Open Wide
Title: Open Wide
Pairing: Naomi/Emily, Naomi/Sophia, Naomi/Cook
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 5130
Summary: No one's got it all.
Spoilers: 4x02
Disclaimer: Not my universe, not my characters. I just try, really, really hard, to understand why they do the things they do.
We’re trying to faithful
but we’re cheating
cheating
cheating.
- Hero by Regina Spektor
That gnawing, frustrating feeling when you’re holding a mug of hot tea and you stumble on your own two feet. That free-falling moment when you’re on one foot, and you know, you just know you’re not going to make it: The cup will slip from your grasp, it will spill everywhere, it will stain the carpet. You will have to clean it up, and nothing will ever be the same again.
It’s actually nothing like that.
She wishes it could be like that, wishes the feeling could be so out of her control, something inevitable, like falling for Emily. Everything regarding Emily is out of her control. She didn’t choose to kiss her, something inside, something so very much stronger than her, drags her to Emily. That’s the feeling. At first they were like angels, tiny floating butterflies and fairies that encircled Emily’s head even back in middle school, inviting and enticing. Something so small, is all Naomi can describe it as. Something so small, and so powerful, like a tiny magnet pulling her in.
Then it grows: It’s a bigger magnet, it’s an entire fishing net, it’s two very large unseen white gloves grabbing her and not letting her go. When they make love, Naomi starts crying more often than not, holding onto Emily like a lifeline, her warmth surrounding her and heating every already hot organ. Everything is too hot, she can’t breathe. It’s so much, Emily is just too, too much.
And yet so little.
It is fucking terrifying, that she’s turned into everything she doesn’t understand: The lovey-dovey couple, the ones who send smoochey text messages, who separate with ‘I love you’ and reunite with a sloppy kiss and coy ‘Hello you’. Everything is ‘us’, everything is ‘our’, everything is ‘them’. The lesbians. The girls who royally fucked over The Fitch Parents, the girls who Don’t Give a Damn What You Think, Thank You Very Much. Only Naomi did, very much so, care. Because suddenly it’s all just too, too much.
Because Emily’s wants to go to La Paz and Naomi’s thinking, ‘Whoa, whoa, I like school’ and Emily’s saying they can soak up the culture and fuck on the beach and watch the sunrise and Naomi’s thinking ‘That’d be great but.’ And they decide, Emily decides, to go. And Naomi hasn’t the heart to tell Emily it’s just not okay. Because she smiles, that terribly sweet smile and kisses her, and created memories of Emily on a hot, hot night, far too sweaty to wear anything at all against a blue-red sunset is too wonderful, too carefree, to ignore.
And Naomi’s wants, and cares, and dreams are no longer important. Only that she spend every moment with Emily. Emily is life now. Emily is everything. And what the fuck. Who decided that for her? She didn’t sign up for it.
University of London has a fucking kickass Poli Sci major that she and her mum have always - always - talked about. Open Day comes along and Naomi thinks it’s fucking mental to have to ask, ‘Oy Ems, can I go?’ because what the fuck, Emily doesn’t own her schedule, too. They’re still individuals, just a couple.
In retrospect, she knew it was wrong. She figures that’s why she didn’t tell Emily at all.
She misses her on the way there. The train ride is long and boring and she’s already finished the history book she’s brought along by the first hour. She looks out the windows instead, watches the trees pass by, the empty streets and broken-down houses. Wonders, ‘When did I become so fucking dependant on her that I can’t spend one measly train ride alone’
The Open Day isn’t so interesting either. Kids are piling in, the sort Naomi hates, all rude and pushy. Where the fuck are you going in such a rush the uni’s not going anywhere she wants to yell. Instead she mumbles, ‘wanker’ when one particularly large brute shoves in front of her. She feels a tap on her shoulder then, and turns.
Sophie, maybe. The girl in politics class, so very quiet.
(She’s noticed only because Emily had told her, ‘I was always too shy to speak up in class when you were around. You should notice the quiet ones more often, Naoms, they’re nice to get to know, too’ and Naomi had responded with a kiss to her forehead, ‘I like noticing you.’)
Sophie was particularly quiet, Naomi had noticed, only spoke up when the teacher asked a question to the entire class. On other times, she just sat there, a bit sad, seemingly a bit misunderstood. In fact there was probably something undeniably lonely about her that Naomi found struck a bit too close to home, and so she distanced herself from it. But today she’s alone at this godforsaken Open Day, wondering what Emily’s up to, and so she smiles. “Hi there,” she says.
“Hi,” Sophie responds shyly, “You go to Roundview.”
“That I do,” Naomi responds, “Sophie, right?”
“Sophia,” she clarifies.
“Sophia,” Naomi clarifies with a nod, “It’s a nice name. I’m Naomi.” She puts her hand out to shake it, watches Sophia hesitate, take the booklet out of her right hand to put in her left and shakes Naomi’s hand. It is a Poli Sci booklet. “Political Science, then?” she asks, motioning to the booklet.
“Oh, yes,” she responds, as though she’s just realized it herself, “For a minor, but maybe Fine Arts as a major,” she says flightily.
“Me too, for a major,” Naomi says, flashing her own booklet. “Shall we head on tour together?” she asks dramatically, opening her arms, flashing Sophia forward.
She laughs. It’s different from Emily’s. Louder, less deep, more like bursting forth, as though she hasn’t laughed in a while. Naomi remembers why she enjoys being funny sometimes. They go on tour together, talking about Kieran, joking about Roundview, joking about Gordon Brown, joking and laughing and Sophia’s got a great sense of humour, albeit a bit shy. She’s in the same year as Naomi, but she’s been with the cadets since she was fourteen.
“You believe in the army?” Naomi asks at lunch when they’re sitting under a tree, “Are you a colonizer?” she asks in mock shock and scandal.
Sophia laughs again, this time a giggle. “I work with the National Council for Voluntary Youth Services. We help on a smaller scale, with small communities. I help out a bit more with the children, I teach some art classes.”
“Really?” Naomi asks, genuinely interested.
Sophia nods. “Initiative, Responsibility and Equality. Youth empowerment.”
And it’s all so very fascinating. In a little under two hours, Naomi’s fallen for this life. This university life of attending courses taught by teachers who’ve actually made a difference, published books, hold rallies. She’s imagined studying and laughing over current world issues with Sophia during their mutual breaks, maybe seeing those independent political satire films that have been coming out by the bulk recently. She’s imagined being a part of the cadets during her free time, changing the world one small step at a time, making an imprint on it even during her school years, preparing for the larger steps that’ll be taken later. For a tiny, tiny moment, she forgets all about Emily, actually.
When they’re back on the train she remembers immediately. It’s the fucking trees. It’s the fucking empty seat next to Sophia. It’s about how life doesn’t mould around your wants, how you have to twist and turn to have everything you need. It isn’t fair, to choose between this, what she’s always wanted, and Emily, what she’s recently grasped. She can’t breathe without either. Can’t imagine a life without Emily, what sort of life is that? Coming home from cadets, to an empty place, without Emily to sink into, to fall against, to tell about her great, productive day, and see that proud smile on her face.
And she can’t imagine going to La Paz, can’t imagine the complete and utter waste of time of it all. Yes, the beaches are lovely, yes the people are lovely, yes travelling is lovely, Yes Ms Fitch you are lovelier than everything in the world. But what would we do there?
Sophia notices her silence, notices how longingly she’s staring at the seat beside her. “Are you alright?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Naomi says absently, and even she doesn’t buy that answer.
Sophia shifts, gets up from her seat and sits beside Naomi. “You seem sad,” she says in her own sad voice.
So do you, Naomi thinks angrily all of a sudden, shifts her head away from Sophia, looks out the window. Fuck. So fucking pathetic, Naomi, when did this happen? She turns back to Sophia, her head heavy.
She’s actually quite pretty, Sophia, with long curly dark brown hair, so different from Emily’s red. But it falls on her loosely, not the way Emily’s hair seems to curl around her, frame her, belong to her. Sophia’s hair, much like everything else around her, seems to just-so-happen to be around her. Naomi fights an urge to caress Sophia’s hair, calm and soothe and coo to her that life isn’t as hard as it seems. In that moment she’s overwhelmed completely with a déjà-vu. Too many times has Emily told her life, love, loss isn’t quite as hard as it seems, so long as you have someone to hold onto.
“I had to tell a lie to come to come here,” Naomi blurts out, ashamed of the humiliation that accompanies the admittance.
Sophia’s eyes widen. “So did I,” she says softly, the same embarrassment present in her voice.
What is that feeling, Naomi wonders for a split second, and realizes it’s the comforting feeling of having someone understand. Not trying to understand, not claiming they do in that horribly sentimental ‘I know just how you feel’ way when they haven’t the slightest. No, there was something about Sophia that was genuine.
“Parents?” Naomi asks.
“My brother,” Sophia responds quietly, “My mum. They’re a bit overprotective. They don’t...understand.”
Naomi nods, and Sophia drops her head a bit, and Naomi’s overwhelmed by the sadness in this girl. It’s closing in on her just the way Emily does. She remembers herself, fourteen years old, maybe fifteen, remembers the isolation and sadness, the feeling of ‘Nobody actually understands’, the frustration of not having anyone there, the frustration of the world just being too fucking stupid. She slips her hand on top of Sophia’s and gives a good, long squeeze. “Yeah,” she says.
Sophia smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and Naomi’s saddened once more. It is a gloomy day indeed. “Sorry,” Naomi says, and Sophia raises her head once more, “But you seem...sad.” She pauses. “You seem sad, too.” It’s surprising and comforting how they’ve both honestly said that sentence to one another at the same time.
Sophia looks away again, but doesn’t shift her hand. “I was hoping University could...”
Naomi waits silently. Emily taught her that.
Sophia licks her lips. “Could be a way out.” She turns back to Naomi, eyes a bit more red and swollen than they were before. “Maybe I’d be able to find something there that could make this all worth it.”
“Worth it?” Naomi asks.
Sophia nods. “This world,” she laughs spitefully, motioning around the train, “This...this whole world. I’m tired of it all.”
Naomi nods, can only nod.
“So tired of everything, I’m always so restless. And I don’t see the point of any of it,” she continues, “I wake up and go to school, and I don’t know why. I go to cadets and I don’t know why.” She asks Naomi with her eyes and her lips, “What’s the point of it all?”
It’s all too much. It’s all just too fucking much, the déjà-vu is terrifying, and it only makes Naomi grasp the girl’s hand harder. It’s like a fucking time machine. As though she’s travelled back in time. So surreal. Everything about this girl is so fucking surreal. “Listen,” she says slowly, choosing her words carefully, “I know how you feel,” she says firstly, waits for the acknowledgement in Sophia’s eyes, “I was like that, too. You wake up...alone. Even if you’re in a houseful of people, you wake up alone, and cold. And you go to bed, and everything’s just so monotone and cold, and alone. Or you’re walking, and you feel alone. And it’s painful, and no one understands, and everyone just pretends they do. But no one does, and that’s okay.” She pauses and laughs. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”
Sophia smiles. “What?”
“One day,” Naomi says slowly, laughing again because come on, “You’re going to find someone.”
Sophia’s smile wavers a bit.
“You’re going to find someone who’s going to show you,” she pauses again, “Just how great everything can be. Just how carefree, how wonderful, how so very worth it life is. And every action will mean something monumental, and everything will just matter.” She pauses. “Everything will matter.”
Sophia bites her lower lip.
“You will,” Naomi says again, certain. “You’re smart, Sophia, you’re intelligent and funny, and pretty, and you’ll find someone and it’s going to just...make it alright. You just need to wait.”
Sophia nods slowly, her hand under Naomi’s trembling a bit.
“You’ll be alright,” Naomi flashes her a smile, “You’ve just got to be patient.”
Sophia blinks once, twice. “I can draw. I mean, it’s what I do. I draw.”
Naomi smiles. “You should do it, then.” Sophia blushes then, and Naomi takes it one step further. "You don't have to be so afraid," she says, aware of just how ironic this all is, "It's okay to need to be saved."
She invites her back to her place, because Sophia doesn’t have to be back until five in the afternoon and Naomi wants to show her this great intro book on Marxism and Lenin. They end up sitting on the couch, the book long forgotten on the coffee table. Instead they sit and talk.
“I feel trapped,” Naomi says at some point.
“I know what you mean,” Sophia responds sadly. She pauses, as though they’re being recorded, then she says it. “I hate the army. I hate my family. I hate everything.”
“Yeah,” Naomi says, “Yeah, I know.”
“Have you ever felt...alone? Even when you weren’t? And lonely? Even when you shouldn’t be? When you’re with your family, or with your friends,” Sophia asks, “And you feel like you don’t belong? Or like you should, but you don’t?” Her lower lip trembles. “I feel like that. All the time.”
And Naomi moves forward and kisses her. And it all goes to shit. But Sophia’s pretty, and hurting, and fuck she understands. She fucking understands Naomi in a way Emily tries to, and nothing’s hard with Sophia. Nothing is complicated, and they’re on the same wavelength, and when she’s with her, it feels like nothing’s boxing her in, rather the world is a field. An empty, open field.
They don’t kiss too much, only touch, and lick, and caress and moan. The clothes come off, surprisingly slowly, and they stroke one another painfully well, hitting spots that just make the pain in Naomi’s stomach hurt that much more, burn that much redder. Red.
“It’s like this,” Naomi murmurs, when she slips into Sophia, pushing her deeper into the couch with a low moan. And it feels as though the ceiling is caving in. And they’re being boxed in again. But together, this time. Sophia’s hands are everywhere against her, not pulling for her, not keeping her in (or keeping her at all), but touching. Just touching. Like that first night at the lake. With Emily.
Sophia moans louder than Emily, grasps at her hands more desperately, as though nothing in the world is close to being this great. Kisses her with so much ferocity, Naomi thinks red again. Red. And the room is just closing in now, and all she can see is red, and Sophia’s panting, chanting her name, moaning and writhing against the couch, perk nipples brushing against Naomi’s.
When Naomi comes, she closes her eyes and realizes she’s crying. When she comes, she hears Katie shout ‘You’re just a slut.’ When she comes, she hears Jenna fucking Fitch say ‘Don’t hurt her.’ When she comes she hears Emily gasp ‘I love you.’
“What?” Sophia’s asking, grabbing at her shirt and pulling it up to cover her breasts.
“W..what?” Naomi’s asks back, wiping at her eyes, completely embarrassed now, fully nude atop a girl who really, really, is not Emily.
“You said Emily,” Sophia whispers, pushes Naomi off her. “You called me Emily when you c...” She can’t continue. Starts crying. “Who’s Emily?”
It’s all so wrong, and Naomi starts shaking, feeling hot ice start to burn her skin, every last place that rubbed furiously against Sophia, every bone that moved her towards a climax, every drop of saliva and sweat boiling. “My girlfriend,” she says, and Sophia can’t even look at her now.
~
Slag.
Whore insinuates some sort of sexually transmitted disease, because the feminist side of her thinks it’s misogynistic. Slut just isn’t enough to cover it. Slag. Slag, because it insinuates something fast, and filthy and disgusting and everything that wrong can be. She feels like a slag.
She realizes it all too late. All too fucking late. That the sex really did mean nothing. That none of it meant anything. What sickens her the most is that she had wanted it to mean something, wanted to find something in Sophia that was lacking with Emily, so she could have a reason to have done it. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t have a reason at all. It was comfort, self-comfort, almost masturbation, but nothing there. Nothing real. It was all so surreal, as though she had met herself, and maybe if she’d comforted Sophia, she could in turn better herself.
A lot of good that did, she thinks. A lot of fucking good that did, you fucking slag.
~
She’s sitting at the abandoned parking lot, wondering about cars being left behind, wondering about people being left behind. Emily returns home on Sunday and everything’ll be the same again. Everything’ll be the same again.
“You alright?”
She hears the voice before turning. Sighs. “What do you want?”
He shrugs, digs his hands deeper into his windbreaker. “Nothin. You’re crying is all.”
Fuck she does it too fucking often. She wipes her eyes and dries her hands on her skirt. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he asks again, taking her solidity as an invitation and sits beside her, clacking his shoes together against the concrete. He takes out a spliff and lits it, hands it to her.
She takes it, thanks him with a smile. Smokes. Watches the smoke rise up in front of her and starts crying. Can’t stop it from bursting forth and really lets it go. “C-cook,” she’s blubbers, and he’s got his arm around her.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing her shoulder, taking the spliff from her weak fingers and placing it between his teeth. “It’s alright.”
“I’ve really fucked it up,” she sobs, “I really fucked up this time.”
He tosses the spliff at the floor and moves his head lower to hers. “It’s alright, Blondie,” he says, “That’s what happens. You fuck up, you fix it. There ain’t no day like today to start making things right.”
“No,” she says, and cries into his shirt, thankful for the warmth of his body, the softness of the polo, “I’ve ruined it.”
“You can’t ruin anything,” he says with a chuckle, and she presses her cheek closer to his chest to feel his heartbeat, always seemingly more ecstatic than him, as though it was constantly trying to keep up. “The world’s already ruined. We live in it, we mess about, we have a good time.”
She continues to cry, and he pauses, really watching her this time. Slowly, he brings her head up to meet his. They connect, for the first time since the tryst in the empty classroom. He wipes a tear away from her cheek. “You can fix it, yeah?” he says, and a flash of pain runs through his eyes, disappears entirely almost as quickly. “Love changes everything.” She sobs again and he lifts her head up to see her eyes. “Everything, yeah?”
~
She tells Emily right away.
They spend the night together when Emily gets back and everything is just so different. She’s there, and she’s losing control against her body, dropping the walls, lowering the bridge, letting her in. And it’s terrifying and comforting all over again, feeling Emily’s hands on her arms, her breath on her lips, her legs slip and sliding against hers. Everything is home and away and hot and cold. And she cries, again, when she comes.
Emily falls asleep immediately after, exhausted from the trip, exhausted from Naomi.
“I cheated on you,” Naomi says into the night.
It doesn’t make her feel better. Not at all. Maybe she thought if it was finally said, the weight of it would be lifted off her shoulders. Instead, it only feels heavier, pressing her further into the mattress. Instead, it only makes it true, and regrettable, and undeniable. I cheated on you.
~
(and she thought she was terrified before.)
~
“Reckon you ought to just tell her whatever it was you did,” Cook says one afternoon to her, when they’re waiting for Emily to come pick her up to head to the lake.
“I can’t,” Naomi says, squinting against the sun.
“Secrets secrets, little girl,” he says tsking, “Not good for a relationship.”
“Yeah, you’d know all about relationships, Baker,” she smirks.
“I’m just saying,” Cook replies with a grin, straightening his shirt, “You fuck up, you clean up.”
Naomi nods, and turns again to look down the street. “Why does she need to know?”
“Because the truth always comes out,” he says, turning to her, “In the end, you know?”
Naomi turns away.
“You know it ‘coz it’s true!” he laughs triumphantly, his boisterous one, and he claps his hands loudly.
“She can’t find out,” Naomi shakes her head.
“She will, though,” he says warningly, dead serious all of a sudden.
Naomi turns to him with a sigh and tries to lighten the mood. “And since when did you become all-knowing?”
He shrugs and looks away from her this time. “Truth. Love. Yknow. It’s all interlinked.” He gazes at the sun. “Can’t have love without truth.” He’s staring at the sun, so intently his eyes start to water. Naomi grips his shirt and pulls his eyesight away.
“Come on,” she says, snapping him out of his mood, “Can’t have you blind now can I, Baker.”
He grins a silly one, though it doesn’t quite reach anywhere else on his face. “Blinded by love we both are anyway.” And before she can respond, he’s off again, prancing and strutting down the street, saying goodbye to her with a violent hand salute.
~
She tells Emily twice. Once, that time in bed, another time when she’s in front of the Fitch house. Katie’s staring daggers at her from their room, and Jenna’s at the front door giving a similar glare, and Emily’s coming back with a helmet for the moped. It is ridiculously large on her and Naomi can’t help but grin and laugh.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” she asks, readjusting the strap.
“It’ll do,” Naomi responds, suppressing another laugh.
Emily smiles and clicks it into place. She leans forward and kisses Naomi on the lips. “You’ll do,” she says, and is about to get onto the moped when Naomi grabs her wrists and keeps her there, their lips against one another, helmet touching helmet. “You alright?” she asks.
I cheated on you, she tells a sobbing Emily in her mind. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she responds instead.
Emily gets on. Naomi smokes the entire ride, just in case she says anything in passing she’d regret.
~
Later that night she’s flipping through a magazine and spies goggles. “I must have them,” she hears the Queen say in her mind. “Naomi Campbell, you must purchase them for I must have them for Emily.”
“Hey, you coming to bed?” Emily asks at the door.
“Yeah,” Naomi responds quickly, flipping the page, “Give me a sec?”
Emily walks back into her bedroom and Naomi dog tags the page. Puts the magazine in her bag. She doesn’t know how she’ll purchase them. She didn’t exactly have 85 pounds lying around. But for Emily...nothing is too much for Emily. Nothing is too much for the girl who makes her feel too much.
When she goes into the room, Emily’s lying on her sheets, naked, splayed out and smiling. “Come here,” she says softly.
Boom
It explodes. Whatever it is, it explodes inside, and Naomi can’t help but cringe as a tear falls from her eye. All the fear, all the doubt and misplaced anger. It’s all she does, is think. It’s all she’s ever done, is think. Think about herself, think about the future, the consequences. Everything is well thought out. And here was Emily. Teaching her to feel. Teaching her to stop thinking about the world, the injustice, the problems out of our hands. Only to take the time and love what’s right in front of you. Teaching her how to live.
“What is it?” Emily asks, shifting on the bed.
“Nothing,” Naomi shakes her head, yanking her shirt off and climbing onto her. She brings her cheeks into her hands and kisses her deeply. “I love you.”
“I know,” Emily whispers, taking her bra off, dragging her fingertips along her spine.
“I mean, I really fucking love you, Ems,” she repeats.
Emily shushes her with a kiss. “I know.”
I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry she tries to convey with every touch.
~
(and she thought she was terrified before.)
~
She meets up with Cook at the club first.
“Baker, where the fuck are you?” she yells into the phone.
“Right behind you, Blondie!” he yells, not into the phone, but literally right behind her, before pulling her into a bear hug. “The midget with you?” he asks, already dancing to the beat.
“She’s coming with Katie,” Naomi responds, hanging up her cell, nodding in the direction of the blonde he’s with in acknowledgement.
“You alright?” he asks, the lights flashing across his face, the music trembling the floor they stand on.
“I need some money,” she yells, careful to make certain Emily’s not here.
“Don’t have any, poppet,” he shakes his head. She sighs and he shakes his hand at her, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out some tablets. “Got some MDMA here, though,” he says quieter.
“What the fuck, since when do you deal?” Naomi yells, slapping his arm.
“Oy yoy!” he yells back, pocking it back, “Don’t wake the parents, love. Do you want it or not?”
She sighs in frustration. “Fine,” she decides. It wouldn’t matter. She’d get it off her hands almost as quickly as it would come in, people were hopped tonight, there was no way she wouldn’t be able to not sell to anyone.
He hands her three. “That enough?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she mumbles.
He grins, placing the tablets back in his pocket and taking out some condoms. “Got to flash, eh?” he winks, grabbing the blonde’s hand in his. “Have a good ‘un!”
“What’s your cut?” she calls after him.
“Fuck it!” he responds, before the girl pulls him into the stairwell.
~
She didn’t even know it was Sophia. In fact she hadn’t even spoken to her since the afternoon. She had thought the girl looked familiar, but wasn’t too certain, and wanted the transaction to go fast anyway.
It’s later, when she’s on the steps with Emily, who’s slightly tipsy and kissing her like no one’s looking (she always does) and giggling like a schoolgirl the way she did when they first kissed, that Sophia kills herself. And from the distance, Naomi can see the white dress stained blood red, the loose black curls, the same horribly sad face. Emily gasps and turns away, buries her head in Naomi’s shoulder.
~
And it’s still wrong, Naomi thinks. Because the secret will go to the girl’s grave, like it never happened. On some small scale, Naomi realizes, she wants Emily to know. And now it’s too late. Everything is always too late for Sophia, Naomi thinks. We could have been friends, she also thinks. In another life, she specifies, we could have been friends, too.
~
“It was her,” she tells Cook at the pub, “The girl who killed herself, it was her.”
“What’re you saying,” he asks, drinking his beer.
She pauses. “It was her who I sold MDMA.”
His face goes stern for a moment, then he shrugs again. “They can’t prove it.”
“Cook.”
He puts his drink down. “They can’t prove it,” he shakes his head.
It doesn’t make her feel better. At all.
He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath, and that certainly doesn’t make her feel better, either. “Alright,” he says suddenly, his energy sky high once more, “You don’t worry about it, love, I’ll take care of it.”
She shakes her head. “What the fuck?”
He shakes his in response, slaps his hand down on the table. “I will take care of it. Go straight to the supplier, nick his stuff, nick the evidence, pretend we were never involved. No worries, yeah? Spic and span, in and out.”
She shakes her head worriedly. “You can’t promise me we’ll be alright.”
He sighs. “I can promise you’ll be alright,” he says instead.
She spots Thomas and taps Cook. Thomas, who cheated on Panda. “You’re such a tit, Thomas, she loved you.”
FUCK YOU Emily yells at her in her head.
~
When she apologizes to Emily for selling Sophia the drugs, she still doesn’t feel better.
When Cook declares with his happy grin that he’d managed to follow through on his promise, she still doesn’t feel better.
When Emily starts suspecting something, nosing around, finding clues, she definitely does not feel better.
When she sees the locker, she’s floored. It’s fucking terrifying and ground-breaking because fucking hell she would never ever fucking do that. And she realizes she didn’t really know Sophia. She didn’t really know her at all, actually.
When Emily moves in, she’s damn near ready to explode. Because it’s everything but terrifying. It feels right. ‘Us’ ‘Ours’ ‘We’ It is everything that life should be: Life with Emily.
It’s like the universe is telling her, now, “You stupid, stupid bitch.”
~
Emily finds out, because she’s clever like that. Not like Naomi.
“You can fix it,” Cook says.
“How?” Naomi asks him helplessly, rubbing her eyes on his sleeve.
He finishes his beer and shrugs. “Do anything.”