Title: Your Chosen Enigma
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Summary: "Amy's waiting for you." (post-ep for "7A WF 83429")
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Your Chosen Enigma by Michelle K.
You make sure Josh gets home, then return back to your place.
Amy's waiting for you, reclining on your couch as she plays with the spare key you gave her. She looks up, tosses it on the table as if she's been caught doing something stupid. "Hey."
"You called almost an hour ago."
"We went to look at everything that people left for Zoey."
You hesitate. "Josh. I went with Josh."
She raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. You're not sure if it's because she's too tired to fight, or if you've properly proven yourself to her.
You could never prove yourself to her.
She shifts, moving to the edge of her seat. "I saw it, too."
"It's hard to miss," you say. "It's amazing... all those people who care..." You wait for something; sarcasm or common sense. Anything to break you out of remembering that Zoey could be dead.
You only get silence.
You throw your bag and coat on a chair, sit next to her. Something in her body language says, "Don't touch me," but you still put a hand on her back. She tenses, then relaxes. When she turns to you, you notice that her eyes bear the slight evidence of tears. You don't ask her if she was crying; she would shrug off the question anyway.
"I saw about what happened in Turkey."
You blink; you can still see the televised images of flames. Death in bright orange glow. Candlelight and Zoey's face.
"How's everyone holding up?" she asks finally after several minutes of silence.
"As well as can be expected."
"What about Josh?"
"He's pretending well," you mutter.
You want to say more, like you're worried that he's headed for another breakdown. But your concern would be misread, and she would ignore that she's the one who brought him up.
And this would be closer to being over.
You couldn't handle that.
"Walken looked..." she begins haltingly. "...he looked like he was actually the President."
"He...he is," you counter.
She half-smiles; then, half-kisses you, mouth closed and body still removed from yours. You lazily move to the bedroom, your fingers on her hips as she keeps her hands to herself. You want to ask her to touch you, but that seems too desperate.
"I'm sorry," she mutters, your mouth on her neck. "For before...Josh...and everything," she slurs.
You wonder if she's been drinking again.
You wouldn't blame her.
"It's okay," you say, and she falls ungracefully onto your bed. You follow her, mouth back on her neck as your fingers push up her shirt. "It's okay."
You move down to her newly exposed stomach, hands drifting up to her breasts.
You do, hands pulling away from the lace like it's burned you.
"I'm not in the mood," she mutters.
Words you've rarely heard. You wonder if she's just too depressed or if she doesn't think you're worth all the trouble that comes with this relationship.
But if the latter were true, she wouldn't be here. Maybe she needs you, if only just a little.
"Okay." You kiss her stomach again, palms against her skin. You pull her shirt down, rest your head there. You consider telling her you love her.
But that would make things more complicated.
You don't need any more complications.
"We should go to sleep," you say.
"Yeah." She starts to play with your hair, creating patterns that'll be a tangled mess later.
You don't care. She's touching you.
"We really should go to sleep," you repeat.
You close your eyes. You're not sure if she does the same.
Back to the Big Block of Cheese Main Page