Summary: How can I remember things that never happened?
Disclaimer: This is me shamelessly using Aaron's characters for my own story. This is you not telling on me so Aaron won't get mad.
Author's Notes: Debate Camp made me mess around with style. Delayed Reaction was the first story that came from that. This is the second.
This one is completely and totally, one hundred percent for Lydia. (And a little bit for Luna and Priya, too.) 'Cause Lydia encouraged and Lydia beta'd and Lydia convinced me the style was good freaky and not bad freaky, after all
How Can I Remember?
White Star 2
You leaned on the railing of the balcony, overlooking the street. It wasn't a busy street, and it was late, but there were cars there just then. You turned around, gripping the cigar, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "It's going to snow," I said and you looked back at the dark skies.
You were cold, out on my balcony without your jacket on, and I must've been cold too when I walked out to join you. I leaned on the railing too, and looked down to the street. My hair fell in my face. "We should go back inside," you said.
I shrugged and you couldn't help but notice that I was trying to suppress a shudder. You could have draped an arm around me. You could have gone inside and left me to follow. Neither seemed like a good option just then. Instead, you stood there, leaning against the wall, watching the light from inside highlight my back.
"We have to be at Andrews in three hours," I remarked and you didn't reply. You didn't object when I reached my arm over and confiscated the cigar. You were amused by the image, a six foot woman in a slick business suit holding a cigar like it was a pen and leaning on the wooden railing half her height.
The thought of kissing me crossed your mind.
Instead, you rested your head against the wall, looked up at the sky. It was cloudy, starless, dark. It was going to snow. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw me looking at you. "What?" you muttered.
"Nothing," I said, but you didn't believe me. You smiled and straightened up.
I stood up, too, the cigar held awkwardly high. Maybe I was afraid I'd burn my pants. I turned around and walked back inside, and you waited a moment before you followed. I was always the one who complained about the smell and the smoke and the holes in the furniture.
You followed me in, finally, and found me in the dining room. You opened the window to let the smoke out. You wanted to grab the cigar back, but in a moment of courtesy let it go. Instead you said, "Ritchie made a statement about the referendum in Pennsylvania." I didn't reply, so you added, "In opposition to affirmative action."
I closed my eyes, lips around the cigar, and you watched, waited for a comment. I was, after all, the one who'd have to deal with the question if it came up. I was the one who was expected to help you come up with the answer for the President to have in his pocket. You were starting to get the impression I wasn't going to let you bring up the subject tonight.
"CJ," you said and I puffed out a cloud of smoke so thick that for just an instant you couldn't see my eyes.
"Give it to Sam," I responded and the matter was closed.
I looked at the cigar, examined it an inch from my face. All that was left of it was about as long as my thumb, maybe less. I took a few steps into the kitchen, tossed it into the sink, ran a little water to put it out. You saw no sign of hesitation, of considering to return it. It annoyed you.
There was something you wanted to say, but you didn't quite know how to put it. There was a half-disappointed look in my eyes, as if I was chastising you for that. You closed the window, then, and there was still the residue of smoke in the air, the faint odor.
You wondered what I was thinking, knew you probably had no chance of finding out. It was like that more often than not. You were never sure what it was about me that made you fumble your words, always keep silent. You looked at me again, and I returned a glare. It was a piercing look. Suddenly, words weren't necessary. "Words are often just a mask," you remembered, and couldn't attach a name to the quote.
I stepped forward, stopped on the line where the tile changed color, the separator between kitchen and dining room. You looked up with great effort, and found yourself inches from my face. You closed your eyes, and when you opened them I wasn't there, but my shoulder rubbed yours as I walked past you.
I stepped into the living room and you followed. And in that strange room-to-room progression, you thought, the bedroom must be next. You didn't terribly mind.
The open french doors to the balcony let in a breeze of cold air, and it struck your back. You grabbed my hand, got an odd grip on my knuckles, and I stopped at full arm's length, still tugging a bit. Like a puppet dangling by its string.
I turned around slowly, a surprised look on my face. You wondered if you misunderstood, let go of my hand. I stared at you for a moment, a long one, and you struggled not to look away. Then I brought my hand up slowly, took off my glasses. And you were sure you saw the trace of a smile.
You wanted to grab me, both hands firm on my shoulders, and pull me in toward you. You weren't sure how, but suddenly we were even close enough for you to do it. One of us must have moved. It might have even been you.
You waited. There was a feeling brewing in your chest, a warmth, a surge of adrenaline. I twirled my glasses around by the wire and for a moment you wondered if I was going to drop them to the ground. No, probably not. We were still two adults, not two teenagers swept away by passion.
You would have liked to be swept away by passion.
Instead you find yourself standing, not moving, hardly breathing, fighting inhibition. It could have been a scene out of a forties movie, cutting back and forth between closeups of our faces, capturing the meaningful looks and the silence. The silence you were okay with. The inaction was driving you mad.
You moved slowly, a step closer, hands reached out to grab my elbows. Moving in to kiss me. You never got the chance.
I turned away, suddenly, broke free of your grasp. And I was two steps away, my back turned to you. Your gaze sank to your shoes. Maybe you really did misunderstand, maybe you weren't decisive enough and this was your doubt echoing back.
I spared you the uncomfortable moment and picked up the remote. CNN business news chased away the silence. I sat down, you stayed standing for a while, still trying to sort things out in your mind. A play by play; what had gone wrong.
You joined me, eventually, in time for World News, and you were not disappointed, but not surprised, that I stuck to my end of the couch and you stuck to yours. The bulletin announced that the President was going to Iowa. You caught me sneaking a glance toward you.
That warmth in your chest was gone now, replaced by an anvil, a vacuum. A little bit of pain, a little bit of guilt. And I was still looking toward you.
You looked away.