DISCLAIMER: Yeah, I still don't own them. I just borrow them and shake things up a bit. Then I put them back all in one piece
SPOILERS: "Loss" I would suppose, but USA shows it every few weeks so everyone's probably seen it by now.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
By Foolish Heart
I'd be lying if I said I came here for the music. For some reason pounding bass and ripping guitar just don't do it for me anymore. I could blame it on growing older or I could blame it on changing times. Since that first night with you though, all I've had a taste for has been blues and jazz. The kind that sounds like the guitar is crying. The kind that takes human emotion and translates it into little black dots placed on skinny black lines so that a million people can understand the pain.
I stop here once a week or so. It never fails that when I walk in alone some inebriated butch will approach me, wanting to know if she can buy me a drink and if I'm alone. And it never fails that I will smile politely and reply that I can buy my own drink and that I haven't been alone in years. She'll look guiltily around then, wondering where you are and how she could have missed you. When she's satisfied that a fiery femme isn't going to come swooping out of the rafters to protect me she'll smile a bit and toss a fleeting goodbye over her shoulder as she saunters (or stumbles) back to her friends.
I'll make my way to the bar then and order a glass of red wine, easing myself onto the stool that faces the door, my back to the wall. I learned that from you. You who never wanted someone to see you before you saw them. I wondered if you were afraid of what they'd see in you or what you'd see reflected in their eyes if they had even half a second to observe you without your stoic mask in place. I often find myself scanning the crowds, taking mental notes of who's standing where and partially hoping to see your short but powerful frame meshed within the bodies.
The bartender always smiles at me like she knows what I'm thinking and where I've been. I think her name is Amy but I haven't really been on a first name basis with anyone here and I don't really want to be.
I'd be lying if I said I came here for the music, but the pounding bass in my bones reminds me of what it was like that first night you held me in your arms. The music is as powerful as you were, taking me with the strength that your lithe body hid so well. If I close my eyes when the sound waves make their way up the barstool to settle in the seat below me, I can almost remember the way your body felt when you finally let your guard down and responded to my touch.
There's a woman here tonight that smells like you. She's taller and a red head, but she's wearing your leather jacket (or at least that's what my heart tells my mind). They say scent is the strongest of all the senses and when that familiar if invisible fist clenches my heart as I catch the slightest whiff of her (your) perfume, I am without a doubt inclined to agree. My eyes are still closed as the heat of the wine touches my veins, the bass pounds my bones and your scent assaults my nose and then I'm reclining on your overstuffed couch watching raindrops race down your windows, listening to the familiar sounds of your apartment which has become my home.
The blanket is barely covering my breasts and the smell of sex is covering the room as you make your way back from the CD player, smiling softly and taking in every inch of my body, memorizing the way the shadows flit across my face.
"You're beautiful, do you know that?" you whisper softly as your lips just brush mine and I believe it for the first time in my life (even though you're not the first to tell me). But there's a reverence in your eyes that I can't deny and my heart tells my head that you wouldn't lie to me.
"This all still feels like a dream," I murmur so quietly that you have to strain to hear. I can see the smile touch your lips as you take my hand and pull me from my cocoon, letting the blanket fall to a heap on your hard wood floor.
"Come with me," you say softly, leading me down the hall and into your bedroom, into your bed. You take me again there with as much tenderness as the last time and as much passion as the first. My body is already responding to nothing more than the thought of your touch on my skin. This intense conditioning would put Pavlov and his dogs to shame.
I'd be lying if I said I came here for the music, but there's something about the noise and the crush of bodies that allows me to forget what I'm going home to and what I'm longing for.
The bartender is filling my glass again and when I try to hand her some bills she smiles sadly and shakes her head no. And that's usually the point where I realize I'm crying. Not sobbing hysterically (I've done that enough when I was alone and besides, mother always taught me to conceal my emotions). I'll smile back and get control of myself; it's like our own little dance. Our human interaction amid a throng of pulsating, sweating bodies that are touching everything and nothing all at once.
The band is butchering something a little less pounding; something that I would assume is their closest rendition of a love song. The throng of bodies is moving more slowly now, moving more closely together, pairing off and entering their own multi colored stratospheres.
I'm on my third or fourth glass of wine and a short, muscular girl with spikey blonde hair is asking me to dance. If she were in leather I probably would have said yes (the red headed imposter has left by now) but she's not and my imagination just isn't good enough to change her into you. As I watch her walk away, disappointed but not wanting to show it, I think about how hard you worked to separate yourself from your parent's legacies.
The band is moving onto another song, one that they must have practiced because it's almost recognizable. My eyes drift closed again and I can see the look of anger and confusion that is quickly chased away by joy when you realize that it really is me in the back of that rain soaked black SUV. The pain in my arm was nothing compared to the pain that had settled itself into my chest when they told me I was dead, when they effectively told me that I could no longer have you.
I knew what they would tell you. And I knew that I couldn't let you believe that I was gone. I saw the tears that mixed with the rain drops to leave trails across your tired face. I know I didn't cry when you asked me if I was coming back, but I felt my heart tearing itself away from me to settle somewhere on the slick black pavement at your feet when I couldn't answer you with any type of certainty. I saw your inner battle over the need to take me in your arms and never let me go. Could you see that I fought the same fight?
I'd be lying if I said I came here for the music but the bartender's signaling last call and I'm slowly standing up from the stool that I had occupied for longer than I had planned (but about as long as usual). I leave a few bills on the bar beside my glass, enough for a tip and to cover the glass she tried to buy me (I've become protectively independent since that night). I feel my cell phone ring but knowing it's him and not you choose to ignore it.
I tuck my long blonde hair back behind my ears (I haven't had bangs since I left you) and head towards the wooden door. I vaguely register the bartender calling that she'll see me next week as the door slides shut and I'm suddenly thrust back into reality. I signal a cab and give her directions to the house that I've shared with him for a little more than six months, preparing myself to put away who I really am in favor of who I have to be to live.
I'd be lying if I said I went there for the music, but I'd be telling the truth if I said I went there to remember you.
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