Title: Building a Mystery
Author: Dimensia
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, hold no claim to them, just using them for my own personal amusement. I borrowed words from Walt Whitman, and Edward Lorenz and Jennifer Crusie offered some assistance in explaining a certain scientific twist.
Summary: This woke me up at <i>three thirty</i> in the morning, and I had to put it on paper. Just a one shot, kind of a PWP. Angstier than I originally intended, but such is life. Takes place a few months after Departure, though there have been some changes (most importantly, Liz refused to take Max back after Tess blasted off, and Michael and Maria self-destructed soon after, his doing, not hers). Though some post-Season 2 events took place (Michael working at Meta-Chem, Maria heading to New York), the last season as it aired in canon never saw the light of day. Insert disgusted shudder here.
Thanks go out to Stacie the beta monster, who’s been telling me to write a Liz smutlet since the first nookie-from-a-guy’s-point-of-view complaint I registered, and to Q and Lisa, for listening to me bitch and moan about epic parts and plots with a mind of their own, and still wanting to talk to me the next day (and in the latter case, for encouraging me to post here). Hehe.
Rating: ADULT
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<i>It’s October 12th. I’m Liz Parker, and I’ve spent years enraptured with science. With the idea that there’s an explanation for everything, that laws and theories can validate even the most complicated riddles, through logic and reason.
I’m beginning to think that I was wrong.
The flaw in living life according to scientific reasoning lies in human behavior. You grow accustomed to the people around you. Observe their traits, their habits, their annoying quirks, until you know them up and down, inside and out. I used to think that was true of everyone.
I guess there’s an exception to every rule. Things you see, hear, witness, that turn truth into misconception.
It starts small. A scowl, a hard expression that used to be foreboding, alienating, morphs into a facade that hides flashes of interest, even emotion. One word answers, meant to be terse and dismissive, are suddenly loaded with hidden meaning. Friendly banter takes a turn, hinting at things unspoken, straddling a line that’s nearly invisible.
And then it grows, and all at once you’re bombarded with contradictions. Findings that conflict with conclusions you’ve already drawn and deductions you were confident in. Pages peek from an open locker, and where you expect to find “Playboy,” you’re greeted with a worn copy of “Leaves of Grass.” Hands that seem destined for rough work and hard labor create delicate curves and shadows, and transform blank paper into a thing of beauty. And eyes that once seemed so guarded, so veiled, are bright and open, even for the briefest of moments.
Soon, you find yourself watching their every move. Analyzing every word, every gesture, trying to decipher their motives, their intentions, and wondering what’s going through their mind at any given point in time. It’s like dancing with someone who doesn’t know the steps. There’s steady movement as long as the song is simple and everyone is safe in their own space, but when the music changes and you get too close, they just… walk away.
“I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different.”
Walt Whitman wrote that, and it applies to such people, rare as they may be. Just knowing them is a paradox, and there are no simple facts or easy answers to the puzzle. They’re a mystery. They defy description and elude explanation. And realizing that rational thought doesn’t apply, that logical reasoning as it should be has failed you, is frustrating. It’s intriguing. It’s maddening.
And Michael Guerin is driving me crazy.</i>
Every word was burned into my brain, the passage repeating on endless loop. It had been ages since I’d last touched my journal, something that was once so precious to me... The last entry was dated April 27th.
<i>But at least my heart is open. And I’m writing again. I’m feeling. I’m breathing.</i>
Prom night. Two days before Alex died.
Breathing had never been so painful. I’d spent the last six months suffocating, trapped in a vacuum. And I hadn’t touched my journal since.
Not until last night.
“I think it’s clean, Parker.”
I blinked at the sound of Michael’s gruff voice, turning in the general direction of the kitchen. My eyes couldn’t quite focus, and his outline was blurred and lost in the hazy light that drifted through the order window.
“What?”
A bolt of panic ripped through my chest, and I fought to get it under control.
<i>Calm down. It’s not like he can read your mind.</i>
“You’ve been scrubbing the same table for ten minutes,” he said flatly. “Pretty sure the dirt has jumped ship by now.”
“What?” I echoed, looking dazedly at the booth before me.
The crumpled rag was damp in my hand, still moving in slow, mindless circles, and I pulled my arm back, leaving the cloth wadded on the streaked tabletop. “Oh, I…”
“Whatever.” Michael snorted behind me, his spatula scraping harshly at the grill. I pressed clammy fingertips to my temple, trying to clear my head, and the scratching stopped abruptly.
“Think you could speed it up? It’s the only night this week I’m not pulling double duty, and spending it here was not in the plan.”
My hand fell away, pulling at the apron strings tied around my back, and I reached down to grab the bus tub from the vinyl booth, tossing the shiny silver alien on top. Plates and forks collided as they shifted inside, metal and porcelain bouncing off plastic glasses, and I bit back a sigh as I headed toward the back.
“Go home, Michael,” I replied tiredly, pushing through the break room door. “I can handle things here.”
Propping a shoulder in the doorframe, he crossed his feet at the ankles, a sardonic smirk spreading across his face.
“Yeah. And when I get here in the morning, you’ll still be staring into space and trying to tunnel through the Formica.”
My shoulders slumped, silverware rattling as the hard plastic container shook in my hands.
“You’re opening tomorrow?” I asked bleakly.
“Last time I checked.”
A groan tried to fight its way free, and I battled it back, forcing it down my throat as I swallowed thickly. “I… I thought you were off. You’re not on the schedule.”
He shifted in the doorway, looking bored. “Jose asked me to switch.”
As if it weren’t bad enough that I was spacing out at work, and putting strange thoughts on paper, I had to spend an extra eight hours with him, unscheduled and unprepared. <i>Wonderful. Perfect. Just…</i>
“Great,” I mumbled, moving the tub of dishes to my side and shuffling toward the kitchen.
Stretching an arm across the entryway, Michael blocked my passage, and my face nearly collided with his chest. His head cocked to one side, and he looked down at me, the smirk still tugging one corner of his mouth.
“What was that?”
I could smell him, the scent of fabric softener and desert air, the faintest hint of sweat, and blood rushed to my cheeks. “Nothing,” I stammered quickly, my gaze locked straight ahead. “That’s, um… it’s nice. Of you. To pick up his shift, I mean.”
He shrugged, and his t-shirt pulled tighter, the little alien over his heart distorting until it looked almost taunting. “He’s got someplace to be, and I’ve got bills to pay.”
“Right.” I nodded absently, and the tip of my nose brushed gray cotton. “Could you... move or something?”
<i>Please move. Before I have a chance to contemplate what ‘or something’ could possibly be.</i>
Wide eyes flicked up to his face, my head tilting back, and I bit into my bottom lip, trying to feign nonchalance.
“You’re the one who doesn’t want to be here all night, remember?”
He watched me carefully for a long moment, his eyes eclipsing as he squinted.
I held my breath, trying not to fidget under the scrutiny. Something sparked in the warm brown orbs, too bright for the shadow to conceal, flickering and fading almost too fast to process.
Then he straightened, brushing past me and striding toward the back door, and I looked over my shoulder as he snatched up the loaded garbage bags next to the exit. Pushing it open, he disappeared into the alley without another word, the heavy door banging shut behind him. A rush of cool air cut through the room, skimming the backs of my bare legs, leaving a tingling trail of goosebumps behind.
Sighing, I trudged into the kitchen, setting the tub on the prep station in the center of the room and turning to the dishwasher.
I was worried about tomorrow, and I couldn’t even get through tonight.
<i>Just focus,</i> I chanted to myself, grabbing the box of dish detergent. <i>You’ll feel better once he’s gone.</i>
After he left, I could breathe freely again. Go upstairs, climb into bed... maybe burn my journal.
Then I could space out in peace. All alone with my thoughts.
Somehow, I wasn’t sure how that thought was supposed to make me feel better.
And yet, it was still more appealing than the alternative. Locked in a dark, empty restaurant with the object of my distraction, sneaking glances out of the corner of my eye, that distinctively male scent permeating the air around me…
<i>You’ve got to get him out of here.</i>
Sifting powder into the soap tray, I programmed the machine from memory, pressing buttons in a sequence all too familiar. My eyes found on the floor, locked on a discolored square in the checked tile, and I couldn’t seem to tear them away. One arm reached out slowly, blindly, my fingers closing around the plastic handle and pulling the container toward the edge.
“You okay, Parker?”
I jumped, my hand jerking up to my mouth, and the gray tub flipped in the air and crashed to the floor.
“Nice,” Michael drawled, chuckling.
“I didn’t hear you come back in…” I stared down at the mess – flatware haphazardly strewn through a maze of broken shards and white dust, empty cups rolling to the far corners of the room.
<i>Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse…</i>
My eyes slid closed, and I drew in a deep breath. “I’ll just… go get the broom.”
Stepping out of the chaos, I barely heard Michael’s cry of warning.
“<i>Watch out – </i>“
But I was already in motion, my center of gravity shifting as my shoe hit a rogue chunk of debris and I lost my footing. Flailing, I dropped to the ground, kneecaps slapping the linoleum, pain knifing through my lower leg.
<i>…it obviously can.</i>
“Well that was graceful,” I muttered, still sprawled face-down on the floor.
“Kind of blew the dismount, though,” Michael retorted under his breath, sinking to his knees at my side as I rolled over and pushed myself up on shaky palms. A jagged sliver of porcelain was imbedded in my skin, blood trickling a wet path down my calf, and he growled as he examined the wound.
“<i>Dammit</i>, Liz.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I exclaimed, gaping at him incredulously. “It wasn’t exactly a planned trip. You’re actually angry with me for <i>falling</i>?”
“You’ve been in la-la land all night,” he snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Fire crawled beneath my flesh, white-hot and throbbing, and I winced. “Do you think we could have this argument after I visit the emergency room?”
“Great plan,” he scoffed, leaning toward my bent leg. “Your dad’s car is in Santa Fe with your parents. And I don’t think my bike’s the best mode of transportation for someone who’s impaled herself with a dinner plate.”
His hand slipped under my ankle, sliding up the underside of my calf. I gasped, tensing as his warm fingers trailed over my skin, lifting my foot from the floor. His head shot up, piercing eyes meeting mine, and I felt caught under the intensity of his gaze.
<i>Breathe, Liz. Just breathe.</i>
“Does that hurt?”
“What? No,” I croaked out. “I mean, yeah, it does. But you didn’t hurt me, if... if that’s what you’re asking.”
Bleeding on the kitchen floor obviously wasn’t helping my state of mind.
Finding the back of my knee with his other hand, he looked back down, gently turning my leg in his palms. My breath caught in my throat, and I fought to concentrate, distracted by the feel of his hands on my skin.
Michael touching me as I bled on the kitchen floor wasn’t all that helpful, either.
“So um,” I started absently, looking up at the ceiling, “is there a plan of action here? If we can’t go to the hospital I, I guess we could call an ambulance. But this really isn’t life threatening, is it? It’s not like I ruptured an artery or anything – ”
“Parker,” he cut in, “shut up.”
I pressed my lips together as he extended my leg, stretching it out on the cold tile. He reached toward the wound, and froze, icy panic shooting through my chest.
“What are you doing?”
“Executing the plan,” he grumbled, his hand hovering. I stared blankly, open-mouthed and blinking, and he rolled his eyes. “What the hell do you think I’m doing? I’m gonna fix it.”
Fix…
Oh, no. <i>No</i>. That absolutely could not happen.
“I thought… I didn’t know you could heal,” I said warily.
He shrugged, seemingly unfazed. “I’m sort of remedial.”
“Oh, that’s a great endorsement,” I mumbled.
“I can handle small stuff, alright?” he bit out. “You can let me do this, or you can keep bleeding like a stuck pig. Your call.” His voice was brittle, the edge of hurt in his tone hanging heavy in the air. I looked down at my lap, blunt teeth sinking into my lip in contrition.
The words I’d written came back to haunt me, echoing between my ears. Just knowing they were out there, that I’d recorded them, made them real outside my mind, was bad enough.
But the thought of letting him swim around in my head, granting him access to the thoughts I’d been having, the things I’d been feeling…
“I don’t have to connect with you, Liz.”
My eyes snapped back to his, startled and wide, caught off guard by his knowing gaze. “You don’t?”
He pursed his lips, and my eyes drifted to his mouth. “Cuts, bruises, broken bones, that’s minor stuff. No connection necessary. So you can stop the internal freak out.”
I shook my head tightly. “I wasn’t – “
“Gnawing through your lip? Dead giveaway.” He inched closer, sliding his fingers under my calf. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think I can work around shrapnel.”
“And that means… what, exactly?” I asked tentatively, my eyebrows rising.
“That I’m gonna have to yank this out.”
I shrank back, pulling my leg with me, shivering involuntarily as my skin dragged along his open palm.
“Yank?”
“Figure of speech,” he muttered. “Look, it’s gonna hurt. But you already know that, so let’s just get it over with.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I scoffed. “It’s not stuck in you.”
My eyelids clamped shut so fast that I barely caught his amused smirk.
<i>Oh god... if you’re actually out there, please tell me this is a nightmare.</i>
Kyle would invariably claim that the universe was trying to pay me back for some kind of negative energy, exacting vengeance in the name of karma. But leaving me at the mercy of Michael Guerin, injured and embarrassed and blurting out naïve sexual innuendo...
Karma must be counting past lives. Because I couldn’t think of anything I’d done in my eighteen years on earth horrific enough to warrant such torture.
“Just… do what you have to, Michael.”
His hand left my leg, and I was surprised to feel it slip into mine, our fingers lacing together.
My teeth gnashed as he gripped the chunk of dish in his fingers, and I squeezed his palm with every ounce of strength I had. He pulled the obstruction free without preamble, and my eyes flew open as it left my burning flesh, leaving a torn gash behind, blood spilling from the ripped skin to pool on the floor.
“<i>Shit</i>,” he hissed.
“What?” I inquired breathlessly, balking at the sharp bite of pain, blinking at him through a sheen of sudden tears. “You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”
“No,” he grunted, tossing the spotted piece of porcelain aside. “But I think you broke my fucking hand.”
I released my grip, warmth crawling up my neck and over my cheeks. “Sorry…” He grimaced as his gaze narrowed at the jagged flesh below my knee, and I pushed stray strands of hair behind my ear.
“Maybe, um, an ice pack would help – “
“It’s fine, forget it.” Leaning in, he lifted my leg closer to his appraising eyes, cradling it with a touch that was surprisingly tender. “Jesus, this is deep.”
Heavy droplets arced around my calf and fell to the spattered tile, feeding the growing puddle. His hands closed around the wound, fingertips brushing his wrists in a closed cocoon, the salt from his hand soaking into the tear, adding an angry sting to the ache.
I watched as his features pulled together, and a crystalline glow seeped from his palm, winding through the infinitesimal space between his fingers.
A warm tingle started beneath my skin, almost bone deep, inching outward as the light grew brighter. My nerves were alive, writhing in the steady stream of his energy, the pain receding as layers of tissue knitted back together. A jolt of heat pressed into my pores and shot through my cells, burrowing into my very molecules, charged, electric, the current spreading wide, racing through a network of superheated veins until I could feel it everywhere.
Waves of conflicting emotion flooded into me, jumbled, overwhelming, mottled slices of anger, wonder, fear, hope… They all blended together, one on top of the other, demanding, unrelenting, a cacophony of raw sensation that left me reeling.
It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. A jolt of power in its purest form, of <i>life</i>, that scrambled my thoughts and stole my breath.
An awakening.
The light faded, the flow of healing energy tapering, leaving behind a brilliant haze that padded my bones and warmed my blood, and I gasped, expelling a breath I didn’t know I’d held. Michael’s hands didn’t leave my skin, and I hesitantly met his gaze, wondering if my euphoric experience had been one-sided.
When his eyes darkened and his face twisted into a scowl, I had my answer.
“What <i>the hell</i> was that?” he panted, his fingertips digging into my unbroken flesh. I blinked, stunned, trying to tame the floating sensation that clouded my brain.
“Better than remedial,” I breathed.
The sour expression deepened, and I sighed, battling a pang of disappointment at his apparent anger. “I don’t know, Michael. You’re the all-powerful alien, I’m just the lowly human patient. So you tell me.”
His eyes bore into mine, trapping me there, the ring of caramel fire blazing, holding me captive, making my mouth go dry. My heart pounded in my chest, the contact high still dancing through my system.
He was right, there was no connection needed. Michael had exposed me from the inside out, with a touch that was far from simple.
And, locked inside his eyes, I was positive that he knew exactly what had happened.
Then he blinked, breaking the spell, and I looked down pointedly, eyeing the thumb tracing idle paths along my calf. Tensing, he let go, one hand reaching up to claw at his temple as the sole of my shoe hit the floor.
Dropping his open palm, he waved it over my skin, dissolving the smeared streaks of sticky crimson.
“You’ll live, and I’m done here.” He sniffed, rocking back on his heels. “Later, Parker.”
“What did you see, Michael?” I asked quietly.
Freezing in place, he clenched his jaw. “Nothing.”
“Okay…” I nodded, studying his profile as he turned away. “What did you <i>feel</i>?”
His jaw tightened, and I could see the muscles in his neck pull under the strain.
“We are not doing this,” he said, his tone final.
I knew he expected me to drop the subject, but I forged ahead, staring him down, all apprehension gone.
“It’s already done, Michael.”
He looked over, elbows propped on his knees, fiery eyes meeting my own. “You’re not getting it. Whatever twisted curiosity you’ve got stuck in your head is your problem,” he ground out. “I’m not some puzzle you’ve gotta solve. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit around while you experiment with the alien you don’t understand. Do I look like Maxwell to you?”
“No. <i>No</i>,” I stressed. “That’s not what… You’re not Max, and I don’t want you to be. This, what happened here… it has <i>nothing</i> to do with him.”
“Right. Because you’ve never done the hero worship thing before.” He snorted hard. “Is this a pattern with you? Get a little taste of hybrid healing magic and suddenly you’re falling all over some guy you never knew existed.”
My mouth dropped open. “That’s not fair.”
“Yeah well, neither is life.” Straightening, he brushed his palms over his jeans. “So let me save you the trouble. This wasn’t a stray bullet, it was a pissed off piece of plate. And I already have a shadow.”
My sharp intake of breath bounced off the walls, and I recoiled in spite of myself, stung, my newfound confidence faltering. But the ebb and flow of jumbled emotions still lingered, hovering just below my skin, undeniable, conclusive, despite his harsh words.
And there was a flash of conflicted regret, in pained features and smoldering eyes. Briefly dazzling, then buried, but there, before his face turned stony again.
He was a walking contradiction, using a wall of indifference to shield a heart that had been hurt too many times. Except now, the wall had crumbled, and he was desperately trying to piece it back together.
My chin rose, and I found my voice.
“Does this usually work for you? The whole ‘create a diversion and run like hell’ approach?”
“Let it drop,” he said tightly.
“Because if so,” I continued, “I think you’ve lost your touch.”
<i>Figuratively speaking, anyway.</i>
I got to my feet, feeling grit crunch under my tennis shoes. “If you want to sling arrows, be my guest. But you can’t honestly stand there and pretend – ”
He spun suddenly, in front of me in a flash, so close I had to crane my neck to hold his gaze as he growled down at me.
“I. Said. Drop it.”
“The intimidation methods could use a little work, too.” Balling my hands at my sides, I fought to hold my ground. “You can’t change what just happened, Michael. <i>I know what I felt.</i> And vice versa.”
Shuffling backward, he dropped his chin to his chest, one hand furiously rubbing the back of his neck as he mumbled wearily, almost to himself. “You’re playing with fire here, Liz.”
“I know,” I said evenly. “And I wouldn’t risk getting burned for just anybody.”
When his head rose, his eyes were softer somehow, and I took a tentative step forward.
“You said that I don’t understand you. And maybe, I don’t know, maybe that’s true.” I chanced another step, relieved when he made no attempt to stop me. “But… isn’t it enough that I <i>want</i> to?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he tipped his head back, pulling in a ragged breath. “I can’t do this.” But his tone lacked conviction, instead sounding drained and unsure.
He was still blaming me for falling, when I couldn’t have caught myself if I tried.
<i>You’ve gone this far. Don’t stop now.</i>
I closed the remaining distance, only stopping when the toes of his heavy boots pressed into my canvas shoes. Reaching up, I laid a hand on his bare arm, the contact reigniting the spark of charged energy he’d left behind, humming in my nerve endings. He dropped his gaze from the ceiling, staring blankly over my head.
“So give me a reason why you <i>can’t</i>,” I said softly. “Because I know what you want, I felt it. I feel it now.”
His eyes drifted down, finding mine, the color of warm honey, almost breathtaking enough to conceal the war raging behind them. Anguish and longing, fury and indecision, lust and awe and something more… all battling for dominance.
Then determination blazed across the surface, fierce and final, and I knew I had lost.
My arm dropped to my side as he backed away, brushing my leg as it swung listlessly. Unable to watch, I kept my eyes trained straight ahead, hearing him tear his jacket from the hook on the wall, grab his helmet from his open locker, the heavy fall of steps fading as he moved toward the exit.
“I may not understand you, Michael,” I offered quietly, hugging my arms to my chest, “but I know you exist. I’ve always known.”
There was a long beat of stony silence, followed by the squeal of hinges as he wrenched the back door open.
“See you tomorrow, Parker.”
The gust of wind came again, bouncing off the walls as the door slammed, punctuating his departure.
“‘I depart as air…’”
It left my lips in a whisper, a well-known verse echoing in the back of my mind as the chill of the night air settled in, and I left the kitchen in a daze, walking to the wide bank of metal cubicles.
The book was there, upturned and crooked in the locker he’d left ajar, and I pulled it free with numb fingers, thumbing through the well-worn volume, black text on white pages fanning before my eyes.
It gave in my hands, the spine creased, the wrinkled cover supple and soft. Random sheets were dog-eared, fleeting prose on soldiers and duty, life and love, and the pages stopped flipping to rest on Whitman’s self-titled epic, the source of the haunting line that had come back to me.
I scanned its length with blurry eyes.
<i>I follow you, whoever you are, from the present hour;
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.</i>
He’d left.
After the involuntary exchange of emotion, the way I felt had been obvious. Undeniable. Yet I’d stood before him and put everything on the line, into words. And the rejection stung, the evidence of hurt tangible in the tight ball lodged in my throat, in the numbing cold that spread through my limbs.
However real the declaration, it hadn’t been enough to make him stay.
I hadn’t been enough.
<i>It is you talking just as much as myself – I act as the tongue of you;
Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen’d.</i>
But I couldn’t forget the way he’d looked at me. The heat in his eyes, the desire, all the things he couldn’t say, that he wouldn’t… Things that had given way to unspoken apology, before he closed himself off again.
Feeling it had been incredible, but seeing it, plain and true and shining in all that rich brown, had nearly brought me to my knees.
Michael Guerin loved me. He <i>loved</i> me.
And he hated himself for it.
<i>Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?</i>
I’d told him the truth, and he’d walked away. Despite everything he felt. In spite of it.
And just like that, it was over. Before it even began.
<i>I depart as air… If you want me again…</i>
Turning in a half-circle, shutting the door as I moved, I slumped against the lockers. The paperback quivered in my hand, corners fluttering, and I lifted it closer to my face, trying to focus on the last few stanzas.
“‘You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean’,” I read aloud, “‘but I shall be good health to you nevertheless, and filter and fiber your blood.’”
My voice caught, scratchy and hitched, but I continued.
“‘Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged; missing me one place, search another; I stop somewhere…’”
I froze, trailing off at the feeling of being watched, the sensation tickling my spine and making my nerves chill and tingle, even before the kiss of cool air hit bare skin. Lowering the book, I took a shaky breath as I slowly looked up.
Looked up to where Michael stood, tall and immovable, silhouetted in the open doorway.
His face was shadowed, but somehow I could see his eyes clearly as they found mine across the distance, sparking, melting, burning into me as I finished the poem, the words no more than a breath, thin, transparent, dancing through the smoke and steam of his gaze.
“‘…waiting for you.’”
The seconds dragged on forever, and I clamped my lip between my teeth, helpless, unable to break the invisible cord that tied me to his gaze. “Did you, um,” I started, nearly wincing when the words came out a squeak, “did you forget something?”
Burying his hands in his pockets, he moved into the break room, letting the door bang shut at his back.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I did.”
He took a step forward, another, a third, blindly tossing his jacket on the sofa and cutting a diagonal path across the space to where I stood immobilized. I felt lightheaded, dizzy, and didn’t know whether to blame the magnetism of the man before me or my temporary bout with blood loss.
I flattened myself against the lockers, looking up at him with wide eyes as he steadily approached.
<i>Him. Definitely him.</i>
He smirked, chuckling under his breath.
“I forgot how fucking <i>exhausting</i> you are.”
Spreading his palms next to my head, trapping me in the proximity, he leaned in until I could feel his breath on my face, a warm caress, his eyes still locked on mine with an intensity he refused to relinquish. The storm within them had returned, the awe, the anguish, the overwhelming desire, flanking the love I’d only glimpsed before, now laid bare, a silent offering.
Beyond, the depths were aflame with open challenge, as if he was daring me to break, to take back all that had been said and go back to stolen glances and loaded silence. As if it was what he expected. And even in the face of his actions – the offhand comment, the confident smirk, the invasion of personal space…
His eyes, so full of dark hope, begged me to prove him wrong.
There was nothing I wanted to do more.
But some nagging corner of my brain was screaming in protest, insisting that the fire in his eyes would leave nothing but ashes behind.
That he would walk away again.
I drew a shaky breath, tilting my head back, feeling my hair slide over his closed locker as I steeled myself, squarely meeting his gaze.
“You said you couldn’t do this, Michael.” It was an out, a reminder of the way he’d left things just minutes ago, the choice <i>he</i> had made, and I waited for him to turn away and head back out into the night.
But he inched closer, head dropping, lips hovering inches from my own, and I felt more than heard his deep, rumbling words.
“I changed my mind.”
He hung there, surrounding me, as close as he could be without actual contact. Golden eyes swam before me, expanding, filling my field of vision… urging me to move.
The book was heavy in my hand, my thumb lodged in the spine, marking some unknown page. I could almost feel the words, draining from the pliant paper to seep into my fingertips like Braille, disjointed lines I’d merely glimpsed now etched and ingrained in my memory.
<i>And in my soul I swear, I never will deny him.</i>
It slipped from my fingers, slapping the floor with a muffled thud, its prophetic contents forgotten as I stretched up to where he waited, closing my eyes and bridging the gap. He stilled as we collided, lips pressing tentatively as I fought for balance, trying not to crash into him.
Then his hands dropped to my waist, sliding around to flatten in the small of my back, pulling me flush against the hard wall of his chest, and I tumbled willingly.
Lips like his had to be a sin.
It was a contradiction in his very anatomy - lush fullness and velvety warmth, at war with the force they exerted, the sheer ferocity. Impossibly soft flesh moving so solidly, teasing and bruising all at once.
I clutched at his arms, digging my fingertips into tendon and sinew. His mouth parted over mine, the heat becoming flame, a blaze that licked at the corners of my mouth, sparking a trail across the crease, demanding entrance…
When his tongue slipped past my lips, grazing my teeth and tracing the roof of my mouth, I began to burn.
It delved deep, a welcome invasion, stroking my own, massaging rhythmically until my head was swimming and I was drowning in the taste of him, sweet and spicy, foreign and somehow familiar, the flavor of forbidden fruit. My hands trailed upward, scaling his shoulders to tangle in his hair, and his hands tightened at my back, crushing me to his body. Soft flesh molded around hard planes, and I rose higher to meet him, straining on the tips of my toes, precarious and not caring as I pushed back, trying to match his intensity.
One hand crawled up my side, curving around my collarbone, and long fingers gripped my nape, his thumb brushing wide arcs over my cheekbone as he turned my head in his palm. The other arm snaked around my waist, anchoring me to him, clinging to the tender place between my hip and my ribcage.
I couldn’t breathe. I could barely think.
But in the fierce embrace, I felt real.
I wasn’t a manifestation of someone else’s hopes, a twisted embodiment of the perfect girl, virtuous and true and made of spun glass. Not delicate, not breakable. I was solid in his hands, substantial, tangible in a way I’d never experienced.
And it only fueled the fire.
My lungs were burning, threatening to burst as heat replaced air. A moan wound its way free, vibrating in my chest and fading into nothingness, lost down his throat as he devoured me. I pulled his tongue into my mouth, sucking insistently, circling it with my own in a swirl of taste and sensation, our teeth clashing, my fingers lost in soft waves, pulling at long strands.
Then he tore his mouth away, and I swayed backward dizzily, rocking onto my heels as fresh oxygen filled my nostrils.
He held tight, steadying me with the arm that locked us together, nudging me back to him, his forehead dropping to rest on mine. His hand lingered on my neck, hot on my skin, and our breath mingled as we gasped for air.
“<i>Christ</i>, Parker,” he panted, his head shaking slightly, “I’d ask who taught you that, but I really don’t want to know.”
I opened my eyes, feeling floaty and breathless. “I guess I’m kind of, um, self-taught.” He quirked an eyebrow, and I nearly groaned. “Okay,” I mumbled, “that sounded… really bad.”
“Oh yeah,” he drawled, chuckling under his breath. “Remind me to ask you about that later. I’ll need detailed descriptions.”
I breathed deep, inhaling charged particles of air coated in his scent, reveling in the renewed dynamic between us, in the ease that had crept back inside at his return. My hands dropped to the back of his neck, inching under his collar to trace light paths over his vertebrae. He shuddered, fingers gripping my waist almost painfully, his eyelids sliding open to reveal deep pools of black that stole my breath all over again.
Seeing him this way, so close to coming completely undone, was surreal.
That I was the cause of it, the reason for the tension in his muscles and the desire in his eyes… that was almost unbelievable.
I absently licked my lips, trying to recapture his taste, and his eyes flashed.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” I mumbled dazedly, drawing my lower lip into my mouth.
His growl was feral, primal, and he leaned in again, capturing my mouth, dragging his tongue across the swollen flesh, making me shiver and clutch his shoulder blades. He tugged it between his teeth, biting down gently, laving the sting away before he pulled back.
“<i>That</i>,” he said, voice dangerously low. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to do that?”
Bringing his palm up to my cheek, he swept the pad of his thumb over my lip. “I’ve drawn that mouth,” he murmured, his gaze flicking downward. “Painted it, sketched it… Damn near drove me crazy.”
<i>Oh good,</i> my brain chirped, <i>so I wasn’t alone.</i>
I smiled slightly beneath his hand, heart fluttering in my chest. “You… you didn’t do <i>that</i>, did you? I mean, I just got this mental picture of you licking canvas…”
His laugh was brief, but his smirk lingered, even as his lips languidly brushed mine.
“Accept no imitations.”
Fading back, his hold shifted, his arm sliding across my spine to rest on my hip. He brought conflicted eyes back to mine, suddenly serious, his mouth moving soundlessly as he tried to find words.
“God, I…” He trailed off, jaw clenching. “I’ve wanted you, Liz.”
My throat closed at the stark declaration, and the plea behind it, clear in his grip, in his gaze. He wasn’t going to let me fall back on the safety of humor, to the level ground of easy banter, not after he’d finally said the words, come to terms and acknowledged it himself.
Not after he’d come back for me.
And whether or not he walked away for good… well, that was up to me.
“Michael…” My palms slid free of his shirt to cup his face in my hands, and I rose to meet him halfway, the rest of my reply a whisper against his mouth.
“<i>I want you.</i>”
He pressed forward as the last word left my lips… And then I was falling again, kissing him hungrily, holding on for dear life.
Urging my head back, his lips slipped over my chin, down the column of my throat to where my pulse beat erratically, pounding against his tongue. Blunt teeth grazed my skin, scraping tortured nerve endings, making me gasp, my fingers dropping to grab at his collarbone.
His palm left my face, searching fingers burying in my hair, ripping at the thin band that held it captive. I barely felt the sting as he yanked it free, tangled strands ripping away with it, leaving a heavy sheet that spilled haphazardly down my back, over my right shoulder. He shoved his fingers inside the fall, hand fisting, winding in scattered locks as he sucked at my pulse.
The hand at my side inched up, gliding over the front of my thin uniform, pressing along my ribs. Hard knuckles grazed the underside of my breast, and I jolted, grasping for solid ground as my knees started to give.
“Oh god…” It was barely a breath, a sigh, my strangled voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
<i>This is completely out of control.</i>
And I loved every second of it.
My fingers trailed down his arms, sliding around his waist, bunching cotton in my hands and delving underneath. They ran up his back, mapping corded muscles and bumping over his spine. I moved closer still, melting around him, the evidence of his desire pressing just below my navel. His groan throbbed against my throat, the vibration lingering when his mouth left my skin. The spot burned as it met cool air, a circle of fiery embers that crackled in my pores, and I knew he had left a mark.
He panted harshly over my face, and I swerved closer to him, dizzy and delirious, hands skimming the bare skin of his torso, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his jeans.
“Liz…” His voice was hesitant, his eyes uncertain, and I shook my head.
Grabbing at the hem of his t-shirt, I pushed it up his chest. He raised his arms without protest, letting me pull the fabric over his head and tug it free, but silently gaped down at me once I tossed it to the floor.
My palms flattened on his clavicle, sliding over dusky nipples and lean abdominals, fanning next to his navel, and I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the expanse of pale skin to meet his fixed, awe-filled stare.
“I meant it, Michael. I want all of you.”
His hand tightened in my hair at the words, the muscles in his stomach clenching, rippling under my hands, his eyes shuttering.
“We do this,” he rumbled, his tone a jumbled mixture of wonder and warning, “and everything changes.”
I kept my gaze steady, even as my heart constricted. “I hope that’s a promise, because I’m going to hold you to it.”
Eyes sparking, he moved, and I leaned into the hard lockers as he pressed forward. I could feel his hands shifting as he dropped his face next to mine, a brief flash at the base of my throat, a fleeting brush on the swell of my breast, coming to rest low on my neck, the backs of his fingers curling into my skin.
His tongue flicked out, tracing my ear. “That,” he breathed, so close, “is a promise.”
Then he sucked my earlobe into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth, and I barely heard the sound of snaps popping open over the roar in my head.
His teeth scraped over the tender flesh, soft lips following behind, and he released it with a low moan, stepping away to rake appraising eyes down my body. My uniform hung uselessly at my sides, swaying slightly, and I bit down on my lower lip, feeling myself flush under his scrutiny, hovering somewhere between embarrassment and desire.
Planting his hands at my waist, he pulled me forward, the slightest fraction of an inch, just enough for the garment to fall from my shoulders and pool at my feet.
His touch snaked up my sides, following the edge of my bra to meet in the middle. Slow thumbs circled my nipples, coaxing them into submission as they tightened behind the scratch of lace, and deft fingers unhooked the center clasp. Pushing the straps from my shoulders, he let it drop to the floor, crumpled on top of the pile of pale green. He kicked them both away, moving me back again, and I gasped as heated skin met cold steel.
When the smirk spread across his face, slow and sure, I knew he’d have no trouble warming me up again.
“Jesus,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping, “talk about new inspiration.”
I didn’t even have time to blush.
His fingers began to explore, seemingly everywhere at once, and I was caught in a whirlwind of battling sensations. Rough hands kneading sensitive flesh, the chill of his rings on sizzling nerve endings, the frigid metal down my spine fusing with heat-thickened air.
My nails dug into his biceps as a palm inched down, sliding between my breasts, lingering over my navel, pressing low on my stomach, making the butterflies somersault. The nagging voice of inexperience whispered in the back of my mind, taunting, escalating to a scream as he moved lower.
“Michael…” He halted my protest with a soft kiss, head shaking, eyes blackened.
“Trust me.”
The apprehension melted away at the simple request, and I brought my hands to his forearms, nodding. “I do.”
His fingers dipped lower, dancing over thin fabric, tormenting me through a scrap of lace, pulling a deep moan from my throat. He teased me with growing pressure and steady strokes, until I could feel the moisture pooling in the scrap of cotton lining, damp against my skin.
Then he shoved the material aside, a long finger slipping into pulsing heat, and the moan became his name as my head dropped to his chest.
Tapered fingertips traced a tight ring around my opening, one slipping inside, another, hooking and twisting, leaving tiny lines of fire in their wake.
I was lost, my whole body stiffening, my very cells scattering as his hand moved against me, the other curving around my breast, the ends of his hair tickling my neck as he bent to lick smooth circles over my shoulder.
Inspiration indeed.
My lips caressed the smooth skin over his heart, tongue darting out to taste salty skin, to curl around a nipple and tug it between my teeth. He groaned, turning his head into my hair, fingers moving faster, harder…
The rhythm beat like a dream in my blood, and suddenly I felt idle, passive, desperate to touch him, to give back.
Hands dropping from his arms, I slid a palm over course denim, squeezing it into the space between. My fingers fumbled blindly with the button, struggling with a hole that seemed entirely too small, until it finally popped free, and I smiled against his chest, lowering the zipper and shoving the heavy jeans down to his ankles.
His lips curved against my skin.
“Having fun, Parker?”
I bit down in response, and he groaned into my ear, the sound echoing into oblivion. His hand drove deep, and I shuddered under the pressure, puffing shallow breath over puckered flesh, tingling heat washing over me in slow waves, building…
Flattening my tongue against his nipple, I cupped him through his thin boxers, trailing my fingertips along the underside of his arousal. Michael stiffened, and I wrapped my fingers around the thick base, gently squeezing.
He pulled air through clenched teeth, his free hand flying to the flat surface behind me, crashing into the metal for support.
“<i>Shit</i>,” he hissed, his other hand stilling as his forehead lolled on my collarbone. “I know you didn’t learn that one on your own.”
“Girls talk,” I offered, the words muffled. “You hear things.” Releasing his taut skin, I buried my face in his neck, nipping at his pulse point as my hand moved over him, and giggled. “You’re my first hands-on practice, if that makes you feel any better.”
“I’m feeling pretty damn good right about now,” he countered. “Right where I want to be.”
His head rose, and he licked into my mouth, stroking my slick folds, making me move with his hand as his lips quirked upward.
“Well, almost.”
I snorted halfheartedly, trying not to collapse under his ministrations, wishing there was more air in my lungs. “Cocky bastard.”
He shrugged, glancing down pointedly. “You would know.”
My hand found the slit in the fabric as his lips covered mine, and it eased inside, closing over the head of his erection, palming the soft skin. He jerked into my probing fingers, growling against my mouth, and his hand left me, sliding away abruptly. I instantly felt empty, moving forward to follow his retreating touch, trying to recapture the heat.
“Hope you’re not attached to these,” he mumbled offhandedly, licking a wet path across my mouth.
His knuckles kneaded my hips as he bunched lace and elastic in his fists, and then my panties tore away, tickling the inside of my knees as they fell. My fingers clenched involuntarily at the featherlight touch, gripping tighter as my hand slid over his hard length.
“<i>Fuck,</i>” he grunted. “<i>Liz…</i>”
“I believe that’s the point of this exercise,” I breathed, my thumb circling the tip, lingering on the depression at its center.
Grasping my wrist, he pulled my hand free, letting go to shove his boxers down. His hands shifted around, cupping my backside, and I gasped, grabbing at his arms as he lifted me high and stepped into the space between my legs.
Our eyes were suddenly level, mouths millimeters apart, so close I could almost taste him as he spoke, husky and rasping.
“Warm-up’s over.”
His torso held me in place, pressing low to pin me to the lockers, hard and solid, hands biting into my flesh, fingertips stroking the sensitive skin inside my thighs, his arousal teasing at my entrance. I arched into him, hooking my legs over his hips, shuddering as the head slipped inside.
Jaw clenching, he halted, tendons standing out along his neck as he seemed to fight for control, all bravado gone. I mustered a tremulous smile, running my palms over the lean curve of his biceps.
“It’s gonna hurt,” I mimicked jokingly, repeating his earlier words, “but we already know that. So let’s just get it over with.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Liz,” he whispered tightly.
His eyes flashed, burned, tortured and tormented, full of so much love and need that it made me dizzy. Sliding my hands through his hair, I nudged him forward, brushing my lips across his forehead before meeting his gaze again.
“Then don’t stop.”
My mouth closed over his, tongues tangling as he surged forward, sinking into me, my calves tightening behind his thighs with every inch. I could feel myself stretching around him, welcoming the thick fullness as he slid deeper.
When he hesitated, I clutched at his shoulders, bearing down, and a pinch of pain flashed through my abdomen, hot and sharp. My knees clenched at his waist, my eyes squeezing shut, and he stilled, hands sliding up to curve around my back, one palm running up and down my spine.
Soft lips traced my eyelids, caressed the tip of my nose, his fingers running over the small of my back, teasingly, making me shake and shift against him, the movement pulling him farther inside as my muscles relaxed.
My eyes flew open as the shock ran through me, every nerve sighing, the ache fading away as my hips rolled again, seeking friction, wanting <i>more</i>…
Then he started to move, and the sigh became a scream.
It coursed through my veins as he pulled back, then slipped inside, out, back again, building in my blood as I caught the rhythm. One hand moved up to settle behind my head, his fingers lost in my hair while the other clutched possessively at my hip, hot on my skin as he ground into me. The heat had returned, blinding, manifesting as steam in my lungs and lava in my bones, throbbing low where we were joined and ebbing into my limbs, flowing from my fingertips, an earlier simmer coming to a boil.
He rocked faster, higher, and our mouths separated as my head fell back, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer, breasts flattening against his chest. My breath came in shallow pants and strained gasps, unable to return the broken words of endearment that sailed from his lips and whispered past my ear.
Teetering on the edge, I marveled at how well we fit, how <i>right</i> we felt, the revelation bringing a fresh wave of dizziness.
And I wanted to fall.
I cried out as he slid deeper still, unsure where he stopped and I began. The pressure twisted in my stomach, behind my eyes, streaking through my system, winding so tight…
Then he thrust hard, biting into my shoulder, and I tumbled into oblivion, my body constricting and catching him as I arched from the steel, holding him there while everything fused and shattered and ripped the air from my lungs. His hand clenched at my scalp, and he pulsed inside me, a violent tremor that traveled from his body to mine in a steady current, my name sounding in a strangled sob that rang in my ears.
I sagged against his chest, drained and sated and blissfully silent, palms absently caressing his shoulder blades, lips moving idly against his sweat-slicked collarbone, his breath hot on my neck.
He pulled back suddenly, flicking worried eyes over my face, his expression troubled.
“We didn’t use anything,” he said flatly. “I had a condom in my locker…”
I cut him off with a quick kiss, shaking my head. “I’m on the pill.” His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and I rolled my eyes.
“It was a parental freak out thing, completely out of my hands. Besides, I’m not the one carting Trojans to work.” I clucked my tongue. “Poetry and protection. That’s quite a combination, Michael. You must’ve had plans for somebody.”
He snorted. “Yeah well, that’s out the window now. But I guess you’ll do.”
“You’re hilarious, really.” I scoffed, pouting in mock offense, and he swooped down to capture my lower lip, nibbling on the swollen flesh before releasing it with a soft pop.
“There was no plan.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Though, there is now.”
“Oh… really?” I inquired, looking up at him through my lashes.
“Count on it.”
I leaned back, pulling him with me, stretching as I sighed. His hands cradled the backs of my knees, untangling my legs and lowering me to the ground, and I was thankful for the cold support and the warm wall of flesh that anchored me to it.
“Michael…” I paused, looking over at the book splayed open on the floor, half obscured by a pile of discarded clothing, and quirked an eyebrow. “Whitman?”
He pressed his lips into a tight line, and I knew he had taken the question the wrong way. “No, I’m not… I mean, I’ve been in your apartment, and I’ve seen what you read. He just doesn’t seem to fit with the Joyce and the Faulkner, that’s all. It just didn’t seem, um, complex enough for your taste. And so I, I wondered…”
I trailed off, blushing furiously, and he planted a hand under my chin, tilting my head back to meet my eyes.
“‘I draw you close to me’,” he started, the heat and intensity in his voice prickling under my skin. “‘I cannot let you go, I would do you good. I am for you, and you are for me. Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards, they refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.’” He traced the line of my jaw, stealing the strength from my knees as he continued the verse, caramel eyes scorching a hole in my soul. “‘Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself, in you I wrap a thousand onward years.’”
The pad of his thumb pulled at the center of my mouth, his lips following in the softest of touches, his murmur a fleeting whisper of air.
“Not everything has to be complex, Parker.”
My heart throbbed in my chest, aching for him, my thoughts bleeding together, all echoing the same words.
<i>God, I love this man.</i>
I dragged my hands over his shoulders and down his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist. My tongue snaked out, wetting his lips, still so close to mine. “So about this plan…”
He melted into me, and we slid down the lockers in a jumbled mix of fire and limbs, the poetry forgotten.
<i>October 14th. It’s amazing how things can change in an instant. How you can plot a course through life, mapping out every stop and charting every major event in advance, only to be thrown off course by a detail you never allotted for, a twist you never saw coming.
I never planned on Michael. I wasn’t prepared for him. But suddenly, he’s a huge part of this intricate equation that is my life. And as a result, I know that science and love can coexist. That there's a method to the madness in my mind.
Finding underlying order in something that seems random at a glance, contemplating why the slightest change, however insignificant, can produce results that alter everything, and everyone, involved…
It’s the essence of chaos theory. The butterfly effect.
It started as a way to justify the flaws in meteorology, an explanation on why it’s impossible to predict the weather completely accurately. According to the theory, complex systems remain stable until there’s a disruption in their environment, caused by strange attractors that alter their trajectory. Once off course, they begin to move and shift at random, searching for stability, but remain locked in the attractor’s field. And no matter how the pattern changes, even if it never repeats, the dynamical system is caught in the attractor’s pull. It’s inescapable.
I thought I was stable, on a set trajectory… But Michael is nothing if not magnetic.
And not everything has to be complex.</i>
Pausing, I peered through the open window to where Michael was sprawled over my mattress, face peaceful and eyes closed. The sun was coming up, painting red-gold swirls over the horizon, and I ached to climb back into bed, into the warm peace of his arms.
But the pen scratched over the paper again, scrawling looping words on the lines, sealing them in the fibers.
<i>So perhaps the answer is that there is no answer. Even science seems to have a loophole, a clause to fall back on when tests fail and an explanation is nowhere to be found.
“I know I am solid and sound; to me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow; all are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.”
Closing this journal with Whitman, words so new to me that ring so true, seems fitting. I’ve spilled the contents of my life into this book, trying to hold on to a blueprint of plans and dreams that I put on paper as someone on a specific path. But there was a storm somewhere along the way, and I lost my footing, lost sight of where the road led.
It’s been almost two years since Michael Guerin crept into my room and read the sequence of entries that made up who I was. Maybe that was the turning point, the slightest shift in the wind that eventually became a cyclone, scattering my very existence in all directions.
But now that the winds have changed and the clouds have lifted, I have to plot a different course. Discover who I’ve become and embrace the things to come, even if I can’t automatically explain their existence. It’s a new day.
It’s a new world.</i>