We'll Do It All Again, Part IV { 1

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

Better with you
Better with you
Better with you
This hell feels better with you

~


This day is like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Her horseback riding lessons happening in the mornings, and the days are whiled away with no books, no entertainment, no employment, no distraction. The same as every single day for the last two months. It's a listless existence with no purpose.

There is, Audrey supposes, one single upside, while she spins the ring on her finger (the one she can't quite ever fully adjust to having on it; can't forget is there), and it's that the hands in the mirrors and windows are gone. In the end they hadn't been worth any real terror or concern. A benign trick of light and image that no one could explain or effect, but could not actually affect them or even force them to look at.

She almost misses it, strange as it was. At least it was something happening.
Something to cut through the absolute unchanging nature of this place.

Another day draws towards a close, and it's normal at this point: how exhausting monotony can be, how relieving going to sleep and putting away one more endless, unchanging day. It's easy to slip, silently and smoothly away, almost as soon as her cheek touches the pillow. Habit more than hope. Another box that is checked at the end of all the few boxes to check each day in this place.

Everything that is until the world rolls slowly and softly into vibrant colors.

The sharp, deep green of trees. And a grey impending sky all around. The sudden sound of two voices speaking, that collapsed with a turning confusion, into a woman with blonde hair and a man in a plaid shirt packing themselves into a car, while she rocked on the balls of her feet. Hands in her own pockets.

A feeling of. Guilt. Weight. Inevitability. Hope. Doubt. Acceptance. Uncertainty. Ownership.
It's a press of heavy stones, pulled from the salted sea air she smells on every breath.

But as if there were no words left to say.

(Had there been words said?
Had they all spoken, and she'd just now forgotten?)

Her hands in her pockets as the car starts, and they drive away. Without a word to her either, and Audrey turned, adrift, looking to her side, where she suddenly saw Nathan. Beside a large old, but almost stunningly, blue truck. Writing something onto a notepad. As though he didn't know she was there.

No. No. That was normal. Right. The writing.
He was doing his job, like he alway had.

A bubble of relief whispered out through her, as though she was mist and fog more than bones and skin, only for it to be eaten in that impending grey sky. Except it wasn't in the sky. It was inside of her. Inside of her stomach. Inside of her chest. Inside of looking at him. Inside of his name, his face, his posture, his actions, in her head, in her vision.

All those same feelings swelled. Some heavier. Some deeper. Some more ... electric.
Even with the sharpening weight of every step as she turned and walked toward him.

Comments

[dont_feel_it]

He doesn't turn to watch her go, but he does when the crunch of her boots on driveway gravel goes quiet. Which isn't like Audrey. Audrey isn't the stop-and-get-sentimental type. She doesn't pause when she's got a clue, or a new case. She's been searching for information about Lucy Ripley nearly since she got here. If anything, she should be running.

But she's not, and when he angles around, hands slid into his pockets, all he sees is the back of her head. Breeze tugging at blonde strands.

Giving him just one second, a breath's worth of time to wonder if he should say something else (though saying isn't exactly his strong suit) before she's turned with the purpose he expected to see her walk away from him with.

Back to him.

Directly into his chest before he can even get his hands out of his pockets, or parse what's happening, while she's shoving up on her toes and her hands are against his face and he can feel them, but only until she pushes up and her mouth is there. Caught against his.

Not enough time to ask what or why, when his eyes are closed, and he can feel, he can feel, he can feel. Her. soft lips. Wam breath. Hands tight on his face. Kissing him the way she does anything else. Like she's trying to make a point. Take a stand. Draw a line in the sand and set fire to everything past it.

Hands floating up out of his pockets. That he can't feel. He can't feel them. His shirt. His jeans. The ring on its chain around his throat. Nothing but her. Like the way it used to feel when he was a kid, dove to escape searing sun into frigid, clear, dark water. But the opposite. He's burning.

And too late to get his hands up, to find her hair, the back of her head, her waist, her hips, before she's ripping away and he doesn't want to open his eyes, even as he lets her go. Like maybe, if he looked, it would turn out to be a dream. An illusion. Something he wanted so much he made himself believe it happened.

But there she is, walking away with that purpose to her step. To her car.

And all he can do is watch her.

And consider that this is going to make pretending to himself that much harder than usual.

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

There are no words for this.

A wash of feelings. A whole world bigger than an ocean. Bigger than her. At the edge of a kiss that's more than I promise could have ever tried to touch with just sound. That feels stripped, like lightning, to the core of herself in kissing Nathan, even as half of her still hummed with the stark necessity to leave, to leave as fast as possible. Even him. To take this chance more fleet that the quickest breeze.

The one he gave her. The one he found, even when she left it in her own later. He didn't. He's more than she knows how to deserve, or how to feel any less than everything she puts into this simple press of lips. Anything less and it wouldn't be enough (it's barely enough) anymore; anything more and she won't be able to still go do it (she has to go). A cold reality, with its own brand desperation, even when she pulls away, her lips still warm and her eyes on his face, as her steps wobble.

He's still standing there. Not quite frozen, eyes still closed, half in movement, and she has to turn away.
She can't look at him. She can't watch him open his eyes. She can't do that and still do this. Not now.

Audrey turn on her heel and dashed forward, clipped and fast --

-- as her heart was thundering as her eyes suddenly shot open.


Blinking at the brightness of the morning light on the ceiling of her bedroom.
Blue eyes wild for a second, before her hand came up and covered her mouth.