Title Someone Outside
name Scribe
fandom X Files AU
pairing Scully/other
criticism Yes.
archive Yes. Let me know.
feedback Yes. I haven't really done f/f before. Let me know how I did.
disclaimer Scully is the property (man, she'd have a hissy over THAT concept) of Chris Carter. Song snatches used from "All That Glitters", "I Just Can't Get Enought", and "The Bluebell Jingle" are property of their creators, I don''t know their names. I think "Boney Fingers" is in the public domain. If not, credit here, too.
summary Not the Dana we know and love. This one has some serious issues. Dana deals with so much responsibility in her life, is so caught up in her working world. How far would she go to have one relationship completely apart from that?
Warning: Deals with obsession. Later episode will include graphic f/f rape
rating NC-17
Someone Outside
by Scribe
She sings. That's what made me notice her first. It was two am, and I was making my way home, hoping to manage a couple of hours sleep before I had to get up, go in, and start the report of my latest foray into the bizarre with Fox. Almost to the house, I remembered how empty the refrigerator was, and the empty spindle hanging beside the toilet in my bathroom. Well, at least I hadn't remembered when I was groping for paper that wasn't there.
I remembered a small convenience store a few blocks back. It had still been open, I think. The lot was empty, but the florescents glowed behind the large sheets of glass that made up most of the front walls. I turned around and headed back.
The lot was still empty when I pulled up and parked. I scanned the store through the plate glass as I approached. That was surely why it was designed to be so open, so that anyone passing (particularly cruising police cars) could see at a glance what was going on inside. I didn't see a clerk, and that worried me.
I'm FBI, and the bad possibilities occure to me naturally. Instead of assuming they were having a smoke in a back room, or in the john, I considered the possibility of them face down in a store room, bleeding their life out after a robbery. When I stepped up on the front curb, I had my purse open, my hand inside on my gun.
As I pushed the door open, there was a loud, annoying electronic buzz from over my head. Behind the far aisle, a dark, curly head suddenly popped up. There was startled wariness in the wide blue eyes, that melted when they focussed on me. I'd been classified as non threatening. I eased my hand off the gun and shut my purse before that impression could change.
"Hey there." She moved around the end of the aisle, heading toward the front counter. A large yellow pricing gun trailing a streamer of paper tape, and several stacks of grey plastic bins overflowing with a jumble of dry goods explained what she had been doing out of sight. She stepped past me, close enough for the sleeve of the hideous orange polyester jacket she wore to brush my arm, and grabbed the push bar on the door. She was a big woman, a half head taller than myself, and heavy, but she moved with that odd grace that some fat people seem to have.She tugged hard, fighting the slide that had been easing the door shut, and managed to get it closed. The teeth rattling buzz that had been sounding shut off abruptly.
She smiled at me as she went around behind the counter to stand at the register. "That thing makes an awful racket, don't it? It'd shake my fillings loose, if I had fillings. What can I do you for tonight?"
How could anyone be this alert and cheerful at two am? "Toilet tissue?"
"Right back where I was standing," she directed. As I walked to the back, I heard her start singing softly. It was a silly, bouncy tune that I remembered hearing on some commercial. A commercial jingle? "Hey now, you're an all star, get yer game on, go play..." What had they been advertising? Probably started out as a song, then was tagged to shill something. I found the toiletries section. The shelf was almost empty, but a nearby tote held several individual roles of paper. "Hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid..." The price was obscene, but supply and demand...
I went to the counter, carrying my choice. She had an elbow on the counter, chin in hand, looking very relaxed. "All that glitters is go-wold, only shootin' star-ars break the mo-uwold..." As I set the tissue on the counter, she straightend, picking it up. She turned it over in her hands, then looked at me. "Are you sure you want to spend this much for just one roll?"
I was surprised. I'd never had a clerk admit that the prices in their store were less than fair. "Till I can get time to shop."
"It's just that...well, I don't know how big a supply you need, but we have a four pack for only about fifty cents more than this. Better value."
"I didn't see any."
"That's right, I forgot. Hang on just a sec." She exited the counter area, again brushing against me. As she went, she was singing under her breath. "Since I met you baby, I been outa my head. I jus' can't get enough, I jus' can't get enough..." She rummaged in one of the bins, and soon returned with a plastic wrapped quartette of toilet tissue rolls. "Here you go." She grabbed the pricing gun, dialed it, and slapped a tag on the bundle. "There. Now it's official."
"Thanks."
"No prob. Anything else?"
"Yes, I'm hungry. Do you have anything non life threatening?"
She laughed. It was a young sound, and I looked at her more closely. She wasn't really young, she had to be at least ten years older than I. But her face was smooth, unlined. It was like she'd managed to keep the world from inflicting itself on her expression. Her skin was beautiful, pink and cream under the harsh glare of the florescents, innocent of even the lightest cosmetic and almost luminous.
"No, darlin'. Our graveyard clientel thrive on the four major food groups: salt, grease, sugar, and caffeine. The closest you'd come would be an overpriced can of vegetables that have been here since my grandma was in knickers, and that would be loaded with enough sodium to preserve a Smithfield ham. But I tell you what..."
She leaned forward conspiratorially. Her eyes glinted merrily. She whispered, "As long as you're only buying necessities, the ice cream freezer is right over there, and we just got in a delivery." She smiled. No lipstick, but her wide, beatifully formed mouth was a natural rose pink.
My mouth suddenly filled with saliva. I couldn't be sure that it was entirely at the thought of ice cream. "Good idea." I went to the chest freezer and started to sort through pints. She examined my selection when I returned.
"That's a good choice," she said, tapping the carton. "Ben and Jerry. I'd adopt those boys, if I could afford it. This is one of the few things we have that's honestly worth the price." She sighed. "Of course, it's no Blue Bell."
"What's that?"
She sang again, "Blue Bell, the best ice cream in the country. It's home made, down hoooome..." Another smile, slightly abashed. "Sorry. They stick in my mind. We have Blue Bell back in Texas. It's regional, you can't get it out here, and I miss it."
"You sing a lot. You must really enjoy your job."
"I hate it." she said matter of factly. "The singing helps keep me from going bonkers. It kind of gets me in trouble, sometimes. Makes some of the customers nervouse, so the bosses said to can it. Seems that I'm too happy to suit them. But when no one's here..." She shrugged. "I didn't figure you'd bust me to them. You don't look that uptight."
Well, that was a first. I can't count the number of times someone's told me I looked tense, repressed, uptight, anal retentative...Okay, most of those are from one source, and Fox does like to tease me.
She rang up my purchases, and told me the total, which was only slightly heartstopping. I handed over the money, and she popped the cash register open and collected my change. When she didn't lay it on the counter, I held out my hand. She counted it into my hand. I could feel the heat of her fingers through the paper of the bill as she pressed it into my palm. "There ya go. Anything else?"
"No. Just home, ice cream, bath, and bed."
"Sounds like a plan. Just remember, no matter what the 'recommended portion size' is: one pint, one serving." She picked up the pricing machine and twirled it like a gun. "I have to get cracking. They'll skin my head if I don't have this done by shift change."
"That looks like a lot of work. Is anyone coming in to help you?"
She laughed shortly. "Double coverage? Boy, there's a fantasy. Why should they hire someone else to ease the burden when they have a perfectly good peon right here? You take care, now." I opened the door, and the buzz almost drowned her out as she made her way back to the far aisle. "Work your fingers to the bone, whataya get? Boney fingers, boney fingers..."
I went home and ran a stingingly hot bath, then stripped and settled in the tub with the pint of ice cream and a spoon. I ate rich, bad for me ice cream and let the heat seep deep into my flesh, loosening taut muscles and easing aches.
Sooner than I expected I was scraping thick, sweet liquid and chocolate chips out of the bottom of the carton, murmuring, "One pint, one serving." Repleat, I set aside the carton and spoon, and eased back into the still hot water, closing my eyes, beginning to doze. I dreamed. Blue bells and aging Vermont hippies, and a clear, sweet voice singing, "Since I met you baby, I been outta my head. I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough..."
Part Two
I stopped at the convenience store the next evening for a soda. Yes, I had a six pack at home, but I'd have to pour it over ice. I'd rather have it prechilled, I decided. There were a couple of cars on the lot when I drove up, and I could see several customers drifting the aisles or standing in line. The woman ringing them up was a small, intense looking black girl.
Feeling vaguely disappointed, I selected a diet soda and got in line. One of the men ahead of me was flirting with the clerk, who responded with coy giggles. I idley scanned the lot, wondering if I'd get checked out before my drink warmed up.
She came around the side of the building, stepping into the yellowish glare of the outside lights, and paused to pick up a crumpled candy wrapper. She shoved it into a trash barrel near the door, and I saw her frowning. The plastic receptical was overflowing. The buzz went off as she came in, causing the others to look around. The clerk's gaze flicked over her dismissively before returning to her flirtation.
The woman moved back behind the counter, peeling off a windbreaker *too thin, she should wear something warmer* to reveal the hideous pumpkin colored uniform. "Martina, you didn't pull the trash?"
"I didn't have time." She'd finally finished with the first customer, but he hovered near the door, waiting. The second one only wanted a pack of gum, but she managed to misring it twice.
The dark haired clerk went to a timeclock on the wall, pulling a card out of a folder and clocking in. She took a tape out of a security vcr and replaced it with a fresh one, making a note on a sheet as she set the used tape on a shelf. "You'll do it before you go, right? They want me to wash down the lot AND the glass tonight."
"Um. Come on and get this change out done, Free. I got things to do."
The woman came over with a clipboard and pencil. "Get your last customer, Marty."
Martina looked at me disinterestedly. "You don't mind waitin' about five minutes, huh? We gotta do shift change."
Before I could answer the other clerk said gruffly, "For heaven's sake, ring her up! It's one soda."
"Yeah, well it's nine right now, and..."
"And we'd be finished by now if you hadn't been batting your eyelashes."
Martina scowled. "Don't get nasty just cause you're jealous, Free."
"Me? Jealous? I'm happy for you. But ring her up. You don't leave a good customer standing like that." Grumbling, the girl complied. She slapped my change down in front of me and punched a button that sent the machine into a racketting, coughing fit, spitting streamers of paper. "You could have asked if she needed anything else." she said mildly.
"They don't pay me enough to kiss ass."
Shaking her head, the older woman quickly counted the cash in the drawer, getting the younger one to confirm the count. Then she handed over the clipboard and removed the receipt tape from the machine as the girl took her paperwork to a desk in the back corner.
"Sorry about that."
"It's alright."
"No, it isn't, really." Her voice was low. "I don't think Martina is with us for long. She just can't grasp the fact that actually being pleasant is part of the job."
"Will you fire her?"
This seemed to amuse the woman. "Me? Dear girl, I'm not in authority here. I'm just one of the draft animals."
Martina, wrapped in a leather jacket and sporting a tiny gold lame` purse slipped past, headed for the door. As she went, she called, "Paper work's screwed up, Free. Fix it, willya?" The customer grabbed her butt when she came within reach, and she shrieked with laughter, shoving open the door.
"Wait, Marty!" She raised her voice to be heard over the buzz from the security warning. She could be heard well enough, but Marty didn't care to listen. She was hustling into a grey primered Camero. "Marty, the trash?"
The door slammed, an engine roared, and there was a squeal of rubber as the car pealed out. He shoulders slumped. "I'll be damned," she said quietly, as the buzzer faded. "Screwed again." She glanced at me apologetically. "I'm sorry about the language."
"Forget it. You were more polite than I would have been."
"So, did the ice cream and the hydro-therapy help last night?" So she'd remembered.
"A lot. Wonderfully decadent." I offered my hand. "I'm Dana Scully. Did she call you Free?"
She shook hands. Her grip was warm and gently, fingers just a little rough. Probably from all the cleaning she had to do. "Fraid so. Short for Freedom. Freedom Littlefountain."
"Let me guess. Your parents were hippie Indians."
She chuckled. "Southern rednecks. I'm too old to be a hippie child. I was born in the late fifties, I was too young to enjoy the sixties, to scared of my mama to enjoy the seventies, too tired to deal with the eighties, and too disgusted to mess with the nineites. I'm trying to keep my hopes up for the millineum. No, the name is my own fault. It's a translation of two of my names. Believe me, the originals sound much weirder."
As she spoke, she went back to the desk and examined the paperwork. "Good God, how did that child manage to ball this up so badly? I can scarcely believe it's incompetense. It's so bad it looks deliberate. It'll take me half the night to straighten this out, if it's possible at all."
"Then leave it. Let her take responsibility for her mistakes."
"Easier said than done. I have more senority, I'm supposed to make sure things run smoothly. I hate being responsible for what someone else does. I'm supposed to control the younger workers, even if I'm not management. I hate haveing to give orders. No one ever listens, anyway."
"Am I keeping you from your work?"
She looked surprised. "Dear, you are my work. Is there anything else you need? Anything I can do for you?"
When was the last time anyone had said that to me? Of course, it was the woman's job, but as Martina had demonstrated, not that many people saw it that way. "No, I'm fine." A beat. "Are you alright?"
Free considered, as if startled by the question. She shrugged, smiling. "I will be. I'll survive." The smile became the tiniest bit...not really bitter. Wistful. "I don't have a choice."
"Good night, then. I'll see you later."
"Be safe, now." As I pushed my way out, Free was beginning her first song of the night. "Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed..."
Part Three
I started going by the store every evening, even when I didn't need anything. I liked to get there early, so I could see her arrive. I'd have my soda or juice, and watch the corner of the building till she came around. She almost always did something on the way in: snagging a peice of trash, kicking a fold out of the non skid rug at the door, rubbing a speck off the glass with the sleeve of that neon pumpkin jacket.
She always had a smile for me as she counted the register, did the shift change. She'd been right. Martina didn't come back. "And fifty bucks went missing on her shift. She needed to go, because with that much, even if it isn't dishonesty, it's incompetence. She never bothered to come in to be fired. I lost my day off, but I guess it's worth it, not to have to come in behind her."
A couple of weeks after I started coming in, I said, "I never see your car. Where do you park it?"
She tapped her forehead. "Up here. No wheels. I have to do with public transport, and the buses don't run this late in this part of town. I only live about five blocks away, though. It isn't bad, as long as it isn't raining. Or snowing. Or over ninety."
"Are you crazy, walking alone at this time of night? And I'll bet it's still dark out when you get off."
"Not lately, it isn't," she said wearily. "They keep extending my shift because the new manager can't finish the paperwork on time without someone working the register."
"Why don't they have someone else come in."
"Because I'm cheaper."
"That isn't fair. I'm pretty sure it's against federal regulations to..."
"Dana," her voice was gentle. "It's sweet of you to get outraged on my behalf, but I'm a grunt. The federales aren't interested in me."
"This federale is." She looked a question at me. I hadn't been planning on this, but... I took out my ID case and showed her my card.
She looked surprised, but not disgusted. "You're a Special Agent?" She looked me over quickly. "But you're so tiny. I thought they had to be Amazons. And I thought you were...I don't know. I had the impression you were a professional. Doctor or lawyer, or something."
"I am. I have degrees in both, but I don't practise." Now her eyes narrowed. Please believe me, I thought. For some reason, it was important that she not think I was scamming her.
At last she said slowly, "Well, if it was anyone else who said it, I'd think they were in the grips of some sort of complex. You, I believe."
I waited for the questions. The questions about cases, busts, plots and conspiracies. They didn't come. We talked about a lot of things, but she never brought up my work. If I mentioned it, she listened, but she didn't press for details. It was as if she were willing to absorb anything I gave her, but not willing to pressure me for more.
I liked that. I found myself telling her more and more about my life. It got to where I was spending an hour or two at her job each night. She'd go about her job, stocking and cleaning, and I'd follow. We'd chat as she worked. Or sometimes I'd just sit at a table in the little section provided for the deli, and watch her. And listen, because she sang. She always sang. It was a near constant, unselfconscious flow. Sometimes it was complete songs, sometimes it was just a chorus, or a snippet. Sometimes it was just a tune, filled in with generic sounds. "Dum da dum dum da." But almost alway, music.
One evening a bit laterI came in and found her leaning on the counter, studying a page of the classifieds. I felt apprehensive. Was she looking for another job? Here I was just a regular. I was afraid that if she moved on to another job, and I showed up there, I'd be a stalker.
She had a felt tipped pen in hand, and as I came up, she circled an ad. "What are you doing?"
She glanced up. "Oh, hi Dana. I'm house hunting. My landlord decided to go no pets. I either have to cough up a three hundered dollar pet deposit, or get rid of my cat by next week. I'm not gonna do either. But there isn't much available." She sighed. "Me and Snicky may end up sleeping in the bus station a couple of nights."
"There's no need for that. Would you be willing to share space?"
"You mean like as a border?"
"More like a roomate."
"Maybe. Do you vouch for whoever has the space?"
"I do. It's me."
"You? You're looking to take in a roomate?"
"I have plenty of space. And," I lied "I could use some help with the rent and untilities. Plus I'm lonely these days. It would be good to have another sentient being in the house."
She smiled. "I know what you mean. I love Snicky, but he's a lousy conversationalist."
"If you're interested, you could come by the apartment to check out the room. Tomorrow evening?"
She ripped a piece of paper off a pad. "What's the address? And what time? I have to be to work at nine."
I gave her the address. "Come over about seven. You can see the place, and I'll make dinner. You'll have a little time to make up your mind."
She studied the address. "Yes, I can get here on the bus without too much trouble. The problem will be getting to work after."
"I'll drive you."
"Oh. Well, sure, then."
"Good. Well, I'll go home now. I want to shovel the place out, make a good impression."
She tilted her head, smiling. "You've already made a good impression. I wouldn't be coming over, otherwise." When I left, she was singing softly, a bright, calypso sounding tune. "Then what? Whatcha gonna do when the new wears off and the old shines thorough and it ain't really love, and it ain't really lust, and you ain't anybody anybody's gonna trust...." I saw her spin, then do a discreet little boogie. She was happy. I'd made her happy. "Then what, when it all goes bust and you can't turn back for the bridges you burned, and Fate can't wait to kick you in the butt, then what? Oooh, then what?"
I cleaned house when I got home, and some more when I go up the next morning. At lunch I went shopping and bought several sets of sheets, fine linen, and a pretty bed set of spread, pillow shams, dust ruffle. Dark green. Dark green would set off her pale skin and russet hair. Mulder peeked in the bags that afternoon at the office.
"Whoa, going all domestic, Scully? A little out of your line, aren't they? Don't you usually go for the flowery, peachy designs?"
I took them away, screwing the bags shut. "I'm getting a new roomate. I need fresh linens."
"Really? Anyone I know?"
"No. She's outside my usual circle." Mulder knows about some of my outside relations. Especially since a former lover, irrationally jealous, confronted him about what she percieved to be our 'relationship'. I love Mulder, but it will never be that sort of love. I couldn't open myself up to someone so likely to get themselves killed. Or get me killed, for that matter.
"Good, Scully. I hope it works out for you."
That evening the house is spotless, the room as inviting as I can make it. A lasagna bubbles richly around the edges in a warm oven, a good wine cools in the refrigerator. How long has it been since I have gone through these same preparations for anyone, male or female? I start to light candles, then put them away. Too much, too like a seduction. She's only coming to decide if she wants to move in. And it things are TOO welcoming, that might put her off, too.
Because I'm not sure of her. There have been no overt remarks, few subtle cues. And asking her is risky. She seems gentle, tolerent. But she might be skittish, and I don't want to frighten her off.
A few minutes before seven there is a knock on the door. I open it, and she's on the front step. The horrib jack o lantern colored jacket is over her arm, and it's the first time I've seen her in what she calls her 'civies'. It is a dark green sweatshirt. Over the left breast, where the company logos or monograms usually go are a tiny pair of golden cats' eyes. I was right, dark green suits her. It makes her pale skin almost luminous, and puts green tints in the blue of her eyes.
She's smiling at me, a little puzzled. "Am I early?"
I realize I've been keeping her on the stoop, staring at her. "No, come in. Sorry."
She steps in. "I know, I'm hard to recognized without the costume, right?" She pitches it on the couch. "God, I hate that thing. All the little children love me, because they think that with an outfit like that, I must be a clown." She looks around the room, and I tense, waiting for her reaction. "Wow. Dana, this is beautiful. Are you sure you want to share this place? It's so pretty and peaceful."
"I'm sure. Come on, I'll show you the bedroom." Once again she makes noises of approval.
She sits on the edge of the bed, gives a tiny experimental bounce. Her hand smooths the silky coverlette. "Is this new? You didn't have to do that."
"I was planning to anyway," I lie. "Go on and lay down. Test it to see if it's comfortable."
She kicks off her shoes, swings her legs up on the bed, and stretches out, closing her eyes, She lies there for a moment, smiling with here eyes still closed, and turns her head to rub her cheek on the pillow. Then she stretches luxuriently, shifting to turn on her hip, one leg scissoring back and forth lazily. I watch, my mouth going dry, fingers starting to twitch. At last she gets up, smile still in place. "That is so comfortable."
She starts groping for her shoes, and I say, "You don't have to do that. Go on and get a feel for the place."
"You're sure?"
"I don't mind."
"Thanks. That's always the first thing I do when I get home. The shoes go off." I like the idea of her padding around my house barefooted, comfortable...at home.
At dinner, I urge a second helping of lasagna on her when I see her eyeing the pan. She refuses the wine, with apologies. "I know it isn't much, but I have to work. They're after me enough without me showing up with alcohol on my breath."
Finally I'm drawing patterns with my fork in the tomato sauce left on my plate. She says quietly, "Dana, I like you a lot. I think we'd get on, as long as I curb my messiness. But this place is so perfect...How much would you need a month."
"How much have you been paying?" She names a figure. It's low. It wouldn't take much of a bite out of my salery, but then it's not my salery it's coming out of.
"I couldn't pay much more than that."
I name a figure significantly less than what she's been paying." Her eyes widen. "And that would include utilities, and food, of course," I add. "And I'd expect you to bring your cat."
I think that is what does it. She smiles joyously. "Oh, yes, I'd like to live here, if you'll have me?"
"Yes, I'll have you." *I'll have you. By God, I WILL have you.*
Part Four
She's moved in. It didn't take long, she rented her place furnished. Clothes, a few dishes, lots of books, and a large black and white extomcat. The dishes go into storage. The clothes are stowed, the books arranged on shelves, the cat makes himself at home. She makes herself at home.
I'm home in the evenings, and she usually gets up an hour or two before she has to go to work. We have dinner together, maybe watch a little television. She finally puts on the hated orange uniform, dragging it on as if it pains her. I give her a ride to work. She can't walk anymore, it's too far away. I don't mind. I like the quiet times when we ride back and forth. But she insists on taking the bus home each morning. "Too much trouble for you to get me, bring me home, then go to work." Sometimes she's back in time for us to have breakfast together, but often she's held over.
I don't like that, and I tell her so. I tell her that they're taking advantage of her. She shrugs sadly, and says it wouldn't be the first time. I'm beginning to resent those people.
I have to go out in the field with Mulder. It's a frantic two days away. When it's over with, we have a killer in jail, but there are still aspects of the case that aren't explained. Nothing unusual for the X Files, but Mulder can't let it alone, of course. On the long drive back he picks over it till I think I'm going to scream.
I'm surprised to find her at home when I finally get back around ten-thirty. "Shock, shock. I got a day off." She takes one look at me, and orders me to sit on the couch, then asks if I want hot tea or wine. She brings me a glass of red wine, and I drink it too fast. She brings me another, telling me to sip it. As I do, she says, frowning, "Dana, you're wound up tighter than a three day clock. You're a doctor. Don't you have something you can take to relax?"
"I don't like to resort to drugs unless I have to."
"But you need to relax, before you get a migraine or something."
"Just give me a few minutes." I leaned my head back on the couch, sighing. I could hear her moving around. It was a soothing sound. I know what would help me relax. Feeling a little silly, but hopeful, I said, "Sing to me?"
She started immediately, "Come to my window. Crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon. Come to my window, I'll be home soon..." The words of the Melissa Ethridge song moved over me, soft and cool. I felt the tension start to ease. "Will that one be alright?"
"Yes. Please go on."
She's moved around behind me, and I hear her voice again. "I would dial the numbers, just to hear your breath. I would stand inside my hell and hold the hand of death." I flinch when she touches me. Her hands settle on my temples, cool and light. "You don't know how far I'd go to ease this precious ache. You don't know how much I need, or how much I can take." She's rubbing in slow, gentle circles. I feel the metal band around my skull start to loosen. "Just to reach you, just to reach you. Oh, I'll reach you..."
She sings the opening chorus. "Come to my window. Crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon." She slides her hands lightly through my hair, cupping the back of my skull, and I lift my head. "Come to my window. I'll be home soon." It sounds like the sweetest promise in the world. Coming home to someone who's waiting, just for you. Her hands settle on my neck, and begin to massage. Now her touch ins warm. "Keeping my eyes open I cannot afford to sleep. Giving away promises I know that I can't keep. Nothing fills this blackness that has seeped into my chest." Her hands are firm, the skin just a little rough. Just rough enough to stimulate. "I need you in my blood, I am forsaking all the rest. Just to reach you, just to reach you." Her voice is a sweet croon. "Oooh, I'll reach you." Yes, you will. You have. Like no one else.
Her fingers dig at my shoulders. Knots ease, melt. Heat is settling in my belly. "Come to my window. Crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon. Come to my window, I'll be home soon."
My head drops to the side, boneless. Her palm smooths against my cheek gently, lifting my head back up. Her voice is quieter, only a whisper. "I don't care what they think. I don't care what they say. What do they know about this love anyway?" I'm sinking deeper into the sofa. I wait, hoping that next I'll feel the touch of her lips on my neck, or my cheek. "Come to my window. I'll be home, I'll be home, I'll be home. I'm comin' home..."
Her hands stop moving. Her voice is gentle. "Dana? Is that better?"
"Yes." *Don't stop. Keep touching me.*
"Do you want dinner now?"
*Food isn't what I need.*
"You just rest. I'll fix something."
And before I have the courage to speak, she's gone, and I hear her in the kitchen. Cabinets open, water runs. And she's singing again. Something plaintive and pretty, "If I should stay, well I'd only be in your way..." I just sit, and think, and listen.
*Does she know? Can't she tell? That song...It's too much of a coincidence. But she sings all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean anything. But the way she was touching me...Did I imagine anything more than a friendly neck rub? She was concerned, she's already shown how considerate she is. But those hands...*
I don't say anything. I don't do anything. Because when she calls me into the kitchen, her face is a little anxious, concerned. "Still okay? Headache didn't come back, did it? You're being really quiet."
"No, I'm fine." I sit down to the meal of macaroni and cheese ("Comfort food," she cheerfully informs me).
"Alright. But just let me know whenever you need a neck rub or massage. I'm not good at a lot of things, but I'm good at that. My brother used to get back spasms. I practised, so he wouldn't have to blow cash on a masseure."My hands shake at the image this calls up, my fork chattering on the china. She looks at me closely. "Dana? Are you sure..."
"I said I'm okay." My voice is rougher than I intended, and she looks hurt I sigh. No, it hadn't been anything but a neck rub. To her, anyway. "I'm sorry I snapped. Long hard day."
She nods, eyes brimming with sympathy. "I kinda understand. A little. I just have to deal with the craziness and nastiness that drifts in off the street. You have to go looking for it."
*Don't do this. Don't understand me when you don't understand me at all. Don't offer comfort if you aren't ready to give me what I really need. Just don't. No. Do.*
I eat, not really tasting the food. I eat because she made it for me, she wants me to eat, she'll be worried if I don't. She might touch me again in gentle concern, and if she does...
God help me, I don't know what I'll do.
END PART 4