fic: Not Your Fault, But Mine
TITLE: Not Your Fault, But Mine
AUTHOR: Brio
WORDS: 1,298
RATING: PG-13 for swearing via lyrics.
SUMMARY: “Not that she’s leaving for good. Not yet.”
NOTES: A while ago I set myself a challenge to write something that contained little or no dialogue. This is what happened. Lyrics are from “Little Lion Man” by Mumford & Sons. Please feel free to ignore the unlikelihood that a person would make it that far through an airport without running into some sort of security check. Oh. Um... mild angst warning.
You watch as she packs her bag, both of you silent. Both of you have long since run out of things to say to one another but now that she’s leaving, you can feel the words bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill over.
Not that she’s leaving for good. Not yet. She’s visiting family for a few days and you aren’t invited. Or if you are invited, the message hasn’t been passed along.
The sound of the zip closing on her bag draws you back into the room. She’s straightening up and rifling through her purse, checking for the fifth time that she has her passport. There’s a tug somewhere near your heart when you see the black, skull-covered passport holder you gave her for her birthday the year before. It only cost you a few dollars but it’s so distinctly her that you had to buy it. Along with tickets to see one of her favourite singers. You shake your head when you remember that you didn’t even make it to the concert. Another long day at work, another day of retakes, another day of arguments.
She’s ready to go now and there’s a car waiting outside. You get off the couch, hands jammed into your pockets and your eyes on the floor. She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and you can tell she’s waiting. Waiting for a goodbye? For a sign that she should bother coming back? You glance up and your heart skips a beat, the way it always does.
You want to tell her that you still love her. That you will always love her, but something inside stops you when you see the look on her face, when you can’t find a trace of a similar feeling on her features. Her exquisite features. You have to remind yourself to breathe.
The car’s horn sounds again, causing both of you to jump and she nods. You walk forward and lean in to kiss her goodbye. She turns her head and your lips press against her cheek. She mutters a soft goodbye and then she’s gone.
Wrapping your arms around yourself, you walk into the bedroom, noticing immediately that her favourite photo of you both is missing from it’s usual spot on her bedside table. You’re not sure if this is a sign that she wants to have you there… or that she might not come back, and you wonder if there are other things missing from around your apartment.
The bed is unmade but you lie down anyway, catching a hint of the shampoo she uses as you tug her pillow towards you, closing your eyes as you press it against your face and breathe her in. Tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes and a vulgar sob erupts from somewhere deep within. She’s accused you of being too detached in the past but you know that isn’t the case. You’ve been hurt before and while you appear happy-go-lucky and confident in the right company, deep-down, you’re as insecure and untrusting as the next person.
It’s not that you don’t want to be with her. You do. At first, everything was so much better with her. Mundane things like going to the supermarket or watching a movie. They were better when she was at your side. And you felt yourself opening up to her, letting little things show. But then you’d freak out and push her away without telling her why.
Another sob ripples through your body and you curl up on your side, still inhaling deeply from the pillow. Internally, you berate yourself for being this weak. You call yourself a coward and argue back and forth until you actually tell yourself, outloud, to shut up, throwing the pillow back onto the bed in anger.
You sit up suddenly, feeling the room tilt and your heart rate jump as you realise that you’re the world’s biggest idiot. She’s perfect. You can recall the flecks of gold in her eyes and the almost-invisible spattering of freckles on her cheeks. The tiny dimple in her shoulder. The scar on her lower back from her tomboyish childhood filled with tree-climbing and pretend sword fights.
You’re scared, but not of what you feel for her, what you feel about her. You’re scared of everyone else. You’re scared of people judging you. She isn’t. She’s fearless but she’s never pushed you into being something else. She’s never pushed this relationship, she’s left it all up to you. But you know that every time you take her hand or smile at her, she lights up. She radiates happiness.
But not today. And not for a while now.
You push yourself off your bed and run around the apartment, pulling on boots and a jacket as you go. Your car keys are hanging on a hook next to the door. You tell the cats to hold the fort and dash down the stairs to your car.
You’re not aware that you’re singing along with the music until you hit a small traffic jam. You glance at the CD box, realising that it’s one of hers. A song that you’ve heard a million times but never really listened to the lyrics. As you wait for the traffic to clear, you nod your head along.
“But it was not your fault, but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn’t I, my dear?”
The song reaches it’s conclusion and you skip back to the start, turning up the volume a little louder as you start to speed along the highway though you have plenty of time. She always arrives at the airport hours before her flight, using the opportunity to people watch from behind a book and just blend in with the scenery.
Before you realise it, you’ve parked the car and start running towards the terminal. You’ve memorised her flight number but according to the Departures board, there are only two flights going to Atlanta in the next three hours. She’ll be on the first.
With the words of the song whirling through your mind, you race towards her gate, praying that you don’t arouse too much suspicion and ready to pull the ‘I’m famous’ card on anyone who tries to stop you, though it’s not something you take pleasure in doing. Her gate is mostly empty and you spot her immediately at the far end. You stop for a few seconds to catch your breath and to marvel at how she’s managed to curl herself up into one of the world’s most uncomfortable chairs before you square your shoulders and march towards her. Unusually, she’s facing the window instead of the crowds and then you notice the slight tremble in her shoulders. She’s crying.
You kneel in front of her and her mouth drops open in surprise.
“What are you…?” she begins to ask but you shake your head and take her hands in yours.
“It was not your fault, but mine,” you whisper, “And it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time. Didn’t I, my dear?”
A smile curves it’s way across her lips and you raise your joined hands to wipe away the rest of her tears.
“Come home?” you ask her, “For tonight.”
She looks unsure.
“I want to go with you,” you clarify, “We can get a flight tomorrow instead. Just… come home. Please.”
“Okay,” she nods and leans forward to press a kiss to your lips, then along your jaw line until her lips are hovering next to your ear, “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Sorry it took me so long,” you say and squeeze her hands in yours. She nods.
“You’re worth the wait.”
AUTHOR: Brio
WORDS: 1,298
RATING: PG-13 for swearing via lyrics.
SUMMARY: “Not that she’s leaving for good. Not yet.”
NOTES: A while ago I set myself a challenge to write something that contained little or no dialogue. This is what happened. Lyrics are from “Little Lion Man” by Mumford & Sons. Please feel free to ignore the unlikelihood that a person would make it that far through an airport without running into some sort of security check. Oh. Um... mild angst warning.
You watch as she packs her bag, both of you silent. Both of you have long since run out of things to say to one another but now that she’s leaving, you can feel the words bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill over.
Not that she’s leaving for good. Not yet. She’s visiting family for a few days and you aren’t invited. Or if you are invited, the message hasn’t been passed along.
The sound of the zip closing on her bag draws you back into the room. She’s straightening up and rifling through her purse, checking for the fifth time that she has her passport. There’s a tug somewhere near your heart when you see the black, skull-covered passport holder you gave her for her birthday the year before. It only cost you a few dollars but it’s so distinctly her that you had to buy it. Along with tickets to see one of her favourite singers. You shake your head when you remember that you didn’t even make it to the concert. Another long day at work, another day of retakes, another day of arguments.
She’s ready to go now and there’s a car waiting outside. You get off the couch, hands jammed into your pockets and your eyes on the floor. She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and you can tell she’s waiting. Waiting for a goodbye? For a sign that she should bother coming back? You glance up and your heart skips a beat, the way it always does.
You want to tell her that you still love her. That you will always love her, but something inside stops you when you see the look on her face, when you can’t find a trace of a similar feeling on her features. Her exquisite features. You have to remind yourself to breathe.
The car’s horn sounds again, causing both of you to jump and she nods. You walk forward and lean in to kiss her goodbye. She turns her head and your lips press against her cheek. She mutters a soft goodbye and then she’s gone.
Wrapping your arms around yourself, you walk into the bedroom, noticing immediately that her favourite photo of you both is missing from it’s usual spot on her bedside table. You’re not sure if this is a sign that she wants to have you there… or that she might not come back, and you wonder if there are other things missing from around your apartment.
The bed is unmade but you lie down anyway, catching a hint of the shampoo she uses as you tug her pillow towards you, closing your eyes as you press it against your face and breathe her in. Tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes and a vulgar sob erupts from somewhere deep within. She’s accused you of being too detached in the past but you know that isn’t the case. You’ve been hurt before and while you appear happy-go-lucky and confident in the right company, deep-down, you’re as insecure and untrusting as the next person.
It’s not that you don’t want to be with her. You do. At first, everything was so much better with her. Mundane things like going to the supermarket or watching a movie. They were better when she was at your side. And you felt yourself opening up to her, letting little things show. But then you’d freak out and push her away without telling her why.
Another sob ripples through your body and you curl up on your side, still inhaling deeply from the pillow. Internally, you berate yourself for being this weak. You call yourself a coward and argue back and forth until you actually tell yourself, outloud, to shut up, throwing the pillow back onto the bed in anger.
You sit up suddenly, feeling the room tilt and your heart rate jump as you realise that you’re the world’s biggest idiot. She’s perfect. You can recall the flecks of gold in her eyes and the almost-invisible spattering of freckles on her cheeks. The tiny dimple in her shoulder. The scar on her lower back from her tomboyish childhood filled with tree-climbing and pretend sword fights.
You’re scared, but not of what you feel for her, what you feel about her. You’re scared of everyone else. You’re scared of people judging you. She isn’t. She’s fearless but she’s never pushed you into being something else. She’s never pushed this relationship, she’s left it all up to you. But you know that every time you take her hand or smile at her, she lights up. She radiates happiness.
But not today. And not for a while now.
You push yourself off your bed and run around the apartment, pulling on boots and a jacket as you go. Your car keys are hanging on a hook next to the door. You tell the cats to hold the fort and dash down the stairs to your car.
You’re not aware that you’re singing along with the music until you hit a small traffic jam. You glance at the CD box, realising that it’s one of hers. A song that you’ve heard a million times but never really listened to the lyrics. As you wait for the traffic to clear, you nod your head along.
“But it was not your fault, but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn’t I, my dear?”
The song reaches it’s conclusion and you skip back to the start, turning up the volume a little louder as you start to speed along the highway though you have plenty of time. She always arrives at the airport hours before her flight, using the opportunity to people watch from behind a book and just blend in with the scenery.
Before you realise it, you’ve parked the car and start running towards the terminal. You’ve memorised her flight number but according to the Departures board, there are only two flights going to Atlanta in the next three hours. She’ll be on the first.
With the words of the song whirling through your mind, you race towards her gate, praying that you don’t arouse too much suspicion and ready to pull the ‘I’m famous’ card on anyone who tries to stop you, though it’s not something you take pleasure in doing. Her gate is mostly empty and you spot her immediately at the far end. You stop for a few seconds to catch your breath and to marvel at how she’s managed to curl herself up into one of the world’s most uncomfortable chairs before you square your shoulders and march towards her. Unusually, she’s facing the window instead of the crowds and then you notice the slight tremble in her shoulders. She’s crying.
You kneel in front of her and her mouth drops open in surprise.
“What are you…?” she begins to ask but you shake your head and take her hands in yours.
“It was not your fault, but mine,” you whisper, “And it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time. Didn’t I, my dear?”
A smile curves it’s way across her lips and you raise your joined hands to wipe away the rest of her tears.
“Come home?” you ask her, “For tonight.”
She looks unsure.
“I want to go with you,” you clarify, “We can get a flight tomorrow instead. Just… come home. Please.”
“Okay,” she nods and leans forward to press a kiss to your lips, then along your jaw line until her lips are hovering next to your ear, “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Sorry it took me so long,” you say and squeeze her hands in yours. She nods.
“You’re worth the wait.”