Honeydew, marshmallow, apple pie, cookie crumbs
Author: Indie
Rating: PG
Challenge: Honeydew #13 (do not disturb), marshmallow #2 (reunion), apple pie #21 (roommate)
Extras / Toppings: Cookie crumbs: Rylie's story from Nolan's POV. (From the time she arrives at his doorstep to Big Revelation.)
Word Count: 1,360
Story: The first four chapters of Sunflower from Nolan's POV -- good place to start, cause it's like an instant recap. :) ( index)
Summary: What's a boy to do? (PS, Alaska is what he calls the Baby Sister. He hasn't seen her in a long, long time.)
She cried in her sleep.
That was one of the first things Nolan discovered about one Rylie Somewhere when she stated living with him. (Of course, at that point, technically, she had only "crashed at his place" as she would call it, but if Zee was to accuse him of hoping that early, he'd find himself tongue-tied and turning red, probably.)
It was a heart breaking sound. The first night, he'd listened at her door for a few brief moments, but assumed she was awake, and didn't linger in case she decided to wander around; caught him standing at her (his) door like the creeper she thought he was..
The second night, the night she slept curled up like a kitten in his bathtub, she left the door open. It gave him a chance to peer down at her, against his logical judgment. He wore his fattest socks to keep from making a sound against the tile. It was a pitiful, wretched sound, and it didn't stop for almost an hour after he came in to watch her. All of him, every cell, strained towards her, wanted to catch her up in his arms. He wanted to hold her and kiss away her tears and tell her it would be okay.
But somewhere in his mind, he was aware of her skittishness; her fear. He swallowed hard, and wrapped his long arms around his torso to keep them from her. "Why are you here?" he whispered in the dark, and if it had been more than his mouth moving and the most negligible of word-shaped breath, it would have come out a croak.
In the morning he woke her up. He hadn't planned on it; not until she'd started crying had started up again near five in the morning. It wasn't the same as the late-night crying; less solid, and he wasn't even sure she was crying, except that it had happened twice in as many days. It was more like a light shiver, and a few sounds that sounded like hiccups. Her eyes were dry, and when he noticed that, he decided to do a one-eighty and do without a shower as he'd originally planned. Then, she made the lowest, most pitiful whimper he'd heard in a while.
He was halfway to the tub in the unlit bathroom, illuminated by only the faint light coming from the hallway before it occurred to him that he might scare her, or embarrass her. He was reminded of being a boyscout, early freshman year, which had been a terrible experiment in trying to keep inner-city kids occupied when they had better things to do, like keep food on the table. Anyways, on the only camping trip he'd actually shown up for (the one where Bryce Thatchery set his backpack on fire) he'd learned that the cardinal rule was to not mess with the local wildlife. Full stop. You alerted the proper authorities and moved on.
But who were the proper authorities when dealing with a Manic Pixie Wondergirl? In a Stevie Wonder wonderful world, hell, in Zia's world, in Delia's world, in the world of well-adjusted girls with parents to avoid and sigh at because you took them for granted ... for them, he'd have let them rest, but eventually, he'd have taken them both home, if their heads were half as rainy as Rylie's.
He tapped rhythmically on the doorway, affecting a casual posture as she muttered, still half asleep, and shaved at the sink while she composed herself enough to relocate herself. He showered quickly, pulling on a wrinkled, but clean, button-down and dark denim while his body was still damp.
He only half woke her, to let her know that if she was going to settle in, even for one more night, they would have to talk.
Nolan couldn't fool himself; he knew that he was inviting a hurricane into his house in hopes that it would like the scenery and decide to stay. She was built too much like a helicopter though, he suspected, not equipped to hover, but perhaps she could make small circles for a while.
He called Russ during his break at eleven AM.
"What the eff are you doing calling in the red-green middle of the day?" he'd barked, radio deejay and vampire that he was.
". . . I have a friend," he spoke into the receiver quietly, angled away from Mrs. Cloth's curious eyes. "She spent the night last night. . ." the words caught in his throat, and he realized what it sounded like, but didn't have the time to correct him. "I . . . I don't know if she's still around, but if she is, will you check on her?"
He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and a rustling sound that he assumed meant Russ was getting up. He heard a mumble, and he dug on end of the phone into his ear, grinding his molars against his housemates surliness. "Yeah, yeah, I'll call you back, kid."
"Don't scare her!" he almost yelped, but he wasn't sure Russ heard him. He closed his phone forlornly, turning at his desk. Nancy Cloth looked at him again, in that motherly way she had. He was the baby duck here, and the only boy. Half of the women at Margaret's Hope looked at him like that, half protective, somewhat puzzled.
He gave her a small shrug, and half-smile, reaching over to flip his phone set on. His phone vibrated while he took his second call, and he read it (DUDE HOT CHICK ASLEEP ON COUCH STOP GOING BACK 2 SLEEP STOP DO NOT DISTRB) while he gave his phone intro, and his name came out like a question, but he felt better now that he could picture her, piled and scrunched on one end of his faded-blue couch, and not wandering around in the streets.
Of course, eventually, she'd wake. And then she'd have to decide if she actually came back. The anticipation tied his stomach in knots. The crying woman on the line redirected his attention back to his job, but he could shake the dread from his heart or belly, not at his desk or in his car on the way home, or standing in the dark kitchen and trying to move his perishables to the freezer. Not until 9:57, when she showed up on his doorstep, a backpack slung over her shoulder.
"Thank God," he sighed quietly, and in ten minutes, his heart found it's rhythm again.
Of course, that's when she hit him with the P word.
His breath caught and he felt his lungs collapse on themselves, imploding and forcing out the only words sitting on his tongue. Which were of course, a new record in wrongness. "How cool is that?"
Rylie looked at him sharply, angrily. "Cool?" she asked.
"Uh, you're growing a little person inside of you. How could that possibly not be awesome?" he asked, because apparently he was made of fail. He should just shut his stupid mouth, he decided, as she raised both eyebrows at him.
"Are you serious?" she snapped.
"Of course I am," he answered, voice growing quieter.
She was on drugs, he realized, like a suckerpunch to his gut, and as he kept her talking, he was thinking of the infants he'd seen, and the thing she might do, and all the stupid things he'd said, and why she'd come here, to him, after a year of her silence. He thought like flashes of lightning between her words, his heart breaking in tandem with her voice.
At the end of their talk, he admitted something that made him sound like an idiot, (that he'd already decided she could have the office if she'd like) and that it didn't change anything, and stay. Then, he watched her fall asleep, almost mid-conversation; just leaned back and blinked a few times, and then closed her eyes and didn't open them again.
In the candlelight, with her head tilted up against the back of his couch, she looked like Alaska, and he found himself having to look away. By then he'd decided what to do.
Rating: PG
Challenge: Honeydew #13 (do not disturb), marshmallow #2 (reunion), apple pie #21 (roommate)
Extras / Toppings: Cookie crumbs: Rylie's story from Nolan's POV. (From the time she arrives at his doorstep to Big Revelation.)
Word Count: 1,360
Story: The first four chapters of Sunflower from Nolan's POV -- good place to start, cause it's like an instant recap. :) ( index)
Summary: What's a boy to do? (PS, Alaska is what he calls the Baby Sister. He hasn't seen her in a long, long time.)
She cried in her sleep.
That was one of the first things Nolan discovered about one Rylie Somewhere when she stated living with him. (Of course, at that point, technically, she had only "crashed at his place" as she would call it, but if Zee was to accuse him of hoping that early, he'd find himself tongue-tied and turning red, probably.)
It was a heart breaking sound. The first night, he'd listened at her door for a few brief moments, but assumed she was awake, and didn't linger in case she decided to wander around; caught him standing at her (his) door like the creeper she thought he was..
The second night, the night she slept curled up like a kitten in his bathtub, she left the door open. It gave him a chance to peer down at her, against his logical judgment. He wore his fattest socks to keep from making a sound against the tile. It was a pitiful, wretched sound, and it didn't stop for almost an hour after he came in to watch her. All of him, every cell, strained towards her, wanted to catch her up in his arms. He wanted to hold her and kiss away her tears and tell her it would be okay.
But somewhere in his mind, he was aware of her skittishness; her fear. He swallowed hard, and wrapped his long arms around his torso to keep them from her. "Why are you here?" he whispered in the dark, and if it had been more than his mouth moving and the most negligible of word-shaped breath, it would have come out a croak.
In the morning he woke her up. He hadn't planned on it; not until she'd started crying had started up again near five in the morning. It wasn't the same as the late-night crying; less solid, and he wasn't even sure she was crying, except that it had happened twice in as many days. It was more like a light shiver, and a few sounds that sounded like hiccups. Her eyes were dry, and when he noticed that, he decided to do a one-eighty and do without a shower as he'd originally planned. Then, she made the lowest, most pitiful whimper he'd heard in a while.
He was halfway to the tub in the unlit bathroom, illuminated by only the faint light coming from the hallway before it occurred to him that he might scare her, or embarrass her. He was reminded of being a boyscout, early freshman year, which had been a terrible experiment in trying to keep inner-city kids occupied when they had better things to do, like keep food on the table. Anyways, on the only camping trip he'd actually shown up for (the one where Bryce Thatchery set his backpack on fire) he'd learned that the cardinal rule was to not mess with the local wildlife. Full stop. You alerted the proper authorities and moved on.
But who were the proper authorities when dealing with a Manic Pixie Wondergirl? In a Stevie Wonder wonderful world, hell, in Zia's world, in Delia's world, in the world of well-adjusted girls with parents to avoid and sigh at because you took them for granted ... for them, he'd have let them rest, but eventually, he'd have taken them both home, if their heads were half as rainy as Rylie's.
He tapped rhythmically on the doorway, affecting a casual posture as she muttered, still half asleep, and shaved at the sink while she composed herself enough to relocate herself. He showered quickly, pulling on a wrinkled, but clean, button-down and dark denim while his body was still damp.
He only half woke her, to let her know that if she was going to settle in, even for one more night, they would have to talk.
Nolan couldn't fool himself; he knew that he was inviting a hurricane into his house in hopes that it would like the scenery and decide to stay. She was built too much like a helicopter though, he suspected, not equipped to hover, but perhaps she could make small circles for a while.
He called Russ during his break at eleven AM.
"What the eff are you doing calling in the red-green middle of the day?" he'd barked, radio deejay and vampire that he was.
". . . I have a friend," he spoke into the receiver quietly, angled away from Mrs. Cloth's curious eyes. "She spent the night last night. . ." the words caught in his throat, and he realized what it sounded like, but didn't have the time to correct him. "I . . . I don't know if she's still around, but if she is, will you check on her?"
He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and a rustling sound that he assumed meant Russ was getting up. He heard a mumble, and he dug on end of the phone into his ear, grinding his molars against his housemates surliness. "Yeah, yeah, I'll call you back, kid."
"Don't scare her!" he almost yelped, but he wasn't sure Russ heard him. He closed his phone forlornly, turning at his desk. Nancy Cloth looked at him again, in that motherly way she had. He was the baby duck here, and the only boy. Half of the women at Margaret's Hope looked at him like that, half protective, somewhat puzzled.
He gave her a small shrug, and half-smile, reaching over to flip his phone set on. His phone vibrated while he took his second call, and he read it (DUDE HOT CHICK ASLEEP ON COUCH STOP GOING BACK 2 SLEEP STOP DO NOT DISTRB) while he gave his phone intro, and his name came out like a question, but he felt better now that he could picture her, piled and scrunched on one end of his faded-blue couch, and not wandering around in the streets.
Of course, eventually, she'd wake. And then she'd have to decide if she actually came back. The anticipation tied his stomach in knots. The crying woman on the line redirected his attention back to his job, but he could shake the dread from his heart or belly, not at his desk or in his car on the way home, or standing in the dark kitchen and trying to move his perishables to the freezer. Not until 9:57, when she showed up on his doorstep, a backpack slung over her shoulder.
"Thank God," he sighed quietly, and in ten minutes, his heart found it's rhythm again.
Of course, that's when she hit him with the P word.
His breath caught and he felt his lungs collapse on themselves, imploding and forcing out the only words sitting on his tongue. Which were of course, a new record in wrongness. "How cool is that?"
Rylie looked at him sharply, angrily. "Cool?" she asked.
"Uh, you're growing a little person inside of you. How could that possibly not be awesome?" he asked, because apparently he was made of fail. He should just shut his stupid mouth, he decided, as she raised both eyebrows at him.
"Are you serious?" she snapped.
"Of course I am," he answered, voice growing quieter.
She was on drugs, he realized, like a suckerpunch to his gut, and as he kept her talking, he was thinking of the infants he'd seen, and the thing she might do, and all the stupid things he'd said, and why she'd come here, to him, after a year of her silence. He thought like flashes of lightning between her words, his heart breaking in tandem with her voice.
At the end of their talk, he admitted something that made him sound like an idiot, (that he'd already decided she could have the office if she'd like) and that it didn't change anything, and stay. Then, he watched her fall asleep, almost mid-conversation; just leaned back and blinked a few times, and then closed her eyes and didn't open them again.
In the candlelight, with her head tilted up against the back of his couch, she looked like Alaska, and he found himself having to look away. By then he'd decided what to do.