painting your soul with the colors of my words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
luxken27fics) wrote2014-01-21 08:14 pm
luxken27fics) wrote2014-01-21 08:14 pm
Kids Inc | Miss Independent cut scene - Stay the Night
Title: Miss Independent cut scene - Stay the Night
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Post-canon
Genre: Romance
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, innuendo
Word Count: 5,420
Summary: Because I was curious about the night before, too... =) It's pretty bad when the cut scene is longer than the original fic, but that's the way my muse rolls, I suppose.
Further author's notes can be found here.
“Stay the Night” lyrics © 2013 Anton Zaslavski, Hayley Williams, Benjamin Eli Hanna, Carah Faye
~*~
I know that we are upside down
So hold your tongue and hear me out
I know that we were made to break
So what? I don’t mind
I am a fire, gasoline
Come pour yourself all over me
We’ll let this place go down in flames
Only one more time…
~*~
The world thought they knew her, but very few people actually did.
Few people knew that her favorite part of the day was the end, when she could go home, kick off her heels, and step into a warm, welcoming shower. Sometimes she’d just stand there, under the cascade of water, enjoying the peace, the quiet – the stone cold silence.
It was the only time she truly had to herself.
The rest of her day was filled with requests and commands and orders and deadlines and sycophants. There was always someone (or something) demanding her attention, her direction, her action. She enjoyed the whirlwind, for the most part, but even she had her limits.
Only recently had she learned how to say no, and how to enforce her boundaries, even when pushed.
She’d earned it, after all. How well she remembered her days as a print model, when she had to sit or stand or pose for hours in awkward positions for editorials and haute couture shoots. How well she remembered her hair being dyed and chopped and fried beyond recognition, the layers of makeup and jewelry, the heavy brocades and (more often) the skimpy outfits. She’d be so tired and sore that by the end of the day she’d crawl into the bath, slowly stretching her arms and legs to work out the kinks and knots in her muscles. As the water grew tepid, she’d sit in the tub and methodically wash away the perverted innuendo – and shameless passes – from the creepy photographers and/or their assistants on set.
That first year had been brutal – but ultimately, it had been worth it.
She loved Europe. She’d met some amazingly talented people, and had painstakingly worked her way up the ladder, from the days of tear sheets into runway shows put on by the most prestigious fashion houses in the world. She’d transitioned from being in front of the camera to working behind it, designing bits and pieces of others’ lines before being invited to start her own.
She’d learned how to deal with the expectations along the way, as well as their usual outcome: failure. She’d learned how to deal with fame (and infamy) in the catty, backstabbing world of fashion. She’d learned the hard way who her real friends were – who would keep her secrets, and who would blab to the gossip rags at the first opportunity – and that’s why she allowed very few people to get close. She could count on one hand the people who knew the real Stacy: her parents, of course, and her sister, Renee; two or three friends from school; a clutch of girls from her modelling days. Everyone else knew the façade, her public persona as a beloved celebrity who said all the right words and did all the right things.
Few people had been privileged enough to watch that mask fall away in the privacy of her home.
She took her time in the shower, massaging shampoo into her meticulously well-cared-for hair; washing away her makeup; cleansing the sweat and grime of another day from her body. When she emerged, she was simply herself again, happy to slip into a pair of yoga pants and a tank, to let her hair air dry, to put lotion on the soles of her feet before covering them with thick, fluffy, aloe-infused socks.
Few people knew that she preferred to exercise at home, instead of frequenting a busy, noisy gym where she’d inevitably become the center of attention. She hated being scrutinized – she hated the knowledge that there were judgmental assholes out there, watching every morsel she put into her mouth, every drop of alcohol she consumed, how and when and what kind of workouts she did. Gossip magazines were one thing, but the day her mother had called her, worried sick over a story she’d heard fourth-hand about Stacy’s supposed diet and exercise habits, was the day she’d stopped going to the gym.
Rumors already swirled around her: that she had an eating disorder; that she survived on cigarettes and cocaine; that she was a drunk mess; that she was heroin-chic. She didn’t bother to quash them, but she didn’t care to fuel them, either.
No, few people knew that after her long and leisurely evening shower, she pulled out her yoga gear and popped in a DVD, settling on her living room floor to soothe her soul and work out her stress and frustrations. Few people knew how many times she’d fallen asleep right there on the floor after completing her routine, or that she’d re-carpeted her entire apartment with wall-to-wall fluffy high-pile for just that reason.
Tonight she stayed awake, relaxed and meditative, and enjoyed the feeling of her creativity bubbling up just below the surface of her mind. She was in the midst of her spring/summer designs for next year, and was only one or two pieces away from finishing the collection. One of her sketches had been made into a prototype, which had been presented to her that afternoon, and she remembered the exact color and texture of the fabric, how it draped over the mannequin like liquid silk. She loved it when her first testers turned out so nicely, because it tended to bode well for the entire collection. She’d yet to have a miss in her line, which only raised the stakes even higher for each successive season.
Few people knew that she brought her work home more often than not, that she’d converted the second bedroom of her apartment into something of a studio, full of bits and pieces and her own hand-sewn samples. Few people knew that she liked to sit on the floor in the middle of the chaos and sketch on a giant artist’s pad with charcoal pencils and Prismacolor markers. Few people understood that she had to have music on whenever she worked, that it was the lifeblood of her creativity and the only thing that kept her sane, sometimes.
Her hand slowed to a stop as she contemplated the music that permeated the air around her. She’d chosen the latest album by Kent, a rock band from Sweden that she’d been introduced to by one of her friends during her first cold, lonely winter in Europe. She’d purposefully chosen a Swedish-language release as her musical guide tonight, because she liked the driving beat of the faster songs, and identifying with the raw emotion of the slower ones.
And because any time she lingered too long on lyrics, she inevitably started to think about Ryan.
Not that thinking about him was unpleasant. He had been the center of her universe once upon a time – she had been so hopelessly, desperately in love with him as a teenager that she couldn’t ever quite let go of her insecurity around him. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, spinning dangerously out of control when he left for college. They hung on, but the constant break-ups and make-ups took their unavoidable toll. Time couldn’t heal the wound distance had ripped open, and she’d only made it worse when she’d left for Europe, to pursue the one dream in her life that didn’t involve him.
It had been hard, but they had survived. He was still one of her dearest friends. Even now, years, later, he wasn’t entirely out of her orbit. They lived in the same city, though they hardly ever crossed paths professionally. Personally? Well, that was a different story. He was the only person who’d never been mesmerized by the glitz and glamour of her life, probably because he worked with divas of a different sort on a regular basis. The music industry was just as cutthroat and catty as the world of fashion, and it was something they could – and did – commiserate over together. Their friendship now was casual, but with an undercurrent of intensity that had been built over the years by such a prolonged, closely-entwined personal history.
Few people in the world actually knew her, and he might be the only person who so thoroughly understood her. He’d been such an important part of her life for so long…
Sometimes she wondered if he knew her better than she knew herself.
She shook her head, turning back to her sketches. She worried her lower lip as she worked on shading a particular design. She hadn’t seen him lately, which was not unusual. He was probably elbow-deep in a new album, or smoothing out the kinks of a new working relationship with a new artist.
Or maybe a new relationship-relationship with a new artist…
Stop it, she commanded herself, picking up the remote for her stereo and jabbing at the volume button, as if she could drown out her own melancholy thoughts with the music. His personal life is none of your business.
She frowned, turning the page on her pad, and bore down hard with her pencil, sketching a bold new line. The hardest part of being his friend had always been dealing with his romantic entanglements. At first, her jealousy had overwhelmed her, to the point where she pushed him to a far corner of her life; now, she mostly felt wistful. She loved him – maybe not as hopelessly or as desperately as she had when they were kids – but enough to want him to be happy.
He’d worked with some beautiful women. If one of them made him happy…
She sighed, leaning back against a box of fabric scraps. Why am I suddenly thinking about him? she wondered, rubbing her temples. As her mind cleared, the music filled her ears, and she smiled wryly. That’s why, she mused, recognizing the melancholy strains of “Hur jag fick dig att älska mig.” She let the song play out before skipping ahead, finding one a little more upbeat.
She’d just settled back into her work groove when she heard a faint knocking sound. She sat up straight, inclining her head towards the hallway, unsure if she’d actually heard anything or not. The knocking started again, heavier this time, staccato and impatient against her front door.
“Oh hell, who could that be?” she muttered under her breath. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with someone else. It would require her to get up from the floor, to put on real clothes, to conjure up her game face: shit she just didn’t have the time or inclination for, at the moment.
She gave serious consideration to staying exactly where she was, and maybe turning the music up even louder. She could wait out even the most patient paparazzo; besides, her building’s security team knew better than to let them – or fans – up anyway. Everyone else – barring a very select few – was escorted to her door, and the escort always knocked once before announcing their name, their guest’s name, and the nature of their business.
When the knocking didn’t abate, she reluctantly stood up, drawing her hair over one shoulder and brushing her fingers through it as she moved down the hall towards the front door. “Who is it?” she called out crisply, hoping she didn’t sound as unnerved and unsettled as she felt.
“Stace, please,” came a muffled, pleading voice, “please, let me in.”
Her heart dropped. There were exactly five people in the world who were still allowed to call her ‘Stace’: her parents, her sister, her best friend, and Ryan.
The thought of finding any of them in a state of distress on the other side of her door made her feel sick to her stomach.
She took a deep breath, carefully approaching the door and unlocking the deadbolt. She eased it open just enough for the chain to catch, and was startled when the person on the other side slumped against the doorframe, curling one hand around the knob.
“Ryan,” she breathed, her heart throbbing painfully against her ribs as she quickly closed the door, freed the chain, and opened it once more. He hadn’t moved, still leaning into the doorframe, his breath slow and jagged. The image of him standing there would forever be seared into her memory: disheveled, out of sorts, the beginnings of a bruise blooming up on his chest beneath his shirt. He was bleeding, albeit sparsely, and held a bloodstained cloth over the worst-looking cut on his right temple.
“Oh, God,” she whispered disbelievingly, “what happened?!”
“Sorry, Stace,” he mumbled, pressing himself back up into a standing position. He dabbed at the open wound on his forehead, swiping absently at another cut closer to his mouth with his free hand. “I don’t mean to barge in like this, but…um…help?”
Wordlessly, she pulled him into her apartment, anxious to get a closer look at him in the harsh light of her foyer. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she examined him, tracing her fingers over his features, into his hair, under the collar of his shirt. For a long moment, she could only stare, caught somewhere between terror and tears, her mind stuck in neutral as horror and surprise and fear momentarily overwhelmed her.
She’d seen a lot of things in her lifetime, but a beaten and bloody person up close and personal had never been among them. That was bad enough on its own, but this was Ryan – her Ryan, her sweet, gentle, friendly, non-violent Ryan. He was witty and sarcastic, far more inclined to fight with his words than his fists, but he’d never been one to provoke an attack…so who would do this to him?
And why?
She managed to pull herself together before she lapsed into shock. She closed and locked the door before taking his hand and leading him into her kitchen. She directed him to sit on one of the stools at her island as she busied herself with her first aid kit. She took a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep, quiet breath, before turning to face him once more.
“So what happened?” she asked again, laying the first aid kit on the island’s tabletop and opening it up, pulling out fresh bandages and gauze.
He shrugged. “I merely got caught in the crossfire,” he replied, watching her with some interest as she prepped her supplies. She ran a clean dishcloth under cold water, squeezing out the excess before turning back to him and gently pushing away the hand at his head.
She winced as she eyed the open cut, which was still oozing blood. “Really,” she murmured, brushing his hair out of the way as she began to clean the wound. “It looks like someone beat the shit out of you.” She bit her lip worriedly as the blood saturated the wet cloth.
“You should see the other guys,” Ryan quipped. “They wound up in the hospital.”
“Are you sure you shouldn’t go?” Stacy asked doubtfully. “This cut looks pretty deep.”
He shuddered. “Do you think it needs stitches?”
She was silent as she continued to work on it. It was long and deep, extending into his hairline, but the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. A wave of relief washed over her when she realized that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. “I don’t think so,” she finally said, rinsing out the cloth again before laying it over the laceration. “Hold this,” she directed, indicating the dishcloth, “and keep your head up.”
He complied without a word, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. She took the opportunity to clean and dress the other nasty-looking abrasion on his face, this one on his left jaw. It was more of a superficial cut, one that would probably heal without scarring, but somehow, it was turning out to be much trickier to bandage up. The closer she inched towards his mouth, the more her hands started to shake; she became hyperaware of her own shallow breathing, and of the way her heart raced against her ribs.
“Your hands are so warm,” he murmured, clasping his free hand over one of hers and holding it in place, the backs of her fingers brushing against his chin, over the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. “It feels nice.”
She flushed, but didn’t pull away, not quite able to meet his gaze. “Thanks,” she replied softly, gently pressing the last bandage into place with her knuckle.
He continued to hold her hand for a long moment, his gaze becoming warm and intense, before letting her go, turning his attention to his right temple. “I think it’s stopped,” he noted, lifting his hand away, along with the dishcloth.
She took a quick look at the now-dry wound, nodding in confirmation. “I’ll be right back,” she said, slipping out of the kitchen and reappearing a moment later with a handful of bobby pins.
Ryan sat up straight, chuckling as she pinned his hair back. “If only those guys could see me now,” he mused.
“It’s either this or I tape up half your head,” she returned archly, carefully cutting the gauze to fit over his wound, then snipping a strip of tape the same length. “I think we know how they’ll end up, anyway. They make the interns do this shit at the hospital.”
“And I seriously doubt they have bobby pins lying around,” he joked. His expression sobered almost immediately. “I hope they’re okay, though, seriously – it was a pretty nasty fight.”
“Looks like it,” she intoned dryly, laying the bandage on his wound and smoothing the tape over it.
“And this is just a couple of glancing blows,” he continued, gesturing to his cuts and bruises. “The lead singer of the band and the album’s producer got into it – a real knock-down, drag-out kinda thing.” He shrugged. “This artist is a rare asshole who really can back up his words with his fists. And when he wants his way, by God…”
She nodded mutely as she released his hair from the bobby pins. She knew how some people were about getting their way, and using their fists to ensure that other bent to their will. There were a couple of photographers who were notorious for their manhandling of models on set, and it infuriated her that they still commanded such a large share of print work.
She was startled from her grim thoughts when she felt Ryan’s arms slide around her waist. “Thank you, Stacy,” he said softly, pulling her close and resting his head on her chest. “You’re a good nurse.”
Warmth curled through her abdomen, rising and spreading as a rosy flush over her shoulders and down her arms. His was a welcome and familiar weight, stirring up memories and fluttering butterflies and old attraction. “I’m not finished with you yet,” she managed after a moment, reaching for the zipper of his hoodie. “Let me see your bruises.”
He allowed her to unzip the jacket and push it from his shoulders, grimacing as he reluctantly broke away from her, rising to his feet as he pulled his shirt over his head. She winced when she saw the patches of blueish-purple rising up from his chest to the left side of his neck, and another over the curve of his right shoulder. A quick inspection of his back reassured her that these were the only body blows he’d sustained, and that, unlike his face, he hadn’t been hit hard enough to draw blood.
She couldn’t resist tracing her fingertips down the length of his spine as he stood with his back to her, following the natural curve of his body from his neck to his waist. It was an impulsive move, one of admiration as much as examination, and not until she’d done it did she realize how much she missed touching him so intimately.
Is it possible, she wondered, to forget attraction, or what it feels like to indulge it?
And, perhaps more importantly, why was she suddenly feeling it now, and so strongly? Why did it feel like it was taking every fiber of her being to stop herself from closing her arms around him and pressing her body into his?
Because it was.
The urge to hold him was so strong, so primal, so urgent and intense that it scared her.
She had to be fair – to him, to herself. They weren’t teenagers anymore. They had lives – adult lives – separate lives – with different interests, professions, priorities. She couldn’t subject him to the pressure and scrutiny that came with living in her world: he was content with being in the background these days, with writing and producing and letting others have the spotlight.
Few people knew how selfishly she loved others – in fact, he was the only one who knew. She’d never loved anyone as deeply, as ardently, or as much for as long as she’d loved him.
Suddenly, she felt queasy and light-headed, the muscles across her abdomen constricting painfully with each successive breath. Her chest felt heavy and raw, her thoughts, feelings, needs, and desires tumbling through her, swift and untamed. This is a wakeup call, she realized, her hands hovering over the planes of his back, his smooth, pale, alabaster skin. She felt herself flush hot, then cold, and then hot again, adrenaline soaking through her nerves, her fingertips tingling with anticipation and itching to touch.
“Stacy?” he said softly, his voice slicing through the heaviness of her thoughts. He tilted his head slightly. “Can I thank you yet?”
And, just like that, she snapped out of it, managing to resist temptation, lowering her hands and taking a step back. She summoned every ounce of reserve, pushing the dangerous whirl of thoughts and feelings firmly out of her mind.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she replied.
He turned, the sight of his injuries giving her another much-needed jolt of reality. “What if I want to?” he teased, easing his shirt back over his head.
When she hesitated in response, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Thank you,” he whispered, his breath warm on the shell of her ear.
She simply nodded, curling her arms around him, one hand clutching the back of his (good) shoulder while she traced the curve of his spine with the other.
He exhaled slowly, relaxing into her touch, drawing her body into his own. “Can I stay here tonight?” he murmured.
She swallowed hard. “You know you’re always welcome here,” she answered, working to quell the heat that blossomed in the very core of her being.
He kissed her again, one of his hands rising up into her hair to cradle the back of her head. Time seemed to slow to a standstill as he slowly peeled his body away from hers, as he shifted ever so slightly before leaning back into her, his lips lingering mere inches from hers –
She could see it coming, and she knew she should fight it, but she didn’t – she couldn’t, because she wanted him to kiss her, even though she knew it was wrong. He was hurt, he was delirious – she shouldn’t take advantage of him to satisfy her own desire. She couldn’t let one little kiss conjure up all of her memories and mushy feelings and remembrances of how kind and gentle he was in bed; how patient and loving he’d been their first time, and every time after that; how she’d never had a considerate partner after him, and how much she missed that…and missed him…
She broke away from him, from the kiss, from the intimacy of their embrace. “I should get your things,” she said in a hushed voice, keeping her gaze studiously averted from his. “I’ve cleaned since – the last time you were here.”
He let her go without protest, but it felt like an escape nonetheless as she hurried down the hall to the spare room, her studio, momentarily closing herself into the closet with her washing machine and dryer. She leaned against the door, fighting to catch her breath, to calm her stomach, to settle the warring emotions still rocking through her.
How was it that seeing him hurt had abruptly unlocked all of these feelings? Why did she suddenly feel so protective of him? He was an adult, after all, and he could take care of himself – but for some reason, he’d come to her instead…
Was it possible that he still loved her? He certainly kissed like he did…but what did that even matter? Men were hard-wired with the desire for physical affection – and they’d kissed plenty of times, even just as “friends.”
And it was their friendship that made her feel so confused and wary of this sudden streak of possessiveness, too. Of course it had always troubled her to see him in pain, but this time – this time, there was vengeance in her blood. If she ever met the person who did this to him, they would know quite well what it felt like to be gouged by acrylic fingernails and sharp jewelry.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to relax. Once she’d regained control of herself –and her senses – she pulled out the extra blankets and pillows she’d acquired since Ryan had made her living room sofa his second home.
His second home…
The thought lingered in the back of her mind as she made her way back to the living room. He’d already made himself quite at home, having kicked off his shoes (which joined his hoodie on the floor) and turned on her TV, tuning into something relatively quiet. He was lying on his side, resting his head on a throw pillow, when she appeared.
She couldn’t resist teasing him, knowing well his penchant for being able to sleep anywhere. “Gee, you already look comfortable to me,” she noted dryly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have troubled myself?”
He bestowed his most charming smile upon her. “There’s comfortable, and then there’s comfortable,” he replied, reaching for the blankets that she dangled over him, making a big show out of unfurling and snuggling into them.
“Perfect,” he declared with a satisfied look, smoothing the blankets around himself. “Well, almost.”
“Forget something, did you?” she teased, dropping the pillows directly on his head. She bit back a laugh when he bolted up, sending the pillows flying in all directions.
“I did,” he conceded, tossing the throw pillow to the other end of the sofa as he gathered the bed pillows that had landed on the floor in front of him. “But it’s not these.”
Her heart skipped a beat when he reached for her, his hand closing around hers. “Stay,” he pleaded softly.
She could feel her mirth draining away, those treacherous feelings of uncertainty and desire fast rising within her again. She averted her eyes from his, lowering herself to the floor to pick up a discarded pillow. “I shouldn’t,” she replied somberly.
“Please?”
She clutched the pillow to her chest as he laced his fingers through hers, tracing little circles in the palm of her hand with his thumb, making it hard for her to concentrate on all of the reasons why it would be a bad idea to stay with him…
It was tragic, really, that it had taken something like this to make her realize how she much she still loved him and wanted him and needed him. She’d taken him for granted, because his presence had been steady and constant for the grand majority of her life. She could count on one hand the number of people she knew who could say that they had maintained such a close relationship with an ex:
One.
Her.
Because he was more than just an ex. He’d never been “just” an ex. He’d never be just an ex.
Slowly, she stood, rising to her full height, still holding the pillow tight to her chest. “Okay,” she agreed softly, sliding over to sit beside him. “Maybe for a little while.”
He yawned, and stretched, lowering himself back down on his side, careful to keep his bandaged temple elevated. He adjusted his blankets around himself before resting his hand on her back.
She sat stiffly, trying valiantly to focus with laser-like precision on whatever he was watching (Masterpiece Theater? Of course), to ignore the languid, irregular patterns his fingers were tracing into her side, her hip, her waist, and the way her skin flushed with heat beneath his touch. She knew what he was trying to do, but she was equally determined to not give in to his enticements.
Because if he started something, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.
There’s a reason I don’t watch much public television, she reminded herself as her eyes grew bleary and her mind started to wind down. She didn’t watch much television at all, truth be told, but she really had no patience for slow-moving drama or Merchant Ivory-style period pieces. Still, she fought the urge to slide down beside him, to burrow under the blankets with him for warmth and companionship. She leaned forward instead, hoping to thwart the impulse to nod off, lest she fall completely off the sofa.
Her eyes were almost completely closed when she felt his fingers inching up her back, twining gently into her hair. “Don’t go,” he implored, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Please, not yet.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised to see that he was practically asleep already, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a deepening, regular rhythm. She shifted, reaching out for him, fanning her fingers through his dark, glossy hair. He sighed in response, sinking into the overstuffed cushions, his hold on her slowly slipping away.
She leaned down, curling the hand in his hair into a tight fist as she pressed a light kiss to his cheek, just beyond the juncture where tape met gauze. She rested her forehead against his ear, and finally gave in to the overwhelming waves of emotion that had churned up inside her. She was so tired of fighting her feelings – even if she couldn’t indulge them, maybe she could at least ease them…
She sank down beside him, on top of his blankets, her back to his chest, and curled her body into his. She laid there for as long as she could stand it – long enough for him to sense her presence and wrap his arms around her, bringing her close; long enough for the tension locked between her shoulders to melt away; long enough for her heart to swell and shatter into thousands of tiny pieces at the thought of him being so close, and yet so very far away.
I can’t do this anymore, she realized, tears welling up behind her eyes. I can’t keep pretending that our friendship is enough. It wasn’t – and maybe it never had been – but she hadn’t comprehended it until now, until this very moment, when the last thing she wanted to do was leave him. She wanted to keep him, and to take care of him, and to be there with him, always.
She eased out of his hold, picking herself up from the sofa, her heart as heavy as her footsteps as she left him, alone.
She’d asked him to live with her before, but he’d never actually agreed to do it. Maybe it was because he never thought she was serious; maybe it was because he’d somehow sensed that they were usually half-hearted requests, aimed more at staving off her loneliness rather than satisfying a specific need to be with him.
Would he believe her this time, if she told him the truth – that as sudden and crazy as this all was, she was serious about wanting him as more than just a friend? Would he accept her offer this time?
Could she live with herself if he didn’t?
There was only one way to know for sure.
Few people knew how selfishly she loved – and, in fact, there was only one person in the world who understood her enough to consider forgiving her for it.
She could only hope that it wasn’t too late to find out.
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Post-canon
Genre: Romance
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, innuendo
Word Count: 5,420
Summary: Because I was curious about the night before, too... =) It's pretty bad when the cut scene is longer than the original fic, but that's the way my muse rolls, I suppose.
Further author's notes can be found here.
“Stay the Night” lyrics © 2013 Anton Zaslavski, Hayley Williams, Benjamin Eli Hanna, Carah Faye
I know that we are upside down
So hold your tongue and hear me out
I know that we were made to break
So what? I don’t mind
I am a fire, gasoline
Come pour yourself all over me
We’ll let this place go down in flames
Only one more time…
~*~
The world thought they knew her, but very few people actually did.
Few people knew that her favorite part of the day was the end, when she could go home, kick off her heels, and step into a warm, welcoming shower. Sometimes she’d just stand there, under the cascade of water, enjoying the peace, the quiet – the stone cold silence.
It was the only time she truly had to herself.
The rest of her day was filled with requests and commands and orders and deadlines and sycophants. There was always someone (or something) demanding her attention, her direction, her action. She enjoyed the whirlwind, for the most part, but even she had her limits.
Only recently had she learned how to say no, and how to enforce her boundaries, even when pushed.
She’d earned it, after all. How well she remembered her days as a print model, when she had to sit or stand or pose for hours in awkward positions for editorials and haute couture shoots. How well she remembered her hair being dyed and chopped and fried beyond recognition, the layers of makeup and jewelry, the heavy brocades and (more often) the skimpy outfits. She’d be so tired and sore that by the end of the day she’d crawl into the bath, slowly stretching her arms and legs to work out the kinks and knots in her muscles. As the water grew tepid, she’d sit in the tub and methodically wash away the perverted innuendo – and shameless passes – from the creepy photographers and/or their assistants on set.
That first year had been brutal – but ultimately, it had been worth it.
She loved Europe. She’d met some amazingly talented people, and had painstakingly worked her way up the ladder, from the days of tear sheets into runway shows put on by the most prestigious fashion houses in the world. She’d transitioned from being in front of the camera to working behind it, designing bits and pieces of others’ lines before being invited to start her own.
She’d learned how to deal with the expectations along the way, as well as their usual outcome: failure. She’d learned how to deal with fame (and infamy) in the catty, backstabbing world of fashion. She’d learned the hard way who her real friends were – who would keep her secrets, and who would blab to the gossip rags at the first opportunity – and that’s why she allowed very few people to get close. She could count on one hand the people who knew the real Stacy: her parents, of course, and her sister, Renee; two or three friends from school; a clutch of girls from her modelling days. Everyone else knew the façade, her public persona as a beloved celebrity who said all the right words and did all the right things.
Few people had been privileged enough to watch that mask fall away in the privacy of her home.
She took her time in the shower, massaging shampoo into her meticulously well-cared-for hair; washing away her makeup; cleansing the sweat and grime of another day from her body. When she emerged, she was simply herself again, happy to slip into a pair of yoga pants and a tank, to let her hair air dry, to put lotion on the soles of her feet before covering them with thick, fluffy, aloe-infused socks.
Few people knew that she preferred to exercise at home, instead of frequenting a busy, noisy gym where she’d inevitably become the center of attention. She hated being scrutinized – she hated the knowledge that there were judgmental assholes out there, watching every morsel she put into her mouth, every drop of alcohol she consumed, how and when and what kind of workouts she did. Gossip magazines were one thing, but the day her mother had called her, worried sick over a story she’d heard fourth-hand about Stacy’s supposed diet and exercise habits, was the day she’d stopped going to the gym.
Rumors already swirled around her: that she had an eating disorder; that she survived on cigarettes and cocaine; that she was a drunk mess; that she was heroin-chic. She didn’t bother to quash them, but she didn’t care to fuel them, either.
No, few people knew that after her long and leisurely evening shower, she pulled out her yoga gear and popped in a DVD, settling on her living room floor to soothe her soul and work out her stress and frustrations. Few people knew how many times she’d fallen asleep right there on the floor after completing her routine, or that she’d re-carpeted her entire apartment with wall-to-wall fluffy high-pile for just that reason.
Tonight she stayed awake, relaxed and meditative, and enjoyed the feeling of her creativity bubbling up just below the surface of her mind. She was in the midst of her spring/summer designs for next year, and was only one or two pieces away from finishing the collection. One of her sketches had been made into a prototype, which had been presented to her that afternoon, and she remembered the exact color and texture of the fabric, how it draped over the mannequin like liquid silk. She loved it when her first testers turned out so nicely, because it tended to bode well for the entire collection. She’d yet to have a miss in her line, which only raised the stakes even higher for each successive season.
Few people knew that she brought her work home more often than not, that she’d converted the second bedroom of her apartment into something of a studio, full of bits and pieces and her own hand-sewn samples. Few people knew that she liked to sit on the floor in the middle of the chaos and sketch on a giant artist’s pad with charcoal pencils and Prismacolor markers. Few people understood that she had to have music on whenever she worked, that it was the lifeblood of her creativity and the only thing that kept her sane, sometimes.
Her hand slowed to a stop as she contemplated the music that permeated the air around her. She’d chosen the latest album by Kent, a rock band from Sweden that she’d been introduced to by one of her friends during her first cold, lonely winter in Europe. She’d purposefully chosen a Swedish-language release as her musical guide tonight, because she liked the driving beat of the faster songs, and identifying with the raw emotion of the slower ones.
And because any time she lingered too long on lyrics, she inevitably started to think about Ryan.
Not that thinking about him was unpleasant. He had been the center of her universe once upon a time – she had been so hopelessly, desperately in love with him as a teenager that she couldn’t ever quite let go of her insecurity around him. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, spinning dangerously out of control when he left for college. They hung on, but the constant break-ups and make-ups took their unavoidable toll. Time couldn’t heal the wound distance had ripped open, and she’d only made it worse when she’d left for Europe, to pursue the one dream in her life that didn’t involve him.
It had been hard, but they had survived. He was still one of her dearest friends. Even now, years, later, he wasn’t entirely out of her orbit. They lived in the same city, though they hardly ever crossed paths professionally. Personally? Well, that was a different story. He was the only person who’d never been mesmerized by the glitz and glamour of her life, probably because he worked with divas of a different sort on a regular basis. The music industry was just as cutthroat and catty as the world of fashion, and it was something they could – and did – commiserate over together. Their friendship now was casual, but with an undercurrent of intensity that had been built over the years by such a prolonged, closely-entwined personal history.
Few people in the world actually knew her, and he might be the only person who so thoroughly understood her. He’d been such an important part of her life for so long…
Sometimes she wondered if he knew her better than she knew herself.
She shook her head, turning back to her sketches. She worried her lower lip as she worked on shading a particular design. She hadn’t seen him lately, which was not unusual. He was probably elbow-deep in a new album, or smoothing out the kinks of a new working relationship with a new artist.
Or maybe a new relationship-relationship with a new artist…
Stop it, she commanded herself, picking up the remote for her stereo and jabbing at the volume button, as if she could drown out her own melancholy thoughts with the music. His personal life is none of your business.
She frowned, turning the page on her pad, and bore down hard with her pencil, sketching a bold new line. The hardest part of being his friend had always been dealing with his romantic entanglements. At first, her jealousy had overwhelmed her, to the point where she pushed him to a far corner of her life; now, she mostly felt wistful. She loved him – maybe not as hopelessly or as desperately as she had when they were kids – but enough to want him to be happy.
He’d worked with some beautiful women. If one of them made him happy…
She sighed, leaning back against a box of fabric scraps. Why am I suddenly thinking about him? she wondered, rubbing her temples. As her mind cleared, the music filled her ears, and she smiled wryly. That’s why, she mused, recognizing the melancholy strains of “Hur jag fick dig att älska mig.” She let the song play out before skipping ahead, finding one a little more upbeat.
She’d just settled back into her work groove when she heard a faint knocking sound. She sat up straight, inclining her head towards the hallway, unsure if she’d actually heard anything or not. The knocking started again, heavier this time, staccato and impatient against her front door.
“Oh hell, who could that be?” she muttered under her breath. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with someone else. It would require her to get up from the floor, to put on real clothes, to conjure up her game face: shit she just didn’t have the time or inclination for, at the moment.
She gave serious consideration to staying exactly where she was, and maybe turning the music up even louder. She could wait out even the most patient paparazzo; besides, her building’s security team knew better than to let them – or fans – up anyway. Everyone else – barring a very select few – was escorted to her door, and the escort always knocked once before announcing their name, their guest’s name, and the nature of their business.
When the knocking didn’t abate, she reluctantly stood up, drawing her hair over one shoulder and brushing her fingers through it as she moved down the hall towards the front door. “Who is it?” she called out crisply, hoping she didn’t sound as unnerved and unsettled as she felt.
“Stace, please,” came a muffled, pleading voice, “please, let me in.”
Her heart dropped. There were exactly five people in the world who were still allowed to call her ‘Stace’: her parents, her sister, her best friend, and Ryan.
The thought of finding any of them in a state of distress on the other side of her door made her feel sick to her stomach.
She took a deep breath, carefully approaching the door and unlocking the deadbolt. She eased it open just enough for the chain to catch, and was startled when the person on the other side slumped against the doorframe, curling one hand around the knob.
“Ryan,” she breathed, her heart throbbing painfully against her ribs as she quickly closed the door, freed the chain, and opened it once more. He hadn’t moved, still leaning into the doorframe, his breath slow and jagged. The image of him standing there would forever be seared into her memory: disheveled, out of sorts, the beginnings of a bruise blooming up on his chest beneath his shirt. He was bleeding, albeit sparsely, and held a bloodstained cloth over the worst-looking cut on his right temple.
“Oh, God,” she whispered disbelievingly, “what happened?!”
“Sorry, Stace,” he mumbled, pressing himself back up into a standing position. He dabbed at the open wound on his forehead, swiping absently at another cut closer to his mouth with his free hand. “I don’t mean to barge in like this, but…um…help?”
Wordlessly, she pulled him into her apartment, anxious to get a closer look at him in the harsh light of her foyer. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she examined him, tracing her fingers over his features, into his hair, under the collar of his shirt. For a long moment, she could only stare, caught somewhere between terror and tears, her mind stuck in neutral as horror and surprise and fear momentarily overwhelmed her.
She’d seen a lot of things in her lifetime, but a beaten and bloody person up close and personal had never been among them. That was bad enough on its own, but this was Ryan – her Ryan, her sweet, gentle, friendly, non-violent Ryan. He was witty and sarcastic, far more inclined to fight with his words than his fists, but he’d never been one to provoke an attack…so who would do this to him?
And why?
She managed to pull herself together before she lapsed into shock. She closed and locked the door before taking his hand and leading him into her kitchen. She directed him to sit on one of the stools at her island as she busied herself with her first aid kit. She took a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep, quiet breath, before turning to face him once more.
“So what happened?” she asked again, laying the first aid kit on the island’s tabletop and opening it up, pulling out fresh bandages and gauze.
He shrugged. “I merely got caught in the crossfire,” he replied, watching her with some interest as she prepped her supplies. She ran a clean dishcloth under cold water, squeezing out the excess before turning back to him and gently pushing away the hand at his head.
She winced as she eyed the open cut, which was still oozing blood. “Really,” she murmured, brushing his hair out of the way as she began to clean the wound. “It looks like someone beat the shit out of you.” She bit her lip worriedly as the blood saturated the wet cloth.
“You should see the other guys,” Ryan quipped. “They wound up in the hospital.”
“Are you sure you shouldn’t go?” Stacy asked doubtfully. “This cut looks pretty deep.”
He shuddered. “Do you think it needs stitches?”
She was silent as she continued to work on it. It was long and deep, extending into his hairline, but the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. A wave of relief washed over her when she realized that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. “I don’t think so,” she finally said, rinsing out the cloth again before laying it over the laceration. “Hold this,” she directed, indicating the dishcloth, “and keep your head up.”
He complied without a word, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. She took the opportunity to clean and dress the other nasty-looking abrasion on his face, this one on his left jaw. It was more of a superficial cut, one that would probably heal without scarring, but somehow, it was turning out to be much trickier to bandage up. The closer she inched towards his mouth, the more her hands started to shake; she became hyperaware of her own shallow breathing, and of the way her heart raced against her ribs.
“Your hands are so warm,” he murmured, clasping his free hand over one of hers and holding it in place, the backs of her fingers brushing against his chin, over the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. “It feels nice.”
She flushed, but didn’t pull away, not quite able to meet his gaze. “Thanks,” she replied softly, gently pressing the last bandage into place with her knuckle.
He continued to hold her hand for a long moment, his gaze becoming warm and intense, before letting her go, turning his attention to his right temple. “I think it’s stopped,” he noted, lifting his hand away, along with the dishcloth.
She took a quick look at the now-dry wound, nodding in confirmation. “I’ll be right back,” she said, slipping out of the kitchen and reappearing a moment later with a handful of bobby pins.
Ryan sat up straight, chuckling as she pinned his hair back. “If only those guys could see me now,” he mused.
“It’s either this or I tape up half your head,” she returned archly, carefully cutting the gauze to fit over his wound, then snipping a strip of tape the same length. “I think we know how they’ll end up, anyway. They make the interns do this shit at the hospital.”
“And I seriously doubt they have bobby pins lying around,” he joked. His expression sobered almost immediately. “I hope they’re okay, though, seriously – it was a pretty nasty fight.”
“Looks like it,” she intoned dryly, laying the bandage on his wound and smoothing the tape over it.
“And this is just a couple of glancing blows,” he continued, gesturing to his cuts and bruises. “The lead singer of the band and the album’s producer got into it – a real knock-down, drag-out kinda thing.” He shrugged. “This artist is a rare asshole who really can back up his words with his fists. And when he wants his way, by God…”
She nodded mutely as she released his hair from the bobby pins. She knew how some people were about getting their way, and using their fists to ensure that other bent to their will. There were a couple of photographers who were notorious for their manhandling of models on set, and it infuriated her that they still commanded such a large share of print work.
She was startled from her grim thoughts when she felt Ryan’s arms slide around her waist. “Thank you, Stacy,” he said softly, pulling her close and resting his head on her chest. “You’re a good nurse.”
Warmth curled through her abdomen, rising and spreading as a rosy flush over her shoulders and down her arms. His was a welcome and familiar weight, stirring up memories and fluttering butterflies and old attraction. “I’m not finished with you yet,” she managed after a moment, reaching for the zipper of his hoodie. “Let me see your bruises.”
He allowed her to unzip the jacket and push it from his shoulders, grimacing as he reluctantly broke away from her, rising to his feet as he pulled his shirt over his head. She winced when she saw the patches of blueish-purple rising up from his chest to the left side of his neck, and another over the curve of his right shoulder. A quick inspection of his back reassured her that these were the only body blows he’d sustained, and that, unlike his face, he hadn’t been hit hard enough to draw blood.
She couldn’t resist tracing her fingertips down the length of his spine as he stood with his back to her, following the natural curve of his body from his neck to his waist. It was an impulsive move, one of admiration as much as examination, and not until she’d done it did she realize how much she missed touching him so intimately.
Is it possible, she wondered, to forget attraction, or what it feels like to indulge it?
And, perhaps more importantly, why was she suddenly feeling it now, and so strongly? Why did it feel like it was taking every fiber of her being to stop herself from closing her arms around him and pressing her body into his?
Because it was.
The urge to hold him was so strong, so primal, so urgent and intense that it scared her.
She had to be fair – to him, to herself. They weren’t teenagers anymore. They had lives – adult lives – separate lives – with different interests, professions, priorities. She couldn’t subject him to the pressure and scrutiny that came with living in her world: he was content with being in the background these days, with writing and producing and letting others have the spotlight.
Few people knew how selfishly she loved others – in fact, he was the only one who knew. She’d never loved anyone as deeply, as ardently, or as much for as long as she’d loved him.
Suddenly, she felt queasy and light-headed, the muscles across her abdomen constricting painfully with each successive breath. Her chest felt heavy and raw, her thoughts, feelings, needs, and desires tumbling through her, swift and untamed. This is a wakeup call, she realized, her hands hovering over the planes of his back, his smooth, pale, alabaster skin. She felt herself flush hot, then cold, and then hot again, adrenaline soaking through her nerves, her fingertips tingling with anticipation and itching to touch.
“Stacy?” he said softly, his voice slicing through the heaviness of her thoughts. He tilted his head slightly. “Can I thank you yet?”
And, just like that, she snapped out of it, managing to resist temptation, lowering her hands and taking a step back. She summoned every ounce of reserve, pushing the dangerous whirl of thoughts and feelings firmly out of her mind.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she replied.
He turned, the sight of his injuries giving her another much-needed jolt of reality. “What if I want to?” he teased, easing his shirt back over his head.
When she hesitated in response, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Thank you,” he whispered, his breath warm on the shell of her ear.
She simply nodded, curling her arms around him, one hand clutching the back of his (good) shoulder while she traced the curve of his spine with the other.
He exhaled slowly, relaxing into her touch, drawing her body into his own. “Can I stay here tonight?” he murmured.
She swallowed hard. “You know you’re always welcome here,” she answered, working to quell the heat that blossomed in the very core of her being.
He kissed her again, one of his hands rising up into her hair to cradle the back of her head. Time seemed to slow to a standstill as he slowly peeled his body away from hers, as he shifted ever so slightly before leaning back into her, his lips lingering mere inches from hers –
She could see it coming, and she knew she should fight it, but she didn’t – she couldn’t, because she wanted him to kiss her, even though she knew it was wrong. He was hurt, he was delirious – she shouldn’t take advantage of him to satisfy her own desire. She couldn’t let one little kiss conjure up all of her memories and mushy feelings and remembrances of how kind and gentle he was in bed; how patient and loving he’d been their first time, and every time after that; how she’d never had a considerate partner after him, and how much she missed that…and missed him…
She broke away from him, from the kiss, from the intimacy of their embrace. “I should get your things,” she said in a hushed voice, keeping her gaze studiously averted from his. “I’ve cleaned since – the last time you were here.”
He let her go without protest, but it felt like an escape nonetheless as she hurried down the hall to the spare room, her studio, momentarily closing herself into the closet with her washing machine and dryer. She leaned against the door, fighting to catch her breath, to calm her stomach, to settle the warring emotions still rocking through her.
How was it that seeing him hurt had abruptly unlocked all of these feelings? Why did she suddenly feel so protective of him? He was an adult, after all, and he could take care of himself – but for some reason, he’d come to her instead…
Was it possible that he still loved her? He certainly kissed like he did…but what did that even matter? Men were hard-wired with the desire for physical affection – and they’d kissed plenty of times, even just as “friends.”
And it was their friendship that made her feel so confused and wary of this sudden streak of possessiveness, too. Of course it had always troubled her to see him in pain, but this time – this time, there was vengeance in her blood. If she ever met the person who did this to him, they would know quite well what it felt like to be gouged by acrylic fingernails and sharp jewelry.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to relax. Once she’d regained control of herself –and her senses – she pulled out the extra blankets and pillows she’d acquired since Ryan had made her living room sofa his second home.
His second home…
The thought lingered in the back of her mind as she made her way back to the living room. He’d already made himself quite at home, having kicked off his shoes (which joined his hoodie on the floor) and turned on her TV, tuning into something relatively quiet. He was lying on his side, resting his head on a throw pillow, when she appeared.
She couldn’t resist teasing him, knowing well his penchant for being able to sleep anywhere. “Gee, you already look comfortable to me,” she noted dryly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have troubled myself?”
He bestowed his most charming smile upon her. “There’s comfortable, and then there’s comfortable,” he replied, reaching for the blankets that she dangled over him, making a big show out of unfurling and snuggling into them.
“Perfect,” he declared with a satisfied look, smoothing the blankets around himself. “Well, almost.”
“Forget something, did you?” she teased, dropping the pillows directly on his head. She bit back a laugh when he bolted up, sending the pillows flying in all directions.
“I did,” he conceded, tossing the throw pillow to the other end of the sofa as he gathered the bed pillows that had landed on the floor in front of him. “But it’s not these.”
Her heart skipped a beat when he reached for her, his hand closing around hers. “Stay,” he pleaded softly.
She could feel her mirth draining away, those treacherous feelings of uncertainty and desire fast rising within her again. She averted her eyes from his, lowering herself to the floor to pick up a discarded pillow. “I shouldn’t,” she replied somberly.
“Please?”
She clutched the pillow to her chest as he laced his fingers through hers, tracing little circles in the palm of her hand with his thumb, making it hard for her to concentrate on all of the reasons why it would be a bad idea to stay with him…
It was tragic, really, that it had taken something like this to make her realize how she much she still loved him and wanted him and needed him. She’d taken him for granted, because his presence had been steady and constant for the grand majority of her life. She could count on one hand the number of people she knew who could say that they had maintained such a close relationship with an ex:
One.
Her.
Because he was more than just an ex. He’d never been “just” an ex. He’d never be just an ex.
Slowly, she stood, rising to her full height, still holding the pillow tight to her chest. “Okay,” she agreed softly, sliding over to sit beside him. “Maybe for a little while.”
He yawned, and stretched, lowering himself back down on his side, careful to keep his bandaged temple elevated. He adjusted his blankets around himself before resting his hand on her back.
She sat stiffly, trying valiantly to focus with laser-like precision on whatever he was watching (Masterpiece Theater? Of course), to ignore the languid, irregular patterns his fingers were tracing into her side, her hip, her waist, and the way her skin flushed with heat beneath his touch. She knew what he was trying to do, but she was equally determined to not give in to his enticements.
Because if he started something, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.
There’s a reason I don’t watch much public television, she reminded herself as her eyes grew bleary and her mind started to wind down. She didn’t watch much television at all, truth be told, but she really had no patience for slow-moving drama or Merchant Ivory-style period pieces. Still, she fought the urge to slide down beside him, to burrow under the blankets with him for warmth and companionship. She leaned forward instead, hoping to thwart the impulse to nod off, lest she fall completely off the sofa.
Her eyes were almost completely closed when she felt his fingers inching up her back, twining gently into her hair. “Don’t go,” he implored, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Please, not yet.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised to see that he was practically asleep already, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a deepening, regular rhythm. She shifted, reaching out for him, fanning her fingers through his dark, glossy hair. He sighed in response, sinking into the overstuffed cushions, his hold on her slowly slipping away.
She leaned down, curling the hand in his hair into a tight fist as she pressed a light kiss to his cheek, just beyond the juncture where tape met gauze. She rested her forehead against his ear, and finally gave in to the overwhelming waves of emotion that had churned up inside her. She was so tired of fighting her feelings – even if she couldn’t indulge them, maybe she could at least ease them…
She sank down beside him, on top of his blankets, her back to his chest, and curled her body into his. She laid there for as long as she could stand it – long enough for him to sense her presence and wrap his arms around her, bringing her close; long enough for the tension locked between her shoulders to melt away; long enough for her heart to swell and shatter into thousands of tiny pieces at the thought of him being so close, and yet so very far away.
I can’t do this anymore, she realized, tears welling up behind her eyes. I can’t keep pretending that our friendship is enough. It wasn’t – and maybe it never had been – but she hadn’t comprehended it until now, until this very moment, when the last thing she wanted to do was leave him. She wanted to keep him, and to take care of him, and to be there with him, always.
She eased out of his hold, picking herself up from the sofa, her heart as heavy as her footsteps as she left him, alone.
She’d asked him to live with her before, but he’d never actually agreed to do it. Maybe it was because he never thought she was serious; maybe it was because he’d somehow sensed that they were usually half-hearted requests, aimed more at staving off her loneliness rather than satisfying a specific need to be with him.
Would he believe her this time, if she told him the truth – that as sudden and crazy as this all was, she was serious about wanting him as more than just a friend? Would he accept her offer this time?
Could she live with herself if he didn’t?
There was only one way to know for sure.
Few people knew how selfishly she loved – and, in fact, there was only one person in the world who understood her enough to consider forgiving her for it.
She could only hope that it wasn’t too late to find out.