fic: i think i made you up inside my head
Title: I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head
Author:
_starrystarry
Characters: Sam/Annie
Word Count: 775
Rating: Green Cortina
Summary: "I had a dream and you were in it."
Notes: Spoilers for 2.08.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head
--
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
Sylvia Plath
--
Annie has half a birthmark on her palm, two centimetres in from her wrist. Once, Sam almost holds her hand, pulling her along with him somewhere, trying to outrun his imagination, and he can feel her pulse and he can feel her birthmark.
“I cut myself peeling potatoes when I was twelve,” she says, when he asks her why it’s a hemisphere on her skin instead of a circle, and the look she gives him says so plainly “believe me.”
She's made up of so many perfectly random details. But he can’t.
--
Annie doesn’t really believe him either.
“How are you so sure you’re not part of my mind, then?” he asks.
She starts to speak - he cuts her off. “That I didn’t just make you say that.”
“Well,”
“And that.”
“Well,”
“And that.”
Sam grins and Annie thinks he has a very nice smile, really. Not an insane smile. It’s kind of helpless. It’s kind of transfixing. “I just have a higher self-esteem than you do,” she says. “Were you roughed up much on the playground?”
He lolls his head back. If he were to make up a woman she wouldn’t be this far ahead of him.
(He’s starting to think that if he were to make up a woman though, she would be Annie Cartwright, so he’d better start catching up.)
--
Sometimes they both make lists, reasons why what they believe is right. Annie writes hers down because that’s the kind of girl she is and Sam memorizes his because his memory is all he’s trusting right now.
It’s probably not healthy to have a friendship based on mutual disbelief but somehow it’s working. Sam doesn’t think to question it and Annie thinks she’s met blokes who were more messed up before.
He’s happy, this one time, solving a case, getting a good drink, and he flashes her the most infectious grin and she instinctively responds “You’re crazy.”
They both bite their lips.
--
“Have you ever heard of anyone called Iphigenia?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s my grandmother’s name,” she says.
“Oh.”
She may think that’s proof, but if he’s made a world out of collapsed neurons and four-year-old memories Annie’s grandmother’s name is hardly going to prove anything. He thinks about asking her about her family. Then he doesn’t.
--
He makes her DC and, filling out a form in block letters says “Annie Cartwright, I like your name.”
And she says “Well you should, you picked it,” and helps herself to a sip of his tea before leaving the room.
--
He talks about leaving like the words in a song. And she listens like it’s the only thing on the radio and she prefers noise to silence.
“I never thought I made you up,” she says.
At first he thinks it’s meant to be a bit offensive, that she doesn’t doubt him so he shouldn’t doubt her. But that’s not how he works, trust and reciprocation. She’d do best to leave him now.
But then she says something like “For starters I would have done better than this,” and plucks at her uniform or points at him or even draws her fingers in between the two of them as if they have a this.
That’s when he hates less and less of everything. And he thinks about switching that statement. “There are some things I like,” maybe.
He wonders what she would say to that.
--
Sam asks Annie to stay and she leaves.
And maybe it’s a taste of his own medicine. Maybe it’s a taste of his own future. Maybe he’s a crazy, comatose time-traveller, an ace copper who can predict the future.
Or maybe he’s just a bit hung up on Annie Cartwright.
So when he asks her what to do, again, because he’s either run out of brain function to ask new questions or he just hasn’t gotten the right answer yet, and she says “stay,” he does. It’s much easier than he thought it would be.
--
He kisses her twice. Three times, four. He falls asleep kissing her.
“I had a dream and you were in it,” Sam says, sliding his fingers into the spaces between hers. The three am light makes stripes on the green duvet. “And then I woke up and here you are.”
Annie smiles, so big the curve of her lips echoes her hair, and says “I’m glad you’re awake.”
--
And time must not be linear anymore because he keeps waking up to Annie Cartwright.
Author:
_starrystarry
Characters: Sam/Annie
Word Count: 775
Rating: Green Cortina
Summary: "I had a dream and you were in it."
Notes: Spoilers for 2.08.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head
--
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
Sylvia Plath
--
Annie has half a birthmark on her palm, two centimetres in from her wrist. Once, Sam almost holds her hand, pulling her along with him somewhere, trying to outrun his imagination, and he can feel her pulse and he can feel her birthmark.
“I cut myself peeling potatoes when I was twelve,” she says, when he asks her why it’s a hemisphere on her skin instead of a circle, and the look she gives him says so plainly “believe me.”
She's made up of so many perfectly random details. But he can’t.
--
Annie doesn’t really believe him either.
“How are you so sure you’re not part of my mind, then?” he asks.
She starts to speak - he cuts her off. “That I didn’t just make you say that.”
“Well,”
“And that.”
“Well,”
“And that.”
Sam grins and Annie thinks he has a very nice smile, really. Not an insane smile. It’s kind of helpless. It’s kind of transfixing. “I just have a higher self-esteem than you do,” she says. “Were you roughed up much on the playground?”
He lolls his head back. If he were to make up a woman she wouldn’t be this far ahead of him.
(He’s starting to think that if he were to make up a woman though, she would be Annie Cartwright, so he’d better start catching up.)
--
Sometimes they both make lists, reasons why what they believe is right. Annie writes hers down because that’s the kind of girl she is and Sam memorizes his because his memory is all he’s trusting right now.
It’s probably not healthy to have a friendship based on mutual disbelief but somehow it’s working. Sam doesn’t think to question it and Annie thinks she’s met blokes who were more messed up before.
He’s happy, this one time, solving a case, getting a good drink, and he flashes her the most infectious grin and she instinctively responds “You’re crazy.”
They both bite their lips.
--
“Have you ever heard of anyone called Iphigenia?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s my grandmother’s name,” she says.
“Oh.”
She may think that’s proof, but if he’s made a world out of collapsed neurons and four-year-old memories Annie’s grandmother’s name is hardly going to prove anything. He thinks about asking her about her family. Then he doesn’t.
--
He makes her DC and, filling out a form in block letters says “Annie Cartwright, I like your name.”
And she says “Well you should, you picked it,” and helps herself to a sip of his tea before leaving the room.
--
He talks about leaving like the words in a song. And she listens like it’s the only thing on the radio and she prefers noise to silence.
“I never thought I made you up,” she says.
At first he thinks it’s meant to be a bit offensive, that she doesn’t doubt him so he shouldn’t doubt her. But that’s not how he works, trust and reciprocation. She’d do best to leave him now.
But then she says something like “For starters I would have done better than this,” and plucks at her uniform or points at him or even draws her fingers in between the two of them as if they have a this.
That’s when he hates less and less of everything. And he thinks about switching that statement. “There are some things I like,” maybe.
He wonders what she would say to that.
--
Sam asks Annie to stay and she leaves.
And maybe it’s a taste of his own medicine. Maybe it’s a taste of his own future. Maybe he’s a crazy, comatose time-traveller, an ace copper who can predict the future.
Or maybe he’s just a bit hung up on Annie Cartwright.
So when he asks her what to do, again, because he’s either run out of brain function to ask new questions or he just hasn’t gotten the right answer yet, and she says “stay,” he does. It’s much easier than he thought it would be.
--
He kisses her twice. Three times, four. He falls asleep kissing her.
“I had a dream and you were in it,” Sam says, sliding his fingers into the spaces between hers. The three am light makes stripes on the green duvet. “And then I woke up and here you are.”
Annie smiles, so big the curve of her lips echoes her hair, and says “I’m glad you’re awake.”
--
And time must not be linear anymore because he keeps waking up to Annie Cartwright.