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Jul. 8th, 2013 07:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notinthebook She's already one martini in, and it's not like she usually does more than that on a weeknight, but she'd come in from Granny's, and now, as the door swings open, she's going back through Granny's.
Which would be fine, if she weren't also walking straight into the path of a red-fletched dart, held by a surly-looking Graham. He looks more than a few in, himself, and that just pisses her off more.
"Emma," Ruby says, somewhere nearby, bright and cheerful. "What can I get you?"
Graham's staring her down. Like he hadn't all day. She notices that his hair is unruly, his eyes glazed and red. He looks like he just stumbled out of the bushes somewhere.
Again.
Whatever. It's not her problem. She's not here to fix anyone, no matter what Henry might think. "Nothing," she says, and heads for the door. She's almost there, reaching for handle, nearly home free, when --
zzzzzzTHNK
"What the hell?"
She's turning, indignant, and it's all snapping in her chest, the day, the jacket, Miami, Nebulon-vodka or whatever the hell it was, the woman who's story was like reading her own in a book, and Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell? "You could have hit me!"
Aware that she sounds petulant, more than anything else. Everyone's eyes on her, sending prickles skating over her skin. Making her want to cross her arms. Slip into the background. Anything but this. Public, humiliating, everything they've been avoiding all day. There's no reason for it. None.
Not that Graham seems to have gotten that memo. He's sauntering towards her. Lazy long steps that are too loose. Nothing like his usual grace and precision. Graham, who never misses. Graham, who wants to point out, here, now, in front of everyone, that she's been avoiding him. Which she hasn't. They spent all day together, working. "I'm not avoiding you," she points out, lowering her voice. Sidney, nearby, leans in to try and hear her, sending a bad-tempered flare of annoyance racing through her blood. She feels like the simmering pot on top of a stove in a house that's on fire. "I just don't want to have this conversation."
And when she tells him she doesn't care, she means it.
But he doesn't listen. Of course he doesn't listen. He's drunk and upset and it's not like she doesn't feel for the guy, okay, she does. and it's not like she hadn't--
But that's clearly been all wrong, and she's been all wrong, just like usual, so he just needs to let it go, stop following her down the street, smelling so strongly of whiskey she gets a whiff of it every time he gets far enough in front of her to get her to stop. But he won't. Stop.
She doesn't want to be reminded of their drinks at the bar, or what they'd sort of started feeling like they were easing into. Something like friendship. Partnership, maybe. Or -- okay, maybe something more, alright? She'd thought he saw her. Her. Not the bounty hunter. Not Henry's estranged biological mother. Not the mess she is. Just her. Just Emma.
Whoever Emma is.
Teasing her with baked goods. Coming back to the office with coffee, or hot chocolate. Talking long hours over beers at Granny's. And it hurts. It's embarrassing. It's humiliating, shameful. To have felt -- to have thought.
She needs to nip it in the bud, and tonight's as good a night as any. Besides. "It's none of my business. Really."
But he won't let her move past. Takes her arm, desperation in the clutch of his fingers, which, why? What's the point? Why does she need to understand anything? She understands plenty. And still, he won't let her go.
Even though it's true. They're all adults. He can sleep with whoever he wants. It's none of her business. None of it is. What is there to talk about, standing in the middle of the street, feeling her chest lace tighter with every breath and hating it, this weakness that she just can't shake no matter how hard she tries, even with that pendant hanging heavy against her collarbone, a reminder with every painful tap of metal against thin skin.
Demanding why. Voice raising. Trying to hold onto her temper, feeling it slip through her fingers like water, turning into something that's tumbling all around her, muddling everything except his face. Blue eyes. Hair awry. The pain of not being the one who gets to push it back, off his forehead, flushed cheeks, and where did that thought come from? Is it the same place he's standing, telling her he can't stand this, like she can't stand it? That he doesn't want this, like she doesn't want it? That the way she's looking at him --
"Why do you care about the way I look at you?"
A question she shouldn't ask. Never. It's not safe. She doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want him to care. If he cares, she might. If he cares, she...
And then his hands are on the sides of her face, cupping her head, and his mouth is on hers, whiskey-sweet, soft and warm and prickly from stubble, and she can feel the heat from his body, feverish, frantic, and she should push him away now, has to, can't care, can't let herself.
But it's still too long until she does. Even a split second later. Too long. Too late. Yelling at him, as something that feels important, necessary, tears itself a long thin bloody strip down the middle of herself. Lays it out raw. Flayed from the inside. A clever hand, wielding a too-sharp knife. She can see it glitter, as she tells him to knock it off, tells him it was over the line, he's her boss, they work together, she can't, doesn't. Couldn't.
Whatever it is he wants, needs, she can't give him. Won't. She gets it. She does. The wanting. To feel something. Anything. Closeness, to someone else. The sweet certainty of someone's hand in his. A kiss that feels like waking up. Smiles and teasing, friendship and laughter. She's seen it all.
But it doesn't exist. Not for her. Not with him.
Not with anyone.
And this time, when she stalks away, she doesn't look back.
Which would be fine, if she weren't also walking straight into the path of a red-fletched dart, held by a surly-looking Graham. He looks more than a few in, himself, and that just pisses her off more.
"Emma," Ruby says, somewhere nearby, bright and cheerful. "What can I get you?"
Graham's staring her down. Like he hadn't all day. She notices that his hair is unruly, his eyes glazed and red. He looks like he just stumbled out of the bushes somewhere.
Again.
Whatever. It's not her problem. She's not here to fix anyone, no matter what Henry might think. "Nothing," she says, and heads for the door. She's almost there, reaching for handle, nearly home free, when --
zzzzzzTHNK
"What the hell?"
She's turning, indignant, and it's all snapping in her chest, the day, the jacket, Miami, Nebulon-vodka or whatever the hell it was, the woman who's story was like reading her own in a book, and Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell? "You could have hit me!"
Aware that she sounds petulant, more than anything else. Everyone's eyes on her, sending prickles skating over her skin. Making her want to cross her arms. Slip into the background. Anything but this. Public, humiliating, everything they've been avoiding all day. There's no reason for it. None.
Not that Graham seems to have gotten that memo. He's sauntering towards her. Lazy long steps that are too loose. Nothing like his usual grace and precision. Graham, who never misses. Graham, who wants to point out, here, now, in front of everyone, that she's been avoiding him. Which she hasn't. They spent all day together, working. "I'm not avoiding you," she points out, lowering her voice. Sidney, nearby, leans in to try and hear her, sending a bad-tempered flare of annoyance racing through her blood. She feels like the simmering pot on top of a stove in a house that's on fire. "I just don't want to have this conversation."
And when she tells him she doesn't care, she means it.
But he doesn't listen. Of course he doesn't listen. He's drunk and upset and it's not like she doesn't feel for the guy, okay, she does. and it's not like she hadn't--
But that's clearly been all wrong, and she's been all wrong, just like usual, so he just needs to let it go, stop following her down the street, smelling so strongly of whiskey she gets a whiff of it every time he gets far enough in front of her to get her to stop. But he won't. Stop.
She doesn't want to be reminded of their drinks at the bar, or what they'd sort of started feeling like they were easing into. Something like friendship. Partnership, maybe. Or -- okay, maybe something more, alright? She'd thought he saw her. Her. Not the bounty hunter. Not Henry's estranged biological mother. Not the mess she is. Just her. Just Emma.
Whoever Emma is.
Teasing her with baked goods. Coming back to the office with coffee, or hot chocolate. Talking long hours over beers at Granny's. And it hurts. It's embarrassing. It's humiliating, shameful. To have felt -- to have thought.
She needs to nip it in the bud, and tonight's as good a night as any. Besides. "It's none of my business. Really."
But he won't let her move past. Takes her arm, desperation in the clutch of his fingers, which, why? What's the point? Why does she need to understand anything? She understands plenty. And still, he won't let her go.
Even though it's true. They're all adults. He can sleep with whoever he wants. It's none of her business. None of it is. What is there to talk about, standing in the middle of the street, feeling her chest lace tighter with every breath and hating it, this weakness that she just can't shake no matter how hard she tries, even with that pendant hanging heavy against her collarbone, a reminder with every painful tap of metal against thin skin.
Demanding why. Voice raising. Trying to hold onto her temper, feeling it slip through her fingers like water, turning into something that's tumbling all around her, muddling everything except his face. Blue eyes. Hair awry. The pain of not being the one who gets to push it back, off his forehead, flushed cheeks, and where did that thought come from? Is it the same place he's standing, telling her he can't stand this, like she can't stand it? That he doesn't want this, like she doesn't want it? That the way she's looking at him --
"Why do you care about the way I look at you?"
A question she shouldn't ask. Never. It's not safe. She doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want him to care. If he cares, she might. If he cares, she...
And then his hands are on the sides of her face, cupping her head, and his mouth is on hers, whiskey-sweet, soft and warm and prickly from stubble, and she can feel the heat from his body, feverish, frantic, and she should push him away now, has to, can't care, can't let herself.
But it's still too long until she does. Even a split second later. Too long. Too late. Yelling at him, as something that feels important, necessary, tears itself a long thin bloody strip down the middle of herself. Lays it out raw. Flayed from the inside. A clever hand, wielding a too-sharp knife. She can see it glitter, as she tells him to knock it off, tells him it was over the line, he's her boss, they work together, she can't, doesn't. Couldn't.
Whatever it is he wants, needs, she can't give him. Won't. She gets it. She does. The wanting. To feel something. Anything. Closeness, to someone else. The sweet certainty of someone's hand in his. A kiss that feels like waking up. Smiles and teasing, friendship and laughter. She's seen it all.
But it doesn't exist. Not for her. Not with him.
Not with anyone.
And this time, when she stalks away, she doesn't look back.