|03:39 pm - Femslash: Objects, Subjects|
TITLE: Objects, Subjects (complete)
FANDOM: The X-files, House (crossover)
PAIRING: Dana Scully/Alison Cameron (femslash)
SPOILERS: None. (And for the record, I pretend the disastrous seasons 6-9 of The X-files and subsequent movies never took place. The same thing goes for the romantic storyline revolving around Cameron and what’s-his-name British colleague.)
SUMMARY: Dana Scully, an otherwise capable and independant woman, is temporarily hospitalized after being injured in the line of duty - and she loathes being a helpless patient. Fortunately Dr. Cameron is around to cheer her up...
DISCLAIMER: I’m a poor student and neither own Scully nor Cameron, although, by God, I wish I did...
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first femslash post in English (not my first language), so please comment and help me improve my writing!
"In reality, I am just as much of a medical object between her hands as between those of all the others, yet I can’t help enjoying the contact a little bit. Her carefulness is so easily confused with tenderness, and right now I really need the latter and am more than happy to make the mistake..."
Hours blend into each other in this clinical place. The only window I can catch a glimpse of from where I lie is placed in a way that makes it impossible for me to ever see the sun itself. I have to deduce its route across the sky from the shadows of venetian blinds drawn slowly and silently along the white walls. They took my watch from me in order to get easier access to the fragile veins under the skin on my wrists. Even my cell phone is kept safely elsewhere to prevent an unexpected call from Skinner from causing a code Red for the poor guy attached to a heart-lung-machine across the hallway.
Hours blend into each other... I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been here. Of course the fact that I spent my first hours (days?) here in a coma does not exactly help – they have created a black hole in my calendar and forced me out of sync with the rest of the world. The last thing I remember is Mulder's frantic yells from within the metal container, my red knuckles around the pistol with which I am trying to break the hinges of the locked doorway... And then a hollow, crunching sound. Like a bad sound effect in a movie, and this puzzles me for a second, because it does not at all go with steel giving in to my efforts. The logical conclusion – that it was not the hinge, but my skull giving in – I never managed to draw before everything went black.
And now I am here. Awake, but not completely myself. First of all there is the time confusion giving me the sense of being somewhere in between dream and reality. Second of all my body does not exactly live up to its usual FBI standards.
I will recover fully – this they assure me, and my own medical background supports it. I am conscious, I can speak in whole sentences, remember my birthday, feel and wiggle my toes. The critical moment passed a long time ago, but I am still weak. Too weak to raise my voice for more than a few minutes at a time, too weak to get out of bed or even sit up. At the moment all active verbs in my life have been forced in to their passive grammatical form: Dana Scully does not ‘dress’ herself, she ‘is dressed’. She does not ‘take a bath’, she ‘is being bathed’. She is ‘fed’, ‘turned’ over in bed, ‘helped’ to the bathroom... It makes me sick to my stomach. Never in my life have I felt this much like an object, this pacified and completely at the mercy of other people’s hands.
Surrounded by steel grey, my hospital bed is a white cotton island with easy access from all sides except the head of the bed, which is attached to a wall. It seems, after all, that I still have some exclusive rights to my bandaged head with all it contains. But my body, my thighs, my ass... They have become public property and transformed into inventory. In this clinical room my erogenous zones are reduced to tissue, my most intimate openings to simple waste canals that must be kept hygienically clean. To say that I feel unsexy would be the understatement of the century – I feel almost annihilated by latex gloved healer hands.
I think of all the times I myself have pulled on a pair of gloves. As a forensic pathologist, which obviously means the bodies touched by my gloves were already dead or even non-human – this had nothing to do with the gloves. My sense of reason tells me this, but the time confusion makes me wonder if I got the order of events, of cause and effect, wrong... Did I use gloves because the bodies weren’t human, or did they become this way the moment the latex flicked into place around my wrists? And in that case: What are all the gloves in this room doing to me?
* * * * *
There are exceptions. Moments, when I feel remarkably alive in spite of my location. A blonde doctor, some years younger than me, who always takes her eyes away from my medical records (abductions, brain tumour, gunshot wounds... there’s plenty to read about) and meets mine when she is part of the rounds. And it does not seem like a rehearsed routine picked up at a crash course in doctor-patient relations – rather, it seems she is in fact genuinely interested in my history, not just my medical history. As if she wants to know, who I am, and actually sees an individual there in the bed.
Every time she looks at me like that I feel I am put back together; when she is in the room I am almost the old me again. Her name is Alison – I know this because I have been eavesdropping on her conversations with colleagues – but so far I call her “Dr. Cameron”, as it says on her name tag. I myself would have preferred it that way if I were in her place; it seems more respectful and furthermore has the advantage of effectively disguising my growing, unprofessional wish to get to know her deeper.
Today she is the one changing my bandage and checking the stitches behind my right ear. I will have to comb my hair to one side for months, I think darkly to myself , like an old man trying to cover a bald patch. I feel the latex skin of gentle fingertips against my own shaven skin, as her blue eyes meet mine and she smiles.
“In a little while it won’t show at all,” she says, as if she has read my mind and is trying to comfort me. “It is healing just fine.”
“Well, suppose I just have to appreciate the fact that I am not going permanently bald,” I mumble sarcastically, and in response one latex fingertip gently strokes along my jaw line until it lets go and concentrates on a fresh role of gauze.
Was she caressing me? I am puzzled for a moment, but finally conclude that she probably just has a particularly careful way of palpating. Wondering more about it will lead nowhere, so I choose not to as she re-wraps my sore head.
In reality I am just as much a medical object between her hands as between those of all the others, yet I can’t help enjoying the contact just a little bit. Her carefulness is so easily confused with tenderness, and right now I really need the latter and am more than happy to make the mistake.
She is heading out of the room a few minutes later, and I so want to make her stay.
“Dr. Cameron, you wouldn’t happen to know how my FBI partner is doing?” I ask, just to ask something. Not that I don’t care about the answer, but I have to admit having Alison and her present blue eyes around for a little while longer is my main agenda.
She stops in the doorway. “I don’t know, but I can find out for you. Your partner, what’s his name?”
“Fox Mulder. We were admitted at the same time, but I don’t know if he is still in the hospital. I wonder why he hasn’t tried to get in touch with me...”
“I’ll look into it,” Alison says and touches my arm through my sleeve, just for a second, before she heads out into the hallway. She does that a lot – touches me ever so briefly as if to confirm that there is contact; that she recognises that I am a human being with a body capable of feeling and appreciating her touch. I am sure she does not read all that into such a small gesture – after all, she is not the one lying here with an abundance of time to think and overanalyse things – but that’s how I experience it. As if I in a second, for a second, I get my complete, carnal body back with all the opportunities it entails.
* * * * *
Hours, days, minutes pass – like I said, I have lost all sense of time – and suddenly Alison is back. This time without my medical records, with the sole purpose of speaking with me... Okay, this is a slight exaggeration born out of my wishful thinking: Her sole purpose is answering the question I asked her earlier, so technically she is here to talk to not with me. However, the way she looks directly at me from the moment she enters the room makes me feel that there is something mutual about our communication.
“I asked about your partner... Fox.” She sits on the edge of my bed and is careful not to put weight on any parts of my body hidden by the blanket. “He is indeed still at the hospital and doing fine, physically...”
I sense three invisible dots after her sentence and quickly repeat the last part of it as a question. “Physically?”
She hesitates. Blinks and avert her eyes for a moment as she considers her reply. Then she apparently decides to cut to the chase. “They have put him under psychiatric observation. Presumably, some of the shocking events you experienced have affected him.”
“Affected him how exactly?”
Once again, she hesitates. “Well, it is actually confidential...”
“Paranoid psychosis?” I suggest, and her eyes widen – just half a millimetre, but it is enough of a give away. I know that I am spot on and triumphantly continue guessing. “Perhaps he claims that he was chasing aliens – aliens that kidnap human beings and use them as guinea pigs while attempting to create a hybrid race? That has nothing to do with any sudden psychosis. It really is what Mulder has dedicated his life and career to.”
I can’t figure out what shocks her more: the fact that my partner’s paranoia is his normal mental state, or the fact that he has unjustly been admitted to the loony bin. Probably both, but she only voices the latter.
“If that’s true, then I better contact the psychiatrist in charge immediately...”
“No, no, it’s no rush,” I quickly assure her, and she gives me a confused look. “Let him lie in the bed he made, just for a little while. I ended up here with a fractured skull because of his insane project, whereas he, as usual, didn’t get a single scratch.”
Much to my surprise, Alison slowly nods – perhaps because she has read my file and knows exactly how many scratches the years with Mulder have given me; or perhaps she herself has taken some blows because of a stubborn colleague. In either case she does not seem like the type who would routinely dismiss work ethics, but this time she chooses to. “Alright... I suppose I don’t have to talk to his doctor until tomorrow.” She returns my grin with a blinding smile that, ones again, gives me this feeling of being fully alive in spite of everything. “My shift did end more than an hour ago, so technically I’m not really here anyway. That is, I am only here visiting a friend,” she concludes and winks at me, and even though it is not entirely true, it makes me unexpectedly warm inside.
“See you,” I say as she gets up, and fortunately she repeats my words before closing the door behind her.
* * * * *
Hours, days, minutes. Numerous nurses come and go with bedpans and washbowls and fresh units of salt water. Alison is briefly in and out a few times, apparently without any particular errand. Maybe she has noticed that I never get any visitors. Over the years of extreme working hours my social network has shrunk and eventually been reduced to a single brilliant lunatic, who is currently under psychiatric observation, but physically fit for fight. If they are giving him sedatives, I hope it’s a rectal suppository. It’s a vicious wish, but I am only slightly ashamed of it. Once again it is my body, not his, that has suffered the consequences of his ideas.
My back itches, but I am unable to do anything about it. It would require far too many procedures: First I would have to lift my torso free of the mattress or, alternatively, roll over to the side. Then I would have to twist one arm onto my back or, alternatively, find a scratching tool (also out of my reach), and finally I would have to scratch my back in continuous strokes. Someone else has got to do it, and besides I suspect that the itching is caused by the moist heat between me and the sheets. I really need a proper bath – I am beginning to smell more of myself than hospital soap, and as much as I despise the smell of hospitals, this is not exclusively elevating.
It occurs to me that fewer nurses than usually have passed by recently. In fact, I don’t think any nurse have been by today at all. Or has it been more than a day? It seems likely, judging from my sharp body odour sticking to the sheets that stick to my back.
Alison stops by alone to check on my IV. I notice that she is not wearing a wedding ring – although obviously this can be due to hygienic rules.
“Don’t the nurses usually deal with minor things like this?” I sleepily mumble as she finds a new band aid to keep the syringe in its place.
“The nurses are on a strike,” she explains without looking up.
“Not that I want to complain about being in overqualified hands... But I assume you have plenty of other things to attend to?”
She shrugs. Her lips are a delicate pink, and when she smiles the way she does now, there’s is just a hint of the full upper lip’s Cupid’s bow shape. She has already finished what she came to do, but does not seem in a hurry to get out and move on. “It’s okay... This is sort of a legitimate break for me.”
I tilt my head and teasingly ask if it is a common practice for doctors to use patients’ rooms as hideouts?
“You have no idea! Our comatose patients are among the most popular ones...”
I giggle, then ask her more seriously about the level of stress at the hospital.
She stretches without leaving my bedside. No part of her touches me, but I can feel the warmth of her body streaming into my right hip, through the white blanket, and I lie as still as I possibly can, afraid that she might move if I stir.
“I love my job. When I chose it, I was well aware that it didn’t go hand in hand with nine-to-five working hours...” she hesitantly begins, and I finish the sentence for her.
“...but you haven’t had a vacation or been home before sunset for three years.”
“Something like that. But I can’t imagine FBI is any better in that respect?”
I raise one eyebrow – the classical Scully expression according to Mulder. “You are looking at my ‘vacations’ right now... The room service is excellent, but I would prefer a beach, a piña colada and some romantic company.”
“Well, the location is going to be tricky, but I’ll see what I can do about the rest...” She averts her eyes and prevents me from reading their expression. I guess she referred to the cocktail, not the romantic company, but the way her fingers fumble with the edge of my blanket makes me wonder about it. Forget it, Scully, your boredom and imagination are playing tricks on you...
“Well – is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks.
“You want me to think of something to prolong your break...?” I ask in an exaggerated, teasing tone to conceal the fact that I really, truly wish she’ll stay.
She laughs, and it almost makes me proud – I guess I am not completely useless then, even if I currently can’t even scratch my own back. And speaking of which. “It’s probably too much to ask,” I hesitantly begin, “but I could really use a bath. Perhaps you could ask one of the nurses- I mean, when they come back...”
“I’m afraid that will take a while. The last thing I heard was that negotiations had been put on a temporary halt.” She looks a bit tired for a second, then lights up. “But why don’t I help you get cleaned up?”
I discreetly wince at the words ‘get cleaned up’ – yet another one of these unbearable passive phrases with me as the object of the sentence, not the subject. On the other hand it would make me Alison’s object, would guarantee her presence for several minutes and being alone with myself in this timeless room is driving me nuts.
So I reply, as casually as I possibly can: “I would really appreciate that. But only if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” she states, as she gets up and heads for the door. “I’ll get a washbowl and some soap straight away – I’m afraid, for now, the bathtub will have to be an imagined one.”
I smile in response and close my eyes, just for a moment, while I wait for her to return.
* * * * *
Hours, minutes, seconds... The rattling sound of plastic against steel bar, as the curtains around my bed are closed. Alison is back, and the room around us has suddenly shrunk to a few square metres and feels so intimate that I automatically lower my voice.
“Sorry, I guess I dosed off for a second...”
“No need to apologise. I was delayed on my way here anyway.” She rolls her eyes, as she pulls my blanket back.
“Bothersome superior?” I suggest.
“Ex-superior. But the ‘ex’ part does not seem to make much of an impression on him.”
I want to say more, but she is busy unbuttoning my hospital shirt – starting from below, and the cloth tickles against my naked skin beneath it in a way that forces my train of thoughts off track. Sudden and most inappropriate associations to other hands, in other rooms who undid my shirts over the years with an entirely different purpose... Memories apparently stored physically in my body, cause I feel it quivering ever so slightly, like a faint echo, as she reaches the buttons over my breasts. I ought to talk these thoughts away, but I have to keep to quiet – she is so closely bent over me that it would violate all etiquette rules regarding distance between people who don’t know each other. Only lovers talk to each other this up close and by speaking I would break her personal boundaries.
Luckily, she soon straightens up, and I let out a breath that I apparently held back. She tries to put a lose strand of hair behind her ear, but it keeps falling into her eye and eventually she retrieves an elastic from her pocket and pulls her long, platinum blond hair back in a ponytail. The washbowl and soap are ready, and she now pulls on a pair of white latex gloves.
Oh, not the gloves... I loathe them and the feeling they give rise to within me – of being someone you don’t want to touch. Not just an asexual object, but actually abject.
And then again... As she pulls my hospital shirt open, leaving me completely exposed, surrounded by white, I am actually a bit fond of the plastic membrane between us. It seems to offer just a bit of protection, rendering my body a little less accessible after all.
“Where would you like me to begin,” she earnestly asks, and for a moment, I am puzzled by the question, which could, under other circumstances, be interpreted as suggestive... But I decide not to push it and suggest my back. It still itches like crazy, and it is such a relief when she carefully helps me roll over to the side, so the sheet and shirt let go of my sticky skin. I feel cool air brush against my shoulder blades, soon followed by a washcloth.
“Nice tattoo,” she remarks as she wets my entire back with long, efficient strokes. “A snake biting its own tail, right? Any particular meaning?”
I shrug using the one shoulder I am not currently resting on. “It is supposed to remind me that life should not bite its own tail... that occasionally one must leave a chapter behind and begin on a new.”
“True,” she says, sounding thoughtful, while carefully removing any traces of sweat from my neck. It’s been a long time since anyone massaged it. “And hard.”
She continues further down, works on my buttocks with soft circular strokes leaving the skin warm and wanting. She is not caressing me, I have to keep reminding myself of that; this is a careful, practical, helping hand.
But where exactly do you draw the line? How gentle can a helping hand be, how long can it linger, before it turns into something else? Latex gloves, I tell myself, caressing does not require latex gloves, and I even manage to kill an image from one of Mulder’s adult videos combining, if I remember correctly, black latex gloves and rather intense caressing. Instead I force myself to focus on the metal bed guard right in front of my eyes; its welded grating and every crack in the white paint...
“There,” she exclaims, “now you are as good as new on the back. Why don’t I find a fresh sheet for you, while I’m at it,” she suggests, and I hear the sound of latex gloves being pulled off, before she disappears behind the curtains surrounding my bed. She returns moments later – removes the old sheet from under me and replaces it with a new one, before she helps me roll onto my back.
Somehow I feel so much more exposed like this – full frontal nudity, I think to myself, any movie starring me would be x rated.
Next to me Alison is trying to put on latex gloves – the box is empty, so she tries to put the old ones back on, but apparently their quality isn’t overwhelming. One of the gloves split down the middle. “Damn budget cuts,” she mumbles, as she frees her hands from the pieces of glove.
Her own hands. The thought makes my heart skip a beat, and I quickly assure her: “I am not cold at all, I can wait while you get a new box.”
But she doesn’t even consider my proposition for a second, she just squeezes the latex pieces into a small ball and throws it into a waste bin. “Never mind. I can wash my hands later.” She smiles, and my attempt at smiling back is strained. I am busy trying to silence the voice in my head saying that Alison was almost a little eager to let the gloves go. Shut it, you’re going into Mulder delirium.
As she wets a new wash cloth and her own, unprotected hands in the wash bowl I can’t help wondering what she sees in front of her. Aside from my head, no part of my body has been anywhere near a shaver for several days, so there must be hair stubs on my legs and in my armpits. I haven’t exercised for the same amount of time, but I was in a better shape than most people before the assault, and some of it must stick. No stretch marks or breasts affected by motherhood – I have never had any children – but my body is way past its twenties and that must show. I gaze at her hands, wringing the cloth – they’re more slender than mine, the veins less visible, the skin smoother. What would Alison look like, if we traded places and I were the one with the cloth? Her doctor’s coat envelopes her loosely and partially hides the contours of her body, but her long neck and distinct collar bones are exposed, and I sense that the rest of her is equally petite. But soft, I am sure of that – she has this girly softness about her, in her movements and her gaze, and it seems like a defining characteristic that must apply to all of her. My assumption is confirmed when she takes a hold of my hand. It serves a practical purpose: To lift my arm, so that she can clean it. But her grasp is light, and three of her fingers slip in between mine, and I notice that my body is slowly beginning to react to all this attention. It has simply been so long since anyone touched me in a way that felt this nice and was intended to satisfy me. I am fully aware that this is a bit of a stretch – but in a way that is her intention: to help me get cleaned up, so I will be satisfied...
Aw, stop, train of thoughts! I have no idea where to look. At her? At the ceiling? The latter seems ridiculous. I’m a grown woman and usually able to control myself. By the time the cloth and her hands reach my collarbones, however, there is no longer any point in scolding myself. My arousal is a physical fact and must be very visible as well – my nipples feel stone hard, and she has reached them now. I can’t help but feel a little ashamed, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Her bent-over position enables me to stare directly into her cleavage, but I gather all my will power and meet her eyes instead and say: “The cloth is a bit cold against my skin.”
There. A perfectly plausible and proper explanation. Everyone knows nipples react to cold.
“Mmmyes,” she simply says, and I think I catch a cheeky glimpse in her eye. But it is most likely invented by my boredom and twisted imagination.
She works her way across my body in the worst possible order and pace, that’s for sure. I try not to think about what her hands must look like against my flushed skin, as she takes her time in getting further south.
Chest, waist, stomach, navel, lower stomach... I bite my lip hoping the metallic taste of blood might distract me from what’s about to come – but in that moment the cloth is taken away, and her hands reach for the washbowl.
Timeout, during which I try to force my breath back under control. But when she gets back to me – this time starting with the feet, working her way upwards – there’s a knot between my legs, like a fist clenched so tight it hurts. I thank God for not making me a man: at least my swelling can be concealed. Or can it? As she is gently touching every square inch of my calves, knees, thighs, it hits me that I have never actually scrutinised my own arousal up-close. Not as up-close as she will be in a moment.
Minutes, hours, seconds... And the hands are finally there. Thorough going on explorative, but I suppose hygiene demands that every fold is pulled aside, no hollow overlooked. My oversensitive skin can easily make out each of her fingers, the palm of her hand, through the wet cloth. And suddenly, for an instance, without any cloth at all – her naked fingertip brushes against my clit, where all my blood seems to have travelled to. It is understandable that I might briefly suspect she did it on purpose – after all, there is no blood left for my brain. And when shortly afterwards, for a somewhat longer instance, her finger touches my clit again, my suspicion no longer means anything compared to what’s about to happen. Right here, in the middle of this white, clinical room, so unbelievably out of place, and there is nothing I can do about it. I am already heading directly for the edge, and I grab the sheet beneath me to try to prevent myself from falling completely.
And in that moment, as if offering me a choice, Alison withdraws her hands. She keeps them completely still, but I still sense their warmth against the heat between my legs, and the distance of only a few millimetres is unbearable. I cannot help myself, I am too close, and my racing pulse drowns out all warning voices in my head, so I choose the fall. Using hands and feet I push myself up from the bed, just a little, but enough to regain contact. A tiny bit of friction will do at this point, and now I make it happen, even if it means I will never know whether she touched me on purpose or not. Rubbing back, forth, applying minimal pressure...
And I am there.
The cloth lands on my thigh just as my eyes go out of focus, and the blurry line between helping and caressing hand is definitively violated as I feel Alison’s fingers slide into me. They reply to and enhance my rhythm for minutes, hours, seconds – in this timeless room I have no idea, just like I cannot say for sure whether I scream, when I let her give me an orgasm that radiates out into all my limbs and even my fingertips.
Minutes, hours, days, and finally, one day, I have regained enough strength to button my own shirt, get out of my bed at take a bath on my own. The active verbs are once again mine to claim, and I can leave the hospital.
Mulder, who apparently managed to convince the psychiatrists that hunting aliens is completely normal, has come to pick me up, but first I have an errand to run, and I ask him to wait for me in the lobby, while I go back after something I forgot.
Nothing could be further from the truth – on the contrary, of these foggy weeks this is the only thing I remember with absolute clarity. And no inner sceptical monologues can make me ignore that. So I leave Mulder behind and look for Alison.
I don’t get far down the corridor, however, before a middle-aged man practically tackles me with his cane.
“Are you a police officer?” he asks without introducing himself.
“Close – I’m with the FBI,” I reply. Apparently shedding the hospital shirt and getting my old clothes back on has automatically reinstalled my aura of authority.
“Just as good,” he says. “Why don’t you arrest Cuddy?”
I don’t understand anything. “Cuddy?”
“The hospital administrator, the one with the distracting cleavage that... never mind, just arrest her!”
The man could be insane, but I actually don’t think he is. Rather, he seems like one of those rare people who care nothing whatsoever about what other people think – there is a stubborn, devil-may-care glimpse in his pale blue eyes that reminds me of Mulder, and it makes me smile. “Why should I arrest her?”
“Why?? Because she’s a pain in the ass, that’s why.” He draws little circles on the floor with the tip of his cane. “Plus I always fantasised about seeing her hand-cuffed... Hot!”
The outrageous absurdity of the intermezzo almost tempts me to play along, but I have more important things to do. “I’d love to help, but I am actually looking for Dr. Cameron.”
The name seems to take him by surprise. “Cameron?” He sounds astonished. ”Which law did she break?? Did she send money to starving kids in Africa and forget to tell the taxman?”
My smile widens. “Actually, I just want to talk to her.”
He doesn’t seem convinced and looks me up and down sceptically. “Sure, that’s what they always say... But you can find her in the clinic, doing my shift. People who can’t say no are asking for it!” With that, he turns on his heels and I don’t wait around long enough to find out where he is going (I suspect a room with comatose patients). I am already heading directly for the hospital clinic.
She is not facing in my direction, and her opening line - as she hears the door close behind me - sounds rehearsed: “What can I do for you? If I can please have your social security number, then I will download your medical records from the central server.”
“If you think it’s necessary, but personally I don’t mind skipping formalities...”
Hearing my voice, she instantly drops the folder in her hand and spins around. “Oh, it’s you! I’m sorry, I thought you were a patient...”
“That’s okay – after all I were a patient until very recently, but now I must be something else,” I say and hold her gaze with one intended to make all the possible interpretations of my statement crisp clear.
“So they signed you out. That’s nice,” she says lightly and, if I’m not totally mistaken, a little nervously - in any case she averts her eyes. “You look good, I mean, you seem to have recovered completely.”
I confirm her observation. “I have, and that’s why it’s about time I correct an imbalance.” I step closer. “Not just passive verbs,” I add, and of course this makes no sense to her, but that doesn’t matter. She looks absolutely adorable with her wrinkled forehead as she is trying to make sense of my private metaphor. I smile from ear to ear, when I reach her and clarify things. “You did something for me, and I always return a favour.” I am so uncharacteristically bold it almost shocks me, and I quickly add: “Perhaps I can buy you a dinner, when you get off?”
She looks at me for a while, and I cannot read the expression on her face – melancholy? Doubt? But then her hand reaches for my cheek, and she caresses it gently. Oh, those hands again, the memory of them already makes my body hum, and it is so tempting to let her fingers continue down my neck and further. But I pull myself together, cause this time I will not only be touched, I also want to touch. So I take her hand from my cheek, hold it to my lips and kiss her palm. And a giddy happiness fills me from within, when I notice how Allison’s cheeks blush ever so slightly – now I know for certain that the electricity is mutual. However, her sad expression and the sigh she lets out do not fit the picture.
“What’s wrong?” I ask and let my fingers slide in between hers, so I can caress the thin, sensitive skin at the root of them.
“I’d really love to, but I have no idea when I get out of here... And now I just scored five hours in the clinic on top of everything else.” The frustration is audible in her voice – this is clearly not an excuse, but an actual obstacle. I remember the stubborn man in the hospital corridor and put two and two together. Then, suddenly, I feel a cocky smile widening on my face.
Fortunately, it rubs off on her. “What is it?”, she smiles back.
I step even closer, so close that it would violate all etiquette rules, if I spoke. But I no longer give a damn. “I was just thinking... Since you’ve been forced to spend five hours in this uninspiring room, you might as well make the most of it.”
She raises one eyebrow – apparently I am not the only one capable of that gesture – and looks at me with blue eyes that seem questioning and knowing at the same time. I enjoy the sight for a second, before delivering the punch-line: “I mean, in this room at least you have your own couch...”
Current Mood: ecstatic