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.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
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.
-------------------------------------------------
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.
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).
Saturday, February 21, 2009
05. my heart can't possibly break when it wasn't even whole to start with
Notes: Just a bit of introspection. Because I can. :) No title as of yet but it's not really much of anything, so perhaps it doesn't need one.
The ring wasn't supposed to mean anything. It wasn't.
It was just sitting there innocently, shining inside that little blue box as it stared at her. It was so beautiful. Three stones—man made diamonds but still lovely—set in silver, the middle bigger than the other two. It was too nice. It was too small for her to wear. Somehow, though, getting it resized didn't feel right. It went on a chain instead—another gift from the same source. It fell with the necklace just fine.
Sometimes she'd finger the ring and wonder what it meant. It wasn't supposed to mean anything but it felt like it did. Did she own the ring or did it own her? Sometimes she wanted to rip the ring off and throw it against a wall. Sometimes it made her want to scream. Sometimes she wanted to actually wear it like a ring.
Sometimes she wanted to drop the ring in the toilet and flush it away. It was too much for her. And whatever it meant, she knew she didn't like it.
Because it made her sad. She didn't know why but it did.
Did it break her heart because she wanted it to be from a lover? Or at least from someone who really loved her instead of from someone who made her wonder if love was a pretend thing. Someone who'd try to save her from her loneliness. Someone who wanted to be with her for all the right reasons instead of the wrong ones. Because the person who gave it to her… he said he loved her—he said it all the time. But saying didn't mean anything when the actions didn't match the words.
He reminded her every time he hurt her. When he'd hurt her without ever seeming to care. She wanted him to care—wanted it to matter enough for things to change—but she knew better. She didn't want to, but she did. Too damn smart for her own good. And tired. She was so damn tired. She felt like she didn't know which way was up—didn't know which direction to go.
Other than away from here. That much was certain. It'd been decided when the hurt became too much to bear. When desperation had given way to anger and the truth had finally stared her so obviously in the face that she couldn't ignore it any longer. What hadn't been decided was what to do with the ring. Throw it away or keep it? Resize it to wear or hide it away? It felt like a heavier decision than it should.
What did it mean?
It wasn't supposed to mean anything, she knew. And maybe one day it wouldn't. Today wasn't that day, though. (Tomorrow wouldn't be, either.)
The ring wasn't supposed to mean anything. It wasn't.
It was just sitting there innocently, shining inside that little blue box as it stared at her. It was so beautiful. Three stones—man made diamonds but still lovely—set in silver, the middle bigger than the other two. It was too nice. It was too small for her to wear. Somehow, though, getting it resized didn't feel right. It went on a chain instead—another gift from the same source. It fell with the necklace just fine.
Sometimes she'd finger the ring and wonder what it meant. It wasn't supposed to mean anything but it felt like it did. Did she own the ring or did it own her? Sometimes she wanted to rip the ring off and throw it against a wall. Sometimes it made her want to scream. Sometimes she wanted to actually wear it like a ring.
Sometimes she wanted to drop the ring in the toilet and flush it away. It was too much for her. And whatever it meant, she knew she didn't like it.
Because it made her sad. She didn't know why but it did.
Did it break her heart because she wanted it to be from a lover? Or at least from someone who really loved her instead of from someone who made her wonder if love was a pretend thing. Someone who'd try to save her from her loneliness. Someone who wanted to be with her for all the right reasons instead of the wrong ones. Because the person who gave it to her… he said he loved her—he said it all the time. But saying didn't mean anything when the actions didn't match the words.
He reminded her every time he hurt her. When he'd hurt her without ever seeming to care. She wanted him to care—wanted it to matter enough for things to change—but she knew better. She didn't want to, but she did. Too damn smart for her own good. And tired. She was so damn tired. She felt like she didn't know which way was up—didn't know which direction to go.
Other than away from here. That much was certain. It'd been decided when the hurt became too much to bear. When desperation had given way to anger and the truth had finally stared her so obviously in the face that she couldn't ignore it any longer. What hadn't been decided was what to do with the ring. Throw it away or keep it? Resize it to wear or hide it away? It felt like a heavier decision than it should.
What did it mean?
It wasn't supposed to mean anything, she knew. And maybe one day it wouldn't. Today wasn't that day, though. (Tomorrow wouldn't be, either.)
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