A Fairytale of New York: |
***
The phone rings and she waits anxiously for a reply.
“Fitzgerald,” he answers shortly.
She lets out a silent sigh of relief and suddenly is caught in a moment of panic where she doesn't know what to say.
“Hello?” he asks.
She remembers to speak. “Hey, it's me.”
“Samantha, hey. How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.” She hears someone call out Martin's name in the background, Jack she thinks. “Have I called at a bad time?”
“I'm really sorry, but Jack needs me in a meeting. I'm going to have to go,” he sounds apologetic.
“Martin, wait…” she starts, but again she falters. She doesn't know what to say.
“Do you want to talk later? I can call you back,” he asks, sounding concerned.
“I don't want to bother you,” she replies.
“It's no bother; I have no plans for this evening.”
Impulsively, she asks, “then maybe you'd like to come over for dinner? I can do Chinese take out.” She cringes, not wanting to sound quite so eager.
“That'd be great,” he replies, and he sounds happy at the suggestion.
They quickly make arrangements to meet at 7pm at her apartment before he leaves for his meeting.
She puts down the phone, satisfied.
But later when she thinks about it more, she starts to worry. She is uncertain where she stands; she knows now that she wants him, wants to be more than friends, but she still doesn't know what he wants. And that's a major failing of her plan.
She decides that his sounding happy at her invitation is a positive sign; obviously he wants to be around her as a friend if nothing else. But it's the nothing else that worries her.
At some point, she knows that he must have liked her; hopefully he wouldn't have married her otherwise. But then that was months ago, back in Las Vegas, back in a haze of numerous cocktails and beers and shots, and that doesn't help her argument.
And there was the almost-kiss on the sidewalk. But that was weeks ago and there has been nothing since, and she has convinced herself that it was just a momentary lapse where past feelings became too intertwined with the present.
She's not used to feeling this conflicted or caring so much about what other people might think and it bothers her. But she has no control over her thoughts and feelings.
She gets out his letters, the ones he sent before their annulment was official, and re-reads them. She looks at the note he wrote just yesterday, “call me anytime”. That was about more than friendship, right?
She groans in frustration and puts all the letters back in the drawer where they belong and decides to get over it and do something more constructive. Albeit temporarily.
Somehow she gets through the rest of the afternoon without obsessing too much.
***
He wanted to talk to her more when she called earlier. He wondered last night, afterwards, whether giving her his phone number was the right decision or whether the note said all that it should. Was it right to play it so safe, not knowing if she would understand exactly what he meant by the note, or if he would read too much into it if she didn't and called because she wanted his friendship.
Because at the moment he finds it almost unbearably irritating that he doesn't know what this evening is supposed to be about.
He wishes that Jack hadn't hurried him into the meeting so that he could have had time to ask more questions and know immediately what her intentions were.
He supposes that he will have to take it at face value: he said he had no plans, she felt sorry for him and wanted to talk to him, and she put two and two together and thought it would be a friendly gesture to invite him over.
It's easier when he thinks about it that way. Because when he allows himself to think about the alternative, the excitement and anxiety that arise are almost intolerable when he knows that he's setting himself up for a fall.
Deciding that it is unquestionably a gesture of friendship, he makes it through the day.
***
She took a good half hour to choose what to wear and all the time mentally berated herself for caring so much about what she looked like for an evening with a friend. The main problem is that she's still not convinced that it is just an evening with a friend; she certainly wants it to be more than that. It's just a matter of ascertaining whether he has the same thoughts.
Nothing she tries on is quite right for the occasion: some outfits are too suggestive or dressy; others too casual or unflattering. She needs some new clothes, she decides. She has the additional criteria of trying to cover up her bandage as much as possible and she doesn't have enough tops with a high neck for her to be satisfied with anything she tries.
She eventually settles on a sleeveless black turtleneck top and her “best” pair of jeans but isn't entirely happy with the result. It'll have to do, though, as she runs out of time.
***
He worries about being too prompt but he's never been happy with tardiness and so arriving at a couple of minutes past the hour seems acceptable.
He's nervous as he presses the buzzer for her building. She lets him into the building and he attempts to walk slowly to her apartment, trying all the time to remind himself that this is just an evening between friends and nothing more.
He knocks on her door and she answers. He tries not to show how nervous he is and is marginally successful.
There is a moment of awkward silence and he shatters it by handing her the bottle of wine that he has brought over specially. She accepts it gratefully, finally remembering to invite him in.
“How are you feeling?” he asks as she shuts the door behind him. “Recovering from yesterday okay?”
She smiles slightly. “I'll be fine,” she comments. “Just a couple of scratches left over.”
“Scratches?” he questions disbelievingly. He takes her hand, briefly studying the stitches there. She shivers at the contact; heat travels down her arm from where their hands touch and a fluttering warm sensation emanates from her stomach.
He lets go, feeling awkward that he impulsively reacted as he did. He doesn't realise that she is disappointed as he drops her hand.
She invites him to sit on the couch as she goes into the kitchen to retrieve the take out food she has purchased.
“I've got beef chow mein and sweet and sour chicken. I hope that's okay,” she asks as she brings them through, holding the bag in her good hand, and then places it on the table.
“That's fine,” he replies. “It's what I usually choose.”
She goes back into the kitchen to get plates and glasses and then joins him on the couch.
He opens and pours out the wine. They eat and drink in relative silence for a while; one glass of wine followed shortly by another as he attempts to overcome nerves and awkwardness. Music plays softly in the background and he concentrates on the jazzy lilt of the song.
“How are you really?” he asks eventually.
She shrugs. “I've got to go into work tomorrow and talk through with Jack about what happened and I can't say I'm looking forward to it. I think Jack's going to make me go see a therapist again.”
He doesn't push her to talk, just listens.
“And my neck and hand are hurting like hell from where a guy tried to kill me yesterday, but I'll be fine. Just looking forward to the next time,” she continues bitterly. She drinks more from the glass and he doesn't question as she fills up their glasses again.
As she drinks she becomes more confused about the purpose of the evening. She doesn't mean for it to be an evening of her complaining about her life to him. And even as she didn't know what to think earlier in the day, she knew that she wanted the evening to be about them; about their getting to know each other better and becoming closer. With the additional support of alcohol she gains the confidence to try and discover whether her earlier suspicions about his thoughts of her are confirmed.
She changes the course of the conversation slightly. “Thanks for looking out for me last night,” she comments, attempting nonchalance.
He shrugs. “It's what friends are for,” he replies. She is disappointed that this is how he pictures their relationship. But on reflection, she knows that she can't expect more if she is unwilling to ask for more. She decides to question him further.
There is a brief pause as she decides what to say. She wants to find out exactly what his thoughts are on their past in order to ascertain if her suspicions were correct. Why did he marry her, she wonders. She's been thinking about it all day, even as she tried to distract herself with cleaning her apartment and getting ready for the evening. In fact, if she's honest with herself, it's something that she's been asking herself for many months. It's something they've never really addressed and she finds herself needing to know. She hopes that the answer to that question will answer other questions; questions she desperately needs resolving in order to know what happens next.
“Why do you think we got married?” she asks slowly.
“We were drunk,” he replies eventually, avoiding the real answer. He is confused about this new line of questioning and the apparent non sequitur.
“I've been plenty drunk before,” she comments.
He pauses. He knows what he wants to say, but wonders if it's appropriate.
“Tell me the truth,” she says.
“Because you seduced me with your knowledge of Ocean's Eleven,” he laughs. She looks at him, imploring him to be serious. “Because the first time I saw you, I knew,” he tells her. “And I'd never felt that like before. And maybe it was because I was drunk but I knew that I couldn't lose you. Marriage seemed like the right decision at the time.”
It answers her question about the past but doesn't satisfy her curiosity about the present. “And what about now?” she probes. “Do you regret it?”
“Being married to you?” he asks. He laughs. “I regret many things, but never that. Why the sudden curiosity?”
“I've been thinking about it. Today, yesterday, the last few months. I've been thinking how we've been avoiding talking about it; how I've avoided talking about it, as though we're trying to pretend that it never happened. But it did happen. And that makes it so much more confusing.”
“Makes what so much more confusing?” he wonders.
She takes a deep breath as she debates what to say. She's gone this far down the avenue of thought that she cannot leave it now. “I can't think about you – about us – without thinking about Vegas. Every time I think that we're just friends I remember that that's not the way it started out.” She trails off; she thinks she's said more than enough given her general discomfort at talking about real things; about things that matter to her.
He sees her closing off. “You wonder if we'll ever be able to just be friends?” he asks. She nods. He takes a deep breath, knowing that what he says next will change things, but he knows that he has to tell her. “I don't think we can be friends.”
She looks confused; and, he wonders, maybe a little disappointed.
“I can't be friends with you because I know what it's like to be more than friends. And those feelings that caused me to want to marry you in Vegas haven't faded. And they're always going to get in the way of us being friends because even though that's all you want, I'm always going to want more.”
She says nothing and he knows he's said too much. Dejected, he starts to stand. “I'd better get going,” he tells her, “sorry about… well…”
He looks at her one last time before standing. Except that he's prevented from standing fully as she grabs his arm and lightly pulls him towards her. He falls in her direction, only stopping from falling onto her by putting his hands out behind her and onto the couch. She releases his arm and uses her hand to raise his chin slightly so that he looks directly into her eyes. He wonders briefly if this is leading where he thinks and although he has no problem with that conclusion, he's slightly confused. He had convinced himself that she only thought of him as a friend. And then she smiles widely and he finds himself smiling back. And he knows.
She looks at him while she puts her hand behind his head and gently brings him forward. Their eyes locked, she moves her head slightly to the right, and he mimics her movements. Breathing deeply, both hesitant and anxious, she stops for a second almost as though ensuring that he's a willing participant. She licks her lower lip in anticipation, her eyes growing dark with desire. He takes the cue and leans in further of his own accord and their lips meet tentatively, lightly and without expectation. It's still enough to make her stomach tingle with excitement and nerves. She presses her lips against his harder, deepening the kiss, and slowly he starts to lean his body further into hers. She becomes aware of his hand pressing on her shoulder and she moves slightly so that he can move into a sitting position. He complies, all the time deepening the kiss, opening his mouth and allowing their tongues to intertwine and dance against each other, hungry and demanding. She feels the heat from his body pressing against hers, as close as he can get without removing clothing; feels his hand supporting her head, gently moving between the strands of her hair, playing with it between his fingers. The heat spreads out across her body and as their kissing continues so does her arousal. And it's not awkward as she had anticipated: it feels right.
And it's at this time that she comes to the conclusion that this is it; not just friendship, not just lust, but something deeper, more undefined, something she hasn't felt before and cannot name. But while she can't describe it, she is happy with its existence.
He feels her drawing back from him slightly and is inexpressibly disappointed when their lips cease their contact. However, as she places her forehead against his, he knows that she is not withdrawing from him, but is merely attempting to catch her breath.
“Why?” he questions, breathless.
“I want more, too,” she tells him as she crushes her lips against his. He smiles against her.
Slowly, she pulls his shirt out and moves her hands beneath it, feeling his hot skin. She draws circles leisurely on his back.
He laughs. “It tickled when you did that last time and it still tickles now.”
She pulls away from him slightly, looking into his intensely blue eyes. “I don't remember last time,” she answers with an innocent smile.
“Well, we'll have to resolve that,” he comments with a wry grin. He leans in and kisses her deeply. “We'll have to resolve that very soon."
***
End of fic!!
***
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