Miscalculation (1/1)
Title: Miscalculation
Words: 1382
Spoilers: Maternity. Of course, this being a post-Maternity fic, that's to be expected.
Rating: Hard R.
Summary: Two lives. One moment.
Dedication: For fated_addiction, again. Much much love to _vicodin for the beta job and the conversation that led to this thing being finished.
It isn’t his words, nor his condescending tone, nor the general characteristic that he has to know absolutely everything about everything, that sets her off. Really, it has nothing to do with him at all. It isn’t the adoring kiss that father places on mother’s cheek while she smiles lovingly at her baby. It isn’t even the baby herself.
It is the balloons.
Somehow, the sight of those two polymer helium-filled circles bouncing at the end of their string tethers, harshly refracting the hospital fluorescent lighting, causes something in her to break.
Perhaps it is the ingrained idea that to have a child is to be normal, is to be an asset to the general populace. That to help the human race thrive, to carry on with another generation, another beating heart, is the ultimate goal of a woman.
The fact that she herself has not done these things apparently makes her a misfit. A screw-up. A casualty.
It has been a long time since she’s been bothered by the sight of a happy family--she’s had many years to get used to the sight, to the fact that what she sees will ultimately never happen to her--so she is momentarily puzzled as to why it hits her now. When she sees the balloons bound out of the elevator, hitching a ride on the wheelchair, she finally sees the answer quite clearly.
It is the idea of being rewarded for fulfilling a perceived lot in life. A woman has a child and is given flowers and balloons as reward. But the flowers are more general--scientists have yet to breed a flower that blatantly exclaims, “It’s a girl!” as it is presented to the new mother. It is really the balloons that declare their congratulations, their message distinct and undeniable.
It is the fact that despite her medical degree, her specialized knowledge, her unending compassion for the well-being of others, she is still ultimately a lesser woman than the housewife currently being wheeled out of the hospital, baby held tightly in her arms.
It is this realization that prompts her to turn on her heel and make her way up the stairwell.
------------------
He is still in his office--no surprise there--when she arrives. He is leaning back in his chair, both legs propped up on his desk, eyes closed and head bobbing almost imperceptibly to music she cannot hear.
Her hand stays on the face of the glass door for quite some time, covering the “Greg” so carefully synchronized on its surface, and whatever it had been that broke on the sight of balloons begins to sweep itself into small piles. She is no longer a chaotic maelstrom of unsorted thoughts, and she has subsequently lost (no, misplaced) whatever flame that had fueled her not ten minutes earlier. She feels it slowly dying inside of her.
She shudders.
It is when she feels the glass warming under her palm that she pushes away from the door and hurries to another, pulling it open and taking the staircase ever-upwards.
------------------
She leans on her forearms as the breeze rakes through her hair, tearing errant strands free from her ponytail and sending them flying. She watches the lights of the city surrounding her on all sides, and she breathes in deeply, trying to collect herself. Despite the haze of the city, she thinks she can detect a sort of crispness in the air; winter is in full regalia. She wonders if they’ll receive any snow this year.
A strong breeze blows, and a shiver runs through her body.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been on the roof. All she knows is the complaining creaking of the door behind her as it is thrust open. She closes her eyes and breathes out a small sigh.
She does not hear nor feel his approach, and she does not jump when his low voice sounds from right behind her.
“You left an hour ago.”
She does not turn to face him. “I was sidetracked.”
She thinks that the sound she hears is that of a cane being tapped impatiently, but when combined with the present gust of wind, she can’t be sure. It’s when the breeze dies down that she knows he’s still there.
“You went back to my office,” he says. “Why?”
“I forgot something.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re right.” She sighs again. “I remembered something. And I wanted to yell at you because of it.” Somehow this is easier when she can’t see him. It’s as though he isn’t even there; her words are being carried on the departing wind, spreading across an entire city of deaf ears.
He is quiet. She is not surprised. Finally, he speaks.
“Tell me.”
She turns to face him, and it is a mistake. She will admit this only later, when she is laying in her bed, alone, knees drawn to her chest and tear tracks drying sticky on her cheeks.
“You want me to yell at you?”
His hand clutching his cane twitches; she does not notice. Nor does she notice the momentary flash in his eyes; even if she did, she would not be able to decipher its meaning.
“Not particularly,” he replies. “But it’s apparent that you’re more than just a nice rack and a tight ass. If there are neurons firing inside that brain of yours, I want to know what messages they’re sending."
When she takes a step towards him, she is torn between slapping him across the face and just walking right past. She does neither.
The flame that propelled her earlier is rekindling and guiding her actions.
------------------
She will later--much later--marvel at the intricacies and faults of the human mind. She has no other way of explaining why she cannot remember the subsequent events as they occurred fluidly, one right after another. Why instead of a movie that she can play over in her mind, skipping the parts she doesn’t like and embellishing those she does, she possesses an unorganized photo album filled with static, captured memories.
------------------
His stubble chafes her as she rubs her cheek against his, her hand traveling down his drawn stomach and fumbling around his trousers.
He is speaking to her; she does not listen. Soon, she does not even realize he still speaks.
She strokes him to no avail. Still, he speaks. And still she does not hear him. She registers the tone in his voice but hears nothing in the words.
Eventually he stops speaking.
------------------
Her earlier thoughts jostle in her head. Misfit. Screw-up. Casualty.
She wants to feel something else. Anything else.
She doesn’t care about her current location, her current company. She doesn’t care about the act. She doesn’t even care about the ramifications of the collision course she currently navigates.
As she unbuttons his fly and dips her hand inside of his boxers, she thinks that maybe he wants to feel something else as well.
------------------
Later, her nipples will ache because he bit too hard.
Later, her back will hurt because concrete partitions are not very supportive.
Later, she will remember that he never tried to kiss her.
Later, she will remember that neither did she.
------------------
He asks her about birth control as she takes him in her mouth. Around him, she laughs.
It has never hurt so much for her to laugh.
------------------
She does not let him touch her.
He does not offer.
------------------
The entire time, neither smiles.
Neutral, plastic expressions. Mouths closed in thin lines as lower bodies move the steps of an ageless dance.
If she wasn’t guilty of the exact same sin, she would have noticed that he was looking right through her.
------------------
Screw-up.
Misfit.
------------------
When he spends himself inside of her, she thinks she can hear the cry of a baby traveling on the blowing wind.
------------------
As she pulls her clothes around her, he asks her again about birth control.
She looks at him. It is not a mistake, this time.
“It’s not possible,” she says to him, and walks through the door and down the stairs.
------------------
She crawls into bed with a headache and aching eyes.
She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
------------------
Casualty.
Words: 1382
Spoilers: Maternity. Of course, this being a post-Maternity fic, that's to be expected.
Rating: Hard R.
Summary: Two lives. One moment.
Dedication: For fated_addiction, again. Much much love to _vicodin for the beta job and the conversation that led to this thing being finished.
It isn’t his words, nor his condescending tone, nor the general characteristic that he has to know absolutely everything about everything, that sets her off. Really, it has nothing to do with him at all. It isn’t the adoring kiss that father places on mother’s cheek while she smiles lovingly at her baby. It isn’t even the baby herself.
It is the balloons.
Somehow, the sight of those two polymer helium-filled circles bouncing at the end of their string tethers, harshly refracting the hospital fluorescent lighting, causes something in her to break.
Perhaps it is the ingrained idea that to have a child is to be normal, is to be an asset to the general populace. That to help the human race thrive, to carry on with another generation, another beating heart, is the ultimate goal of a woman.
The fact that she herself has not done these things apparently makes her a misfit. A screw-up. A casualty.
It has been a long time since she’s been bothered by the sight of a happy family--she’s had many years to get used to the sight, to the fact that what she sees will ultimately never happen to her--so she is momentarily puzzled as to why it hits her now. When she sees the balloons bound out of the elevator, hitching a ride on the wheelchair, she finally sees the answer quite clearly.
It is the idea of being rewarded for fulfilling a perceived lot in life. A woman has a child and is given flowers and balloons as reward. But the flowers are more general--scientists have yet to breed a flower that blatantly exclaims, “It’s a girl!” as it is presented to the new mother. It is really the balloons that declare their congratulations, their message distinct and undeniable.
It is the fact that despite her medical degree, her specialized knowledge, her unending compassion for the well-being of others, she is still ultimately a lesser woman than the housewife currently being wheeled out of the hospital, baby held tightly in her arms.
It is this realization that prompts her to turn on her heel and make her way up the stairwell.
------------------
He is still in his office--no surprise there--when she arrives. He is leaning back in his chair, both legs propped up on his desk, eyes closed and head bobbing almost imperceptibly to music she cannot hear.
Her hand stays on the face of the glass door for quite some time, covering the “Greg” so carefully synchronized on its surface, and whatever it had been that broke on the sight of balloons begins to sweep itself into small piles. She is no longer a chaotic maelstrom of unsorted thoughts, and she has subsequently lost (no, misplaced) whatever flame that had fueled her not ten minutes earlier. She feels it slowly dying inside of her.
She shudders.
It is when she feels the glass warming under her palm that she pushes away from the door and hurries to another, pulling it open and taking the staircase ever-upwards.
------------------
She leans on her forearms as the breeze rakes through her hair, tearing errant strands free from her ponytail and sending them flying. She watches the lights of the city surrounding her on all sides, and she breathes in deeply, trying to collect herself. Despite the haze of the city, she thinks she can detect a sort of crispness in the air; winter is in full regalia. She wonders if they’ll receive any snow this year.
A strong breeze blows, and a shiver runs through her body.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been on the roof. All she knows is the complaining creaking of the door behind her as it is thrust open. She closes her eyes and breathes out a small sigh.
She does not hear nor feel his approach, and she does not jump when his low voice sounds from right behind her.
“You left an hour ago.”
She does not turn to face him. “I was sidetracked.”
She thinks that the sound she hears is that of a cane being tapped impatiently, but when combined with the present gust of wind, she can’t be sure. It’s when the breeze dies down that she knows he’s still there.
“You went back to my office,” he says. “Why?”
“I forgot something.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re right.” She sighs again. “I remembered something. And I wanted to yell at you because of it.” Somehow this is easier when she can’t see him. It’s as though he isn’t even there; her words are being carried on the departing wind, spreading across an entire city of deaf ears.
He is quiet. She is not surprised. Finally, he speaks.
“Tell me.”
She turns to face him, and it is a mistake. She will admit this only later, when she is laying in her bed, alone, knees drawn to her chest and tear tracks drying sticky on her cheeks.
“You want me to yell at you?”
His hand clutching his cane twitches; she does not notice. Nor does she notice the momentary flash in his eyes; even if she did, she would not be able to decipher its meaning.
“Not particularly,” he replies. “But it’s apparent that you’re more than just a nice rack and a tight ass. If there are neurons firing inside that brain of yours, I want to know what messages they’re sending."
When she takes a step towards him, she is torn between slapping him across the face and just walking right past. She does neither.
The flame that propelled her earlier is rekindling and guiding her actions.
------------------
She will later--much later--marvel at the intricacies and faults of the human mind. She has no other way of explaining why she cannot remember the subsequent events as they occurred fluidly, one right after another. Why instead of a movie that she can play over in her mind, skipping the parts she doesn’t like and embellishing those she does, she possesses an unorganized photo album filled with static, captured memories.
------------------
His stubble chafes her as she rubs her cheek against his, her hand traveling down his drawn stomach and fumbling around his trousers.
He is speaking to her; she does not listen. Soon, she does not even realize he still speaks.
She strokes him to no avail. Still, he speaks. And still she does not hear him. She registers the tone in his voice but hears nothing in the words.
Eventually he stops speaking.
------------------
Her earlier thoughts jostle in her head. Misfit. Screw-up. Casualty.
She wants to feel something else. Anything else.
She doesn’t care about her current location, her current company. She doesn’t care about the act. She doesn’t even care about the ramifications of the collision course she currently navigates.
As she unbuttons his fly and dips her hand inside of his boxers, she thinks that maybe he wants to feel something else as well.
------------------
Later, her nipples will ache because he bit too hard.
Later, her back will hurt because concrete partitions are not very supportive.
Later, she will remember that he never tried to kiss her.
Later, she will remember that neither did she.
------------------
He asks her about birth control as she takes him in her mouth. Around him, she laughs.
It has never hurt so much for her to laugh.
------------------
She does not let him touch her.
He does not offer.
------------------
The entire time, neither smiles.
Neutral, plastic expressions. Mouths closed in thin lines as lower bodies move the steps of an ageless dance.
If she wasn’t guilty of the exact same sin, she would have noticed that he was looking right through her.
------------------
Screw-up.
Misfit.
------------------
When he spends himself inside of her, she thinks she can hear the cry of a baby traveling on the blowing wind.
------------------
As she pulls her clothes around her, he asks her again about birth control.
She looks at him. It is not a mistake, this time.
“It’s not possible,” she says to him, and walks through the door and down the stairs.
------------------
She crawls into bed with a headache and aching eyes.
She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
------------------
Casualty.