Fic: Mania (1/1)
Title: Mania
Spoilers: If you squint, this is post-Euphoria. That is my intent, although there really aren't any spoilers for it.
Rating: Work safe.
Word Count: 1,793
Notes: A belated giftfic for cathiexx's birthday...many happy returns! Thanks to enchanted_april and _vicodin for betaing.
Also...when I was writing, I had no idea it would go this far. I really didn't. My apologies.
That said, I do so enjoy feedback. So if you are so inclined, please leave it!
I.
He’s done this for three months. That’s because they’ve done this for three months.
It was, as these things generally are, a chance encounter. At first. The three of them were all simply drinking at the same bar. Not entirely an extraordinary thing; the bar was a stone’s throw from the hospital. They were already there, the two of them, when he limped into the bar. He still recalls his hesitation at the door, the feel of sliding into the torn seat that has quickly become an old friend. He remembers the idle curiosity that the Australian one was not in attendance, and later realizes that the after-work drink is never even proffered beyond the two of them.
That first night, he saw them immediately. They, however, did not notice him nursing his scotch with blue eyes locked on her body, on her eyes, on their smiles. His keen ears perking at her strangely (perhaps gratingly) melodious laugh.
That was the first time, that coincidence. Now, he follows them. They have a routine, these two; they leave work on Friday and walk the five blocks to the bar. His leg throbs by the time he collapses into the darkened corner booth with a direct view of those eyes, that smile, those legs, and he always finds he needs a drink to soothe the ache. He always drinks, and he always watches. Notices. Learns.
He never hears everything they say. Sometimes the conversation is loud enough for him to hear without trying, and it is at those moments that he knows that conversation is frivolous. It is when their heads bow together (and he found himself wondering if they were even aware) and they converse in hushed tones that he knows there’s something there worth hearing.
He knows, and he never hears. And he is therefore left alone with his scotch and his speculation.
Sometimes, the two of them order dinner, sometimes they just drink, but she’s always smiling, and before the night is over, he always hears her laugh.
II.
He hasn’t revealed himself because they’ve always gone home alone. They walk back to the hospital together, and they get into their own cars and drive off in different directions. They always go home and - probably more importantly - so does he. Once, he attributed it to the simple fact that he didn’t know where she lived. Certainly, it was easy enough; her address has always been on file at the office, and he considered it a testament to his self-restraint that it took an entire month of watching them before he looked it up.
That night, a month after the chance encounter, Foreman hugged her before she got into her car and drove off alone.
He broke into her file and copied her address.
It sits in the wallet tucked into his back pocket, creases worn from being run against dirty fingernails, tapped against beer-stained tables, unfolding and refolding - a nervous habit or an unconscious desire. He’s memorized it ten times over.
Two weeks after the hug, Foreman kissed her on the cheek.
He followed her home.
He wasn’t particularly careful, that first time. Bikes make noise. Bikes are noticeable. He followed her home and parked a block away. His eyes never left her form until she walked into her apartment complex. Only then did he allow them to flick up to the first floor window, waiting for her lights to switch on.
That first time sets the precedent for a routine, each time he follows her home. Once the muted lamp light pours from her window, he will finally acknowledge that she has managed to stay away from Foreman for another night - and, more importantly, he has managed to stay away from her.
After that, the first time, he began to use his car. And every Friday night he follows her home and, with his eyes and his silence, escorts her back into her apartment.
It is, after all, the courteous thing to do.
III.
Ninety days.
He isn’t counting, or at least he won’t consciously admit to it, but it’s been ninety days since Foreman first touched her. Ninety days since that mistake, and each weekly mistake thereafter.
A hug. A kiss on the cheek. Never anything besides that, but she always reciprocates. And smiles.
He can see this mistake as nothing but a slap in the face. Every Friday, they go to the bar. They eat and drink and smile and laugh and they never notice he’s there, in a darkened corner booth, alone, eyes always tracking.
It’s enough of a mistake that they’re friends outside of work. But Foreman always instigates that extra contact before they depart for the night.
When they hug, he can feel her arms around him, though he is certain they have never been there. When he kisses her cheek, he can feel the warmth on his own lips. He always presses them together soon after, trying to rid himself of the feeling.
She is certainly not as attuned to his presence as she used to be, or perhaps should be. She never feels him watching her, never senses that he is in the car behind her when she drives home.
This is how it should be.
No one touches Allison Cameron.
IV.
Three months.
Exactly three months after the chance encounter - if it can even be called as such, an encounter, though he has begun to question the “chance” - they, in separate cars, drive to the same place. Her apartment.
She invites Foreman in. He watches through the window from his driver’s seat vantage point.
An hour passes. Two.
He can see them. Through the window and in his mind. Through the window, they are sitting on her sofa, chatting idly and going over paperwork. If he were to expend the energy to think, to analyze, his mind would recall snippets of half-heard work conversations: they’re writing an article together. He had, of course, never particularly cared about the exploits of his handicapped charges.
Instead, he expends the energy to concentrate on their exploits in his mind. What Foreman does to her and how she reciprocates. In his mind, he sees her eyes glazed over with passion, her swollen, pouting lips and the flush of her warm skin, smooth under his calloused touch.
And always, always, always, he hears her laugh. The bar-laugh, the one that brings him back week after week. He wants to hear that laugh when he’s drawn it. His second-hand voyeuristic reception is quickly becoming inadequate: he needs to see her eyes crinkle and shine, needs to be able to fixate on the curve of her neck when it tilts ever so slightly as her lips part and her unique almost-melody emerges.
He knows her, better than even she. He knows that her attentions, her favors, are wasted on anyone but him.
He knows. Has known for quite some time. And now she needed to know.
V.
Two hours pass, and a half hour more, and his leg is taut from sitting idly in the parked car, when Foreman emerges, clothes no more rumpled than they were when they’d all left the bar. He waits five minutes and exits the car, limping stiffly across the street and into her apartment complex.
He counts nine stairs to her door and raps with his cane, pounds with his fist.
Everything between them rests in unguarded eyes. Hers, widening in surprise when she sees him standing on her doorstep. His, fueled with passion and madness and seething and heat as he grabs her wrist and refuses to let go.
“Do you fuck him?” he demands. “Do you let him fuck you?”
He does not give her time to answer. Instead, his free hand rises to grab her arm, his cane caught in the middle, pressing roughly against her skin. If he would bother to check, later, he would find a small bruise forming. He gives her a healthy shake.
“You let him touch you,” he says. “It’s been two months, every Friday. He touches you and you allow it.” His eyes track the furrowing of her brow before locking back onto hers. “You make me ensure that he doesn’t take advantage of you when you’re drinking. You make me escort you back to you apartment every Friday night to make sure he doesn’t try to touch you again. It is exhausting.”
Her eyes widen, again, but certainly not in surprise. He does not care to acknowledge or recognize what he sees there - or what he doesn’t.
“You,” he hisses, “are mine. Only. No one but me.”
He leaves as abruptly as he came, driving the car back to his place, intent on having a congratulatory scotch.
He has, after all, staked his claim.
VI.
He’s done this for four months. That’s because they’ve done this for four months.
The next day, after his visit to her apartment, she does not acknowledge his words, though she does her best to stay away from him. Any reports are passed on through Chase, or on the rare occasion by Foreman. She holed up in the lab and has ever since shown a particular reluctance to leave it.
He has never once seen her cry, since he went to her apartment. Nor has he seen her speaking with Foreman about the matter, at least at the office. Location proves irrelevant, as he knows she has not spoken about it at the bar, either. He - either, really, him or Foreman - has not been back to her apartment since.
Every Friday, they still go. Sometimes they have dinner, sometimes they just drink, and he always sits in the darkened corner booth, watching.
Only now she is different, though he still thinks her beautiful. She slouches a bit in her seat, and her hair is never in perfect order. Still, darkened and dark-rimmed eyes flickering to his corner of the bar and he knows, every time he catches her gaze in the darkness that she can feel him there, wrapped around her, inside and out.
He still escorts her home each night, and while she has begun to stare at him from her perch at the front door, she has yet to wave her thanks at his thoughtful, courteous gesture.
Perhaps most notably is her laugh. She has not done so since his visit to her apartment. He takes a certain pride in this, knowing that her laugh, her smile, is now truly reserved for him alone. All she had to do was take the seat opposite him. All she had to do was understand.
He could make her smile, could make her laugh. All she had to do was acknowledge that she belonged only to him. And sit.
Spoilers: If you squint, this is post-Euphoria. That is my intent, although there really aren't any spoilers for it.
Rating: Work safe.
Word Count: 1,793
Notes: A belated giftfic for cathiexx's birthday...many happy returns! Thanks to enchanted_april and _vicodin for betaing.
Also...when I was writing, I had no idea it would go this far. I really didn't. My apologies.
That said, I do so enjoy feedback. So if you are so inclined, please leave it!
I.
He’s done this for three months. That’s because they’ve done this for three months.
It was, as these things generally are, a chance encounter. At first. The three of them were all simply drinking at the same bar. Not entirely an extraordinary thing; the bar was a stone’s throw from the hospital. They were already there, the two of them, when he limped into the bar. He still recalls his hesitation at the door, the feel of sliding into the torn seat that has quickly become an old friend. He remembers the idle curiosity that the Australian one was not in attendance, and later realizes that the after-work drink is never even proffered beyond the two of them.
That first night, he saw them immediately. They, however, did not notice him nursing his scotch with blue eyes locked on her body, on her eyes, on their smiles. His keen ears perking at her strangely (perhaps gratingly) melodious laugh.
That was the first time, that coincidence. Now, he follows them. They have a routine, these two; they leave work on Friday and walk the five blocks to the bar. His leg throbs by the time he collapses into the darkened corner booth with a direct view of those eyes, that smile, those legs, and he always finds he needs a drink to soothe the ache. He always drinks, and he always watches. Notices. Learns.
He never hears everything they say. Sometimes the conversation is loud enough for him to hear without trying, and it is at those moments that he knows that conversation is frivolous. It is when their heads bow together (and he found himself wondering if they were even aware) and they converse in hushed tones that he knows there’s something there worth hearing.
He knows, and he never hears. And he is therefore left alone with his scotch and his speculation.
Sometimes, the two of them order dinner, sometimes they just drink, but she’s always smiling, and before the night is over, he always hears her laugh.
II.
He hasn’t revealed himself because they’ve always gone home alone. They walk back to the hospital together, and they get into their own cars and drive off in different directions. They always go home and - probably more importantly - so does he. Once, he attributed it to the simple fact that he didn’t know where she lived. Certainly, it was easy enough; her address has always been on file at the office, and he considered it a testament to his self-restraint that it took an entire month of watching them before he looked it up.
That night, a month after the chance encounter, Foreman hugged her before she got into her car and drove off alone.
He broke into her file and copied her address.
It sits in the wallet tucked into his back pocket, creases worn from being run against dirty fingernails, tapped against beer-stained tables, unfolding and refolding - a nervous habit or an unconscious desire. He’s memorized it ten times over.
Two weeks after the hug, Foreman kissed her on the cheek.
He followed her home.
He wasn’t particularly careful, that first time. Bikes make noise. Bikes are noticeable. He followed her home and parked a block away. His eyes never left her form until she walked into her apartment complex. Only then did he allow them to flick up to the first floor window, waiting for her lights to switch on.
That first time sets the precedent for a routine, each time he follows her home. Once the muted lamp light pours from her window, he will finally acknowledge that she has managed to stay away from Foreman for another night - and, more importantly, he has managed to stay away from her.
After that, the first time, he began to use his car. And every Friday night he follows her home and, with his eyes and his silence, escorts her back into her apartment.
It is, after all, the courteous thing to do.
III.
Ninety days.
He isn’t counting, or at least he won’t consciously admit to it, but it’s been ninety days since Foreman first touched her. Ninety days since that mistake, and each weekly mistake thereafter.
A hug. A kiss on the cheek. Never anything besides that, but she always reciprocates. And smiles.
He can see this mistake as nothing but a slap in the face. Every Friday, they go to the bar. They eat and drink and smile and laugh and they never notice he’s there, in a darkened corner booth, alone, eyes always tracking.
It’s enough of a mistake that they’re friends outside of work. But Foreman always instigates that extra contact before they depart for the night.
When they hug, he can feel her arms around him, though he is certain they have never been there. When he kisses her cheek, he can feel the warmth on his own lips. He always presses them together soon after, trying to rid himself of the feeling.
She is certainly not as attuned to his presence as she used to be, or perhaps should be. She never feels him watching her, never senses that he is in the car behind her when she drives home.
This is how it should be.
No one touches Allison Cameron.
IV.
Three months.
Exactly three months after the chance encounter - if it can even be called as such, an encounter, though he has begun to question the “chance” - they, in separate cars, drive to the same place. Her apartment.
She invites Foreman in. He watches through the window from his driver’s seat vantage point.
An hour passes. Two.
He can see them. Through the window and in his mind. Through the window, they are sitting on her sofa, chatting idly and going over paperwork. If he were to expend the energy to think, to analyze, his mind would recall snippets of half-heard work conversations: they’re writing an article together. He had, of course, never particularly cared about the exploits of his handicapped charges.
Instead, he expends the energy to concentrate on their exploits in his mind. What Foreman does to her and how she reciprocates. In his mind, he sees her eyes glazed over with passion, her swollen, pouting lips and the flush of her warm skin, smooth under his calloused touch.
And always, always, always, he hears her laugh. The bar-laugh, the one that brings him back week after week. He wants to hear that laugh when he’s drawn it. His second-hand voyeuristic reception is quickly becoming inadequate: he needs to see her eyes crinkle and shine, needs to be able to fixate on the curve of her neck when it tilts ever so slightly as her lips part and her unique almost-melody emerges.
He knows her, better than even she. He knows that her attentions, her favors, are wasted on anyone but him.
He knows. Has known for quite some time. And now she needed to know.
V.
Two hours pass, and a half hour more, and his leg is taut from sitting idly in the parked car, when Foreman emerges, clothes no more rumpled than they were when they’d all left the bar. He waits five minutes and exits the car, limping stiffly across the street and into her apartment complex.
He counts nine stairs to her door and raps with his cane, pounds with his fist.
Everything between them rests in unguarded eyes. Hers, widening in surprise when she sees him standing on her doorstep. His, fueled with passion and madness and seething and heat as he grabs her wrist and refuses to let go.
“Do you fuck him?” he demands. “Do you let him fuck you?”
He does not give her time to answer. Instead, his free hand rises to grab her arm, his cane caught in the middle, pressing roughly against her skin. If he would bother to check, later, he would find a small bruise forming. He gives her a healthy shake.
“You let him touch you,” he says. “It’s been two months, every Friday. He touches you and you allow it.” His eyes track the furrowing of her brow before locking back onto hers. “You make me ensure that he doesn’t take advantage of you when you’re drinking. You make me escort you back to you apartment every Friday night to make sure he doesn’t try to touch you again. It is exhausting.”
Her eyes widen, again, but certainly not in surprise. He does not care to acknowledge or recognize what he sees there - or what he doesn’t.
“You,” he hisses, “are mine. Only. No one but me.”
He leaves as abruptly as he came, driving the car back to his place, intent on having a congratulatory scotch.
He has, after all, staked his claim.
VI.
He’s done this for four months. That’s because they’ve done this for four months.
The next day, after his visit to her apartment, she does not acknowledge his words, though she does her best to stay away from him. Any reports are passed on through Chase, or on the rare occasion by Foreman. She holed up in the lab and has ever since shown a particular reluctance to leave it.
He has never once seen her cry, since he went to her apartment. Nor has he seen her speaking with Foreman about the matter, at least at the office. Location proves irrelevant, as he knows she has not spoken about it at the bar, either. He - either, really, him or Foreman - has not been back to her apartment since.
Every Friday, they still go. Sometimes they have dinner, sometimes they just drink, and he always sits in the darkened corner booth, watching.
Only now she is different, though he still thinks her beautiful. She slouches a bit in her seat, and her hair is never in perfect order. Still, darkened and dark-rimmed eyes flickering to his corner of the bar and he knows, every time he catches her gaze in the darkness that she can feel him there, wrapped around her, inside and out.
He still escorts her home each night, and while she has begun to stare at him from her perch at the front door, she has yet to wave her thanks at his thoughtful, courteous gesture.
Perhaps most notably is her laugh. She has not done so since his visit to her apartment. He takes a certain pride in this, knowing that her laugh, her smile, is now truly reserved for him alone. All she had to do was take the seat opposite him. All she had to do was understand.
He could make her smile, could make her laugh. All she had to do was acknowledge that she belonged only to him. And sit.