[narrative] stuck inside your dream so long
3:21 a.m., October 22, 2004
Jake's sister looks completely out of place, and if he hadn't grown out of it by now he thinks he might kiss her full on her small, slightly disappointed smile as the cop slides back the door of his holding cell.
"Hey, little brother," she says, both hands on the strap of her purse, and he rubs his wrists on the way to her borrowed car and promises he'll pay her back. Both of them know he really can't. She seems to think it's okay.
*
3:21 a.m., October 22, 2007
Gabriel's curled around her, so she can't get up, even if she'd like a glass of water. Her throat isn't burning, and she thinks the rain put the idea in her head. Of course, maybe she could just drink the air; it's humid enough she thinks she could, sometimes.
It's not that she's worried about waking him up, though that happens more often than not, but just that this feels perfect and she'd hate disturbing it. Her back pressed against his chest just so, comforting arm curled around her waist, breath warm and steady on the top of her head...she's learned to enjoy the heat, and she's not sure how she'll adjust to colder nights. Maybe more blankets.
She times her breathing to his, filling her lungs when his empty, and this eventually lulls her back to sleep.
*
9:43 a.m., October 22, 2004
Neither of them felt like sleeping, so they're parked in a remote post office's front lot, the same place they watched the sun rise. Empty McDonald's wrappers lie between them, and she's in the contentedly warmed phase of fast food binges.
"So...seriously, Pretty In Pink or The Breakfast Club?" She asks, again, and Jake rolls his eyes (both set in bruises) and sinks down into the passenger seat.
"Gay," he declares, "Both of them."
"Shut up." She flicks a straw at him and he laughs. "They're good."
*
9:43 a.m., October 22, 2007
"Okay- yes, I am writing this down, don't worry- the 25th? Yes, that's perfect. Thank you. We'll see you then. You have a good day too. Bye."
Madeline hangs up the phone and smiles at the girl working the front desk, handing her the agreed upon the agreed upon bills for using the phone. She feels the curious and brief glance her scars get when they flash from under her sleeve like a physical touch, and for a second she wonders if the girl did touch her- but no, of course not, and with another round of shy smiles she leaves.
The information for their appointment in White Rock is folded between the fingers of one hand as she walks, and when she opens it up again in their hotel room the ink is slightly smeared by her sweat.
*
10:22 a.m., October 22, 2004
"He just needs a place to stay for a few days, okay?" She has her back turned on the car, but she knows Jake is watching her use the payphone, so she doesn't hunch her shoulders as much as she wants to. "That's all. Please, Alex. I know you have enough room, and I'm a little- I'm not guilt-tripping you, I just think it'd be a good idea if-"
The phone clicks and goes silent, but she keeps going.
"Okay. I see. I love you too." She hangs up and heads back to the car, pasting on a smile as she slides into the driver's seat. "I guess you're staying with me, after all. He's got a boyfriend over, you know how it goes."
Jake stares at her, and she'd do just about anything to wipe that suspicion off her brother's face.
"Yeah. I do."
And there's not much to do besides put the car in gear and take him home.
*
10:22 a.m., October 22, 2007
There's a little boy who comes around to the small, overgrown courtyard of their hotel- she suspects he's related to the girl at the front desk, but has no way of asking. She smiles at him when he comes by, either way.
At first, she'd thought that he stared at her because she was a stranger, and that was all, but when his soccer ball bounced off the wall near her head and she caught it reflexively, she learned better. He wasn't really seeing her; he was seeing what her t-shirts let show, her arms not much bigger than her bones and covered in hard, pale scar tissue, and that was what he looked at instead of her face.
She doesn't disagree, because she's seen her face in the mirror lately, and she wouldn't want to look at that either if she didn't have to.
She wonders if they ever talk about her at home, this boy and his sister. She hopes not; it'd be depressing, the stories they could tell, the reasons they could invent for her to be here.
*
3:17 p.m., October 22, 2004
She returns from giving her neighbour back her keys to find her brother drinking milk in the living room, skeptically eyeing the public broadcast channel, and once she realizes he didn't hear her come back she leans against the doorframe and watches him.
When he's not acting tough for her sake, her little brother curls up on the couch in bare feet and holds himself with the kind of exaggerated care that confirms her suspicisions that he was lying about only getting hit in the face.
And there's this brief, fleeting moment of clarity, when she realizes something so profound and honest that she promises herself she'll never forget it. It's something about how everyone, each of us, is only honest so far as they think they're loved and dishonesty happens when you don't know that you can trust someone else to keep loving you- but she does forget, or remember only for other people.
"I don't have cable," she says, stepping into the room with a half-broken ache in her voice she thinks he picks up on, "We should watch a movie, though. I'll call my boss later."
He wips his mouth with the back of his hand and nods, and she goes to check her shelves for something he won't completely hate.
*
3:17 p.m., October 22, 2007
Every day, she waits until Gabriel's gone to see Mohinder to check her family photos.
There aren't many left, because of they way she had to sneak them out- in a cloth bag strapped to her stomach with bandages so they wouldn't crinkle and attract attention. Eighteen. She's counted and recounted and double-checked more times than she remembers, and that's still all that keeps coming up.
It boggles her, sometimes, but that's all she has. She even left Karen's letters behind, though she brought the last picture she sent, which means she has nineteen pictures in total.
These are the only pictures of her exact, true family she's ever going to have, and she looks at them and has to know that. That there is no force on Earth that can put the photographs of the Christmas of '98 in her hands, for example, and she will never have pictures of nieces and nephews to force on co-workers.
Every day, her family is still not going to call her, and she's starting to forget their phone numbers and addresses.
*
4:34 p.m., October 22, 2004
"Hey."
She glances over at him as another car blows up on the TV screen, protagonist screeching to a halt and pulling her last gun from the waistband of his pants.
"Uh-huh?"
"Um..." He meets her eyes only for a second before dropping them back down to his lap, rubbing his wrist. "Thanks. You know. For coming. I, um, I really...yeah."
Yeah.
She smiles, softly, and leans over to still his hand. "Any time."
He looks up through his eyelashes, always thicker than hers, and smiles the sheepish, little kid with his hand in the cookie jar smile that she thinks he saves for special occasions and her.
"But don't make a habit of it, either," she amends, laughing quietly as she settles back down to finish watching the movie. He grins and stretches out on his end, feet brushing against hers.
This is when she knows everything is going to be okay.
*
4:34 p.m., October 22, 2007
She's put her pictures away by the time the hinges make their creaking announcement of someone coming into the room, and she turns to face the door with a smile. She can't wait to tell them about the house viewings, and then they can plan for going to see them, and talk about mortages, and get ready to move on.
Out. Move out.
That's what she meant.