DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my own name.
SPOILERS: spoilers for Season One, obviously.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To spheeris1[at]yahoo.com

come on and haunt me, i know you want me
By spheeris1


You can't get inside of her head. Though it is the only place you want to be. And want is not an unexpected thing, it teeters on the edges of your day-to-day life, knocks you upside the head on occasion.

But you can't get inside her head. It's all half-truths and whole lies, blank eyes with full laughs. She's a patchwork quilt, pieces of a million lives stitched together long before you stumbled into her orbit. She's as messy as she is perfectly clear and doesn't that just fuck you right up? Doesn't that make this all the more amazingly horrible?

You want to roam around her landscape – the mental one, that is, not the physical one. At least, that's what most of you wants. You don't have time to think about what that other one or two percent of you wants.

Wants. Needs. Aches for. Fears. Thinks about. Chases. Flees from. Trips on and crashes into.

You want a reason. You want a story that makes sense. You want to figure out who she is. The why of her, the how of her. You want to see her as she really is. You want to see if there is actually more to her than this.

"Are you wearing it?"

You want to see yourself as she sees you. Sleek lines, tailored fit, unbound and stupidly brazen. As she sees you, somewhere between domesticity and shattered glass, somewhere between Connecticut and London, somewhere you've forgotten about and just now remembered.

But you can't. You can't. You really, really can't do that... can you?

You aren't a spy, you aren't James-fucking-Bond. You aren't made up of secrets, not in your sweatpants with damp, stringy hair and a useless paring knife on the kitchen table. You aren't draped in expensive clothing and you aren't stalking down hallways in killer heels.

You aren't whatever she thinks you might be...

...but god help you, you want to be.

And it'll be the end of you, this thing you are indulging, this want and need, this ache and fear, this incessant pondering and fascination, this maddening thrill. It'll be the end of you, even if you live for another fifty years, this thing going on right now – with her, with this mind you can't master, with these feelings, with the mysteries of your own goddamn heart – oh, yes, it'll be the end of you for sure.

And you can't get inside of her head, not tonight and maybe never, but it doesn't stop you from trying, does it?

"I am going to find the thing you care about and I'm going to kill it."

And no, you aren't whatever she thinks you might be, but for a second, you see those eyes flash and you get a glimpse of real admiration in their light. You get a glimpse of something more than playfulness and poise, and her gaze takes you in, so much more intense than her slow glance against your skin, and you are absolutely transfixed. Transfixed and resplendent, the two of you, strung up on each other.

And god help you, 'cause it'll be the end of you...

...but this is all you want and, for just a second, you can see that this is all she wants, too.

The End

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