other team member. She's Dani and even though they're not close and probably never will be, he feels he owes her this.
"I still can't remember her name," he starts, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "I've tried but..." He can feel her eyes on him but it's the feather in her hair that has his gaze. Almost without meaning to, he reaches toward it. "She always had a red feather in her hair, though. She was an Indian, like you—Ottawa, I think. And she loved to braid her hair."
Understanding dawns on her face. "You loved her." It isn't a question.
He suppresses a sigh and nods. "I think I did." It's so hard to remember but he genuinely believes that. The realization is more comforting than he would have expected.
She's smiling as she takes his hand in her hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. Then she plucks a red feather from her hair and hands it to him. He tries to wave her off but she insists, placing it in his palm and curling his fingers around it.
In that moment, the sun shining brightly behind her head like a halo, she looks so much like the phantom in his memory it nearly breaks his heart. But it doesn't and he forces a gruff smile, nodding. "Thank you."
There's a heaviness between them now and he knows they won't be able to end the conversation there without feeling awkward. She must feel it, too, because the next moment she's grinning in a way that is completely Dani and no one else. "Talk is cheap," she informs him cheerfully. "Thank me by letting me drive the Maserati."
It's enough to snap him out of it. "I don't think so," he says with a smirk.
She's pouting just a little. "Why not?" she presses, not giving him a real chance to answer. Her track record may be better than most of the X-Men (no trashed jets, for instance) but everybody knows that no one drives his car but him. "Come on, Logan..."
"No way, kid." She looks torn between amusement and objecting to the title, so he saves her the trouble of settling for a response by moving on. "But I will give you a ride. Anywhere you want... at one-eighty-five."
Now she's smiling again. "Deal." She's absentmindedly untying her braids, a triumphant look on her face. "Sam and Bobby are going to be so jealous."
He laughs a little, shaking his head. Partly because she's right—the Hayseed and Brazilian Rich Boy will undoubtedly be green with envy, even if they both have pretty sweet rides—and partly because she's successfully diffused the situation. He thinks she probably is a pretty good teacher-slash-mentor for the kids; not only is she a survivor but she's smart. She knows people, and she knows how to get what she wants. Apparently Summers knew what he was doing (this time, anyway).
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