sue dunham

[sue-dunham]

Falling, Catching

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From across the table, FCG says a little too loudly, “You don’t have to kiss and tell.” Everyone goes quiet at that loaded phrase. It implied more than it should. She’s sure FCG didn’t intend it that way, that he meant it in the way they didn’t have to say anything at all. Not that there was something to tell. And in the silence the length of a heartbeat, Imogen hopes that’ll be the end of it. But no.

“Where am I s’pposed to tell Samuel you’re goin’?”

Her father had asked it so plainly, as though he felt obligated to ask. It stopped her dead in her tracks. She stood there in the threshold, the old wooden floors of her childhood home creaking beneath her feet. Her thoughts strayed and she was suddenly fascinated with the floors. She tried to remember the last time they were mopped, much less treated. She couldn't remember.

The alternative to thinking about the floor was to wonder at what he said. Did he ask for himself, because deep down he wants to know where his only child will be?

“In case he comes o’er here and asks,” he adds reading his daughter's mind, for once.

He knew full well that would be unlikely. Imogen had the answer to her question then: her father just had to say one more loaded, harsh thing before she leaves. He wanted to remind her that she’s not really leaving anyone behind in this town. She hated herself for having wondered at all. She should’ve kept her thoughts on the floor. The finish had long since peeled away. It was starting to splinter.

It wasn’t frustration or bitterness that made Imogen fail to turn around one last time. Those feelings had faded away a long time ago. It was because she knew what to expect and that was not to expect anything. Their difficult, distant, fraught relationship was made clear over the years. A “one last time” wouldn’t do anything for anyone.

“He won’t,” was all she said as she left.

                                                         _________

That was the last time she had thought of Sam, and even then it wasn't really about him. Her relationship with Sam was something she tried not to think about too often. She didn’t want to assign more meaning to it than it deserved. They were just kids. She had come to think of their time together as fun but superficial. Pretend, like playing house. It was similar to the way small children pretended to marry each other and call each other husband and wife. The children won’t remember it in a week and certainly not when they get older. They won’t grow up to call each other “ex-husband” and “ex-wife”. She felt the same way about Sam.

She didn't mean it unkindly. She enjoyed the flirtations in the stables, and some of the memories of what he said to her back then still make her blush. If anything, she wished it was a little more serious, if only to say she had more experience with romance in her life. She laid no claim to him and had no desire to; their flame had fizzled out a long time ago. She didn’t regret their time together and she wasn’t sorry it ended. She genuinely wished him well. She meant that when FCG and the ladies asked her, despite their jokes about making sure he was still single. At least she hoped they were joking.

She knows why she didn’t mention him when they were all together in the manor of Lord Eshteross. Her friends asked at lot of questions about the date then. Interrogated, really. She knew she had nothing she needed to be embarrassed or defensive about, but she hated how she felt the need to explain herself. She’s exhausted from the date and it hasn’t even happened yet.

                                                        _________

When they return to the Spire by Fire, Orym is the first to ask. “How did it go?”

Laudna takes the lead, talking about how charming he was, how they laughed and had a good time. How the Lauders Not Otters were better this time around. Imogen quietly slips into seat at the table beside Orym.

“Yeah, it really was,” she mumbles to him quietly. “They didn’t fall.”

“Just depends on the audience, you know?”

“Yeah.” With her eyes, she begs him not to ask anything else about the date. She would rather not have to speak that request into his mind but she will if she has to. “I think so.”

He seems to understand her instinctively anyway because he just nods. “You know how it is, often, with the matinee.”

From across the table, FCG says a little too loudly, “You don’t have to kiss and tell” and everyone goes quiet at that loaded phrase. It implied more than it should. She’s sure FCG didn’t intend it that way, that he meant it in the way they didn’t have to say anything at all. Not that there was something to tell.

Orym tenses a little and she can hear his thoughts. An apology. Sorry, Imogen. Guess we’re doing this.

She sees Ashton’s eyes getting wide and the sides of their mouth raises into a smirk. Good for them. Cheers.

She watches Chetney twist his face up in confusion. Was it all three? At the same time?

She can feel Dorian twitch. Oh.

And in the silence the length of a heartbeat, Imogen hopes that’ll be the end of it.

But no.

“He turned us down!” Laudna exclaims with a smile and giggle.

Orym doesn’t smile. He hardly moves at all.

And Ashton’s eyes widen as they lean back in their chair. “Holy shit.”

And Chetney is still confused, maybe more confused. “What?”

But Dorian grins. Wide. Then wider. He looks surprised. Amused, even. “What?!”

Imogen purses her lips, looks over shoulder at the bar. “Yeah, he wasn’t into it,” she mutters quietly to no one in particular. Gods, she needs a drink. She wonders if she can get up from the table without it looking like she’s fleeing this conversation.

Laudna, for some reason, starts to explain the manner in which they were rejected. Politely. How he respected them, how he thought they were beautiful and the most captivating women, but—

Dorian and Chetney start laughing.

“I know! I know, all right?!” Imogen snaps.

“Yes! Yes, of course. Of course,” Dorian is beaming now, leaning on the table, his cheek in his palm. “Definitely not—”

“You were rejected. Told you so. Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t worry, it was definitely not because you’re a grown woman whose never been on a date before. Definitely not because you’re a weird, intrusive thought invader. Definitely not because you’re uninteresting. Because you’re just not pretty enough. Not desirable.” Is that it? Did I miss something? Is that what I did wrong, Dorian? Just say it plain. No need to couch the insult in your usual tedious sarcasm.

The last thing she wants to do right now is inadvertently start a telepathic connection, and she reins herself in from sharing her venomous, ungenerous thoughts. The truth is that she doesn’t want to know what he thinks. She doesn’t want to hear the answers to the questions in her head. This is exactly what she was trying to avoid. Isn’t that what she had said just a few hours earlier?

He and Chetney were saying something else. Laughter. She wasn’t listening, not until she hears Dorian say: “And to think, between the three of you, you’ve got so many different types. Not a single one of you?”

Type? What type does he think she is? No. No, no, no. She doesn't want to know. At this point, she really doesn't.

Orym is leaning forward and looking up at Imogen now, trying to see her face. Her expression. She wonders what he saw, because he looks at Dorian next and his expression is… odd. It's… well, it's a look that could almost be mistaken for pity. For Dorian. What the fuck is up with that?

“I mean, wow. All those choices, and not one?!”

“Well okay, Dorian,” FCG says gently.

“I’m just teasing! I’m teasing!” Dorian says, leaning forward, waving his hands. “Everyone teases me. I get to tease every once and a while, right?”

“You do. You’re doing great,” Fearne says sweetly and, unless Imogen was imagining it, slightly caustically.

The table laughs and she laughs with them as she processes that. She wonders if it’s the same. She thinks of the times she’s teased him, thinks of all the times she’s called him “Prince Dorian”. He’s made it clear he doesn’t enjoy it and it was wrong of her to keep teasing him about it. She can admit that. She’d meant it… oh, she didn’t know how she meant it. The plain truth was that she said it to have his attention, even if it was just for a few seconds. Even if he scoffed and cringed and begged her to stop. Just like when Sam would tug at her braids.

Then she stops laughing, because she realizes… no. It’s not the same. Her teasing was different: a jest at what he has. It was a joke about how even if he didn’t want it, he still had something that many people did. Wealth. Privilege. Nobility. Whatever those Wyvernwind fancy lads were.

Instead, he’s joking about what she lacks. That’s the difference. That’s what makes it cruel.

But I can see how you think these things don’t matter to anybody, she thinks as her gaze hardens, because these things don’t happen to anybody like you.

She felt a little embarrassed when Pretty rejected them outside the theater. Relieved mostly, but also a little self-conscious. Now that word wasn’t strong enough. She can feel each freckle on her face. She hides the thin lavender veins of glowing electrical energy running up and down her arms by folding them across her chest. She was never exactly in excess of confidence, but now she's humbled. That's for certain.

There’s a word for that, she reminds herself. Humiliated.

“Well, I’m glad he didn’t string you along,” Orym says to her quietly, drawing her attention back.

She smiles at his kindness but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s true.”

“I’m glad… I’m glad you had fun,” Dorian adds, barely audible over the sound of her heartbeat in her ears.

“He was quite the gentleman,” she says softly but pointedly. She’s not looking at him. Not at any of them. "And we got a delicious meal out of it!" she adds with enthusiasm she doesn't feel. Her attempt at levity makes her voice waver a little. She swears she can feel Dorian recoil, like she just slapped him across the face.

Hells, she wants to. The emotion welling in her makes her skin crawl, makes her mind open against her will. She clenches her teeth, making sure not to look at him, not even in her periphery. She can’t bear to hear a single thought of his, not today, not even on accident.

Instead, she hears a cacophony of strangers’ voices in her head. There aren’t many patrons left in the bar but their thoughts contain the typical chaos of people awake at the dead-of-night and they reverberate so loudly in her skull that it feels as if they’re her own.

Ha! Not what you expected, huh?

That was a mistake.

This stupid bitch—

Wow, you’re such a lightweight.

Maybe just one more.

Whoa, feeling dizzy. Maybe I shouldn’t blink. Or think.

Oh, grow up.

Nah, I’m fine. Gotta give it time to adjust. It’s just the stars leaving my eyes.

                                                        _________

Her heartbeat was finally starting to settle as she walked back with her friends to the cable car. She has taken that godsforsaken transportation so many times today that she was starting to agree with Laudna that yeah, a fast pass might be nice.

They’re walking through the details of their infiltration plans but she’s only half-listening. She can’t stop thinking about Dorian and that alone makes her irritated. His behavior tonight hasn’t exactly made himself worthy of occupying her thoughts. What's been his problem? He’s been acting so strangely. Like a real ass, frankly. He's not normally like this. Though truthfully, how would she know what he's "normally like"?

He’s a sweetheart. She said that to Laudna. She feels embarrassed to even think about that now. It was a bold thing to say considering that she’s only known Dorian for a short amount of time. Now all the harsh words he’s said keep bouncing around her head. Nothing about what he said or how he acted tonight has been sweet. Is that what's really in his heart? The longer she thinks about it, the more nauseous she feels.

She knows that the reason it hurts is because she really likes Dorian. Maybe it would have felt different if the things he said came from someone else. Maybe because his unkindness feels so much like a rejection and she’s not a stranger to being a recipient of either. Maybe because he’s made it crystal clear now that he finds the very idea of her being on a date ludicrous, a joke in and of itself. He doesn’t feel any of the tenderness that she feels; though all she feels right now is foolish.  

That’s not his fault. She can't blame him for that and she doesn't. He’s not obligated to like her, and in no way required to return the affection that was blooming in her heart. She had her expectations raised without even realizing it. She exhales slowly realizing that part, at least, was on her.

As they’re walking down the streets to courtyards, they spot a Warden looking at the group. Eyeing them suspiciously. Fearne, sweet thing, immediately pretends to be drunk. Okay, so that's the tactic they're going with then. She immediately looks for Dorian.

It wasn’t because she suddenly stopped being disappointed or hurt. Those wounded feelings were still there, still raw. She turns to him because she knew he’d help her, fall into whatever role she asks him to play without question. Their companionship was still brand new but… they’ve done well a team so far. They play pretend well together. She hopes - but won't expect - that it stays that way. That this will be just one more time. One more time of many.

So she looks behind her, an eyebrow raised in silent question. He smiles back and her heart beats faster again, different than before. Better. Lighter.

“Drama club,” he mouths with a wink.

[sue-dunham]

Trills

Read on: AO3

The date only became real to him once the ladies said they actually wanted to go. Not that he wanted Pretty to be stood up, it’s just… They’re talking about bathing and getting ready. They keep mentioning ‘the date’ so often that at this point it was becoming capitalized. The Date. They’re making it sound like it’s a really important night in their lives. Like it’s suddenly a “first day of the rest of my life” kind of day.

“Is it time for our date?”

Laudna sounds so delighted as she asks Imogen that Dorian tries not to sigh too audibly.

It’s nearing the golden hour and the pair are across the room, standing together by the window in Lord Eshteross’ manor. The fading light casts a soft pink glow onto Imogen’s skin and hair, drawing attention to the pretty dots scattered across her cheeks, the lovely indigo glow of electricity in her veins. She is all warm pastels, like the inside of his cloak.

Imogen pats her friend’s hand gently, “We still have time.”

“Should we freshen up?”

Imogen laughs at that, a little tension in her voice. Is she… Is she actually nervous for this date? What is there to be anxious about?

When he heard that Imogen asked Pretty out on a date, it barely registered. He’s had a lot on his mind the past few days. She’s said a lot of things to get what they needed from someone. Hell, they both have. Wasn’t it just another distraction tactic? A ploy to buy time for the infiltration team?

The date only became real to him once the ladies said they actually wanted to go. Not that he wanted Pretty to be stood up, it’s just… They’re talking about bathing and getting ready. They keep mentioning ‘the date’ so often that at this point it was becoming capitalized. The Date. They’re making it sound like it’s a really important night in their lives. Like it’s suddenly a “first day of the rest of my life” kind of day.

“Oh, we’re fine!” Fearne exclaims, fluffing her hair like feathers in a pillow.

He’s glad Fearne says it because Laudna and Imogen quickly agree with her and stop any further talk of getting ‘made up’. Now Dorian can stop wondering what Imogen could possibly do to look more beautiful than she does right now, lit from behind by the setting sun.

He sighs again, this time in gratitude that The Date is still two hours away. It will be dark outside by then.

                                                        __________

FCG has consistently demonstrated himself as a student of life. His curiosity is something Dorian finds most appealing about him, the most relatable. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when FCG asks, in his enthusiastic way, “What do you… What do you… Uh, what do you ladies like to do on dates? Like what’s your… Your ideal date?”

But he is surprised and he can’t help but look at Chetney, as if to ask: What the fuck is this?

“What everybody does, I think,” Fearne answers.

FCG prompts her, “Which is what? I don’t really know.”

“Dancing and eating and…” Fearne giggles mischievously. “So many things.”

Everyone laughs at that but even as Dorian laughs with them, he decides he's not going think about that at all.

“How about you, Imogen?”

“Oh. Uh…” She pauses for what seems like eternity before she shakes her head and shrugs.

“Have you been on a date before?” FCG prods.

“Uh…” She stands up from where she was leaning against the windowsill and looks away from the group, her face in profile. He swears her cheeks glow a deeper pink. As if she’s blushing. At the memory of a former lover? That’s the case, surely.

But she’s still quiet and Chetney breaks the silence by saying simply, “Oh, shit.”

“Oh. No?”

“No,” she says.

Dorian can’t believe it. He’s not calling her a liar, but he finds that hard to believe. She grew up in a small town, sure, but you’d think that would just make it more obvious how striking she is. He wasn’t talking about the electricity, though he’s sure that aspect of her certainly could spark interest on its own. He meant that he couldn’t see how anyone could meet Imogen and not want to spend more time with her.

“Oh, are you… Are you bashful about that?” FCG asks.

“No. About—Bashful about what not being on a date?”

“Or, you know, going on date?”

“Um… Y’know… No! It’s just, uh…” She folds her arms across her chest, her defensive position. “Like, y’know it’s… it’s hard to find someone who, y’know, if you’re on a date… It’s just that one person and you’re reading their mind and you know all the things that you’re doing wrong.”

“Oh, you can hear,” FCG says, so softly, so sympathetically that it was almost as if he was imagining exactly what Dorian was imagining: A teenage Imogen, her hair braided over one shoulder. She’s sitting on top of a split-rail fence, talking to a nameless, faceless boy. She’s swinging her feet, laughing and smiling, when she hears it – Imogen is fun, but she doesn’t exactly win a ribbon at the Fair – and the smile slowly, painfully, fades from her face.

“It gets really uncomfortable, y’know? Plus, y’know, people think you’re weird and then… they don’t…”

They don’t think she’s pretty? They don’t want to talk to her? They don’t ask her on a date? They don’t want to see her again? They don’t want to be in a relationship with her?

They don’t. That’s what she’s saying.

They don’t know the mistake they’ve made.

He wishes she was reading his mind right then, because he’d never be brave enough to say something like that out loud; too cliché, too cheesy. Worse, she might think he’s being insincere.

The ones who had rude things to say about her only thought it and didn’t say it, but he wanted to say something kind and only thought it.

Maybe that makes him worse.      

                                                       __________

All the party have their eyes on The Date. Lord Eshteross has given them a golden opportunity for their mission, but they talk about picking up tomorrow instead.

“Seems more important than a date with an ogre kitchen guy...” FCG muses quietly.

“Thank you,” Dorian emphasizes. “The cook man was nice, but—”

He instantly regrets saying anything. He catches a glimpse of Imogen's expression and flinches; she’s blinking at him, surprised and a little offended. Her head tilts in a way that expressed not just confusion but… he doesn’t know. Almost like she’s disappointed. He immediately looks away, scratching absentmindedly at his face.

“He was very sweet,” she says clearly, forcefully. “You didn’t spend a lot of time talking to him, but the whole time you were back there we were having a conversation.”

Dorian tries really hard not to roll his eyes and he barely succeeds. Pretty shoved him back at the Soot and Swill, that’s not exactly sweet behavior, now is it? He’s seconds away from saying something he’ll regret, something fueled by his impatience, his irritation, his really bad day. He feels the words bubbling inside him, nearly pouring out.

Yeah. Sure. Great. Happy for you. Tell me all about that conversation. Why’s he ‘sweet’? What’d he say that made you so charmed by him? How’d he do it? What’s his secret?

He opts to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek instead.

“You really think you’ve found your soulmate?” FCG asks, his voice chipper and curious. “All three of you and this ogre?”

What, now we’re talking about soulmates? It shocks him, startles him, makes him angry how quickly he feels… Gods, what even is this frustrating, irrational feeling? Defensiveness? Possessiveness? Over what?

The ladies are a chorus of gentle denials, of course. “It’s about company,” Launda corrects him. “It’s about being kind.”

That’s it. It’s the kindness Imogen has shown him. That’s what it is – nothing more than that. She has always been kind to him. She was one of the few who shared his genuine grief at the loss of Bertrand. Now with his brother’s situation, she has consistently tried to put his mind at ease, to comfort him. Even when he is paralyzed with fear, she is always trying to come up with a plan.

The conversation with Artana Vho was a disaster and that’s why he's been “distracted” all day. He told her - an infamous bounty hunter - all about himself and his brother. Yeah, he’s the ‘talker’ of the party indeed.

If Imogen’s empathy is a light, it'd be really nice if she would shine its warmth on him today. Isn’t that where his ridiculous feelings of exasperation are coming from? A pitiful attempt to hoard her attention and compassion?

Even thinking it is absurd. She so easily, so readily shows kindness to all of them. She is clearly sweet to Laudna, her strange half-dead friend. Ashton is blunt, rough-around-the-edges and FCG is frankly over-curious most of the time but she’s been nothing but kind to them. She treats Fearne and Orym as though she’s known them as long as he has. She’s even been gentle with their new, strange gnome friend. Dorian isn’t special. He’s not. So why would her showing kindness to Pretty be any different? It’s not any different.

But his mouth betrays him as he asks, “Can we make it a speed date?”

Ashton nods, seems to think the ladies should just get The Date over with; they seem as impatient to finish this endless conversation as Dorian is. “Go on the fucking date so we can go back and drink in the near fucking future,” they say with intensity. Well, Dorian can agree with that. Just go on the date and come back. Hurry it up.

“Yeah but what if… what if we fall head over hooves with him?!” Fearne exclaims.

Dorian refuses to entertain that idea for even a second. “What if it’s a terrible date? Two of you have never actually been on one before!”

Well, that makes two things now that he wishes he hadn’t said, especially when he looks at Imogen. Her lips parting and closing, parting and closing, like she wants to retort with something but struggles to know what to say. Truly, she should demand an apology for having her vulnerable admission of romantic inexperience immediately thrown back in her face. He knows he’s being insufferable and the longer this conversation drags on, the more he’s regretting his words. He wants to walk away. To cool down. Can he do that please?

“There’s no expectations placed on this,” Ashton says. “I think it’s just a good time for everybody.”

He feels Orym’s eyes bore into his skull. He doesn’t need to be able to magically read thoughts to know what Orym’s thinking - he has a wide, shit-eating grin on his face, his eyes glowing with amusement. His thoughts are obvious. Yeah, it’s just a good time. Aren’t you having a good time, Dorian?

“It’s the end of the work day,” Orym says, turning to Imogen.

“So, now’s the time to go visit her!” she insists.

“I mean, maybe.”

“She’ll be wanting to get done with everything and then we can like… jump in and she’ll be like, try to, y’know, ‘Fine, let’s talk really fast,’ and she might give something away.”

“So, we’ll just quickly rattle the information out of her, find this person, wrap it up quick before your date.” Orym isn’t looking at any of the ladies as he says it. He’s staring straight at him. Dorian knows what this is – a bait, a challenge, but he falls headfirst into it anyway.  

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be done in time,” he sneers.

That makes it the third stupid fucking thing he’s said tonight. As the smile on Imogen’s face slowly drops, so does the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

                                                       __________

On the walk back to the cable car he’s quiet as his friends talk and he has a moment to be honest with himself. He hasn’t really addressed this feeling he’s had all day. He doesn’t have a name for it. It’s like dread, except he wants to keep it. It’s as if something is just out of reach but he’s staring at it from far away. It’s like a trill from his flute, this strange quavering vibration his veins. It feels like… he doesn’t know how to describe how it feels except that it’s too much and that it makes him frustrated. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He also knows that it’s ridiculous of him to think his opinion about The Date matters. He doesn’t get a say. Who they see, what they do, where they go, how they spend their time… it’s their own business. The Date has absolutely nothing to do with him. It’s not about him. He’s an adult for fuck’s sake, but he’s acting like a sulky, spoiled…

And then it hits him: Childish.

That’s not the right word for how he’s feeling, but it’s certainly accurate for how he’s behaving.

When he steps into the car, the shame rides with him. He wants to apologize to Imogen because even though he’s said rude things about The Date in general, they always seemed to be directed at her. The two of them are almost never alone though, always surrounded by their friends. It doesn’t matter. He knows that even if they were alone, he wouldn’t know what to say. Wouldn’t know how to even begin explaining himself.

In the reflection of the cable car window he can see Imogen sitting, her eyes clenched shut, gripping FCG’s hand tight. He hears her quietly whispering to herself: Pasture, fence, Flora, sunshine… Pasture, fence, Flora, sunshine… Pasture, fence, Flora, sunshine…

She has always tried to help him. Why has he never tried to help her? He wants to. He wants to be the one talking her through her fears, the reason she sighs in relief at the end of a cable car ride, the one holding her hand—

He feels the shame sink deeper, settle in and wedge there.

It’s something unrestrainable, something desperate, this feeling he has. About that, at least, he’s certain.