warnings: angst, grammatical errors probably, overuse of commas because i love them, random guy named "Joe" for narrative purposes, inaccurate depiction of matches
word count: 2.4k
note: i am so unsure of this, it's been in my drafts for months and i need it out. also sue me if bordering-on-bad 2000s music inspires me. much love.
✧ ✧ ✧
By 2 a.m. most patrons have cleared out of the bar, just one or two regulars lingering until close. On weeknights like this, the last hour or so of her shift provides something of a wind-down period, all small talk with polite regulars and wistful country tunes filling the empty space.
It’s sickeningly down-home, this sad, painfully reliable routine. Still, she goes through the motions: closing tabs, counting cash, wiping tables. The seconds ooze by like molasses, making her fingers go buzzy with every tick closer to the end of her shift.
Eventually, the time comes to bid her final patron goodnight; he's another gruff rancher offering to walk her out, shaming her boss for putting a ‘pretty young lady’ like her on the closing shift all alone. She reminds him that it’s nothing new, insists she’s got it under control, and locks the door behind him as he stumbles out into the dirt parking lot.
She has to make a concerted effort not to scan the remaining vehicles as she ushers the last customer out.
Can’t be disappointed in something you aren’t hoping for.
Of course, though, she is. Hoping.
This little gamble at the end of her shift is the only uncertainty in her mathematically predictable routine.
Half the thrill is the build up before she steps out into the lot. In these last moments before the fate of her night is determined, her heart beats a little faster and her cheeks burn a little hotter. She’s all nerves and anticipation, trying hard not to expect too much.
Not to want too much.
She takes her time closing the register and cutting lights. If he’s there, the waiting will drive him up a wall and give her an edge on him she rarely has.
If he’s not, she’s buying herself enough time for the lot to clear out so she can bask in her disappointment away from prying eyes.
She inhales sharply, bracing before finally shoving the door open. The freezing night air clashes with the flush of her face, jolting her into a state of acute awareness. She feels her eyes dart back and forth, glassy from the cold and almost frantic, immediately embarrassed by the pang of disappointment that jabs at her ribs. Immediately, she forces herself into motion, setting off toward her car with little regard for anything else than leaving as fast as possible.
She hates herself in moments like this, when she’s failed at the charade of nonchalance; when she puts on a show for no one but herself. Inner monologue berating and vision cloudy, her feet thud heavily into the loose dirt, throwing up small puffs of dust with every trudge toward her car. Her whole body feels hot and she's too aware of her clothes touching her skin. Her throat is tight and her chest pulls like a rubber band one careless move away from snapping. If she can just manage to get into the vehicle, she’ll allow herself some release, but only in the confines of her own space. She’s padding quicker and breathing harsher and—
And then two worn-out boots come into view. It’s only now that she realizes she’s been staring at the ground, finding herself following the lines of his legs up, taking in his leaning figure slant against her driver’s side door.
Rhett Abbott.
He dips just slightly, so their eyes meet before she’s looked up fully.
Snap.
Her body buzzes, stomach somewhere between a pit and a series of flutters. She’s a live wire, her disappointment diffusing into warmth intense enough to combat her brisk surroundings.
“Hey there, Stranger,” He drawls through a lazy smile.
Her own face relaxes into a grin, matching his. She knows this smile. Paired with the uncharacteristic way he has his hands haphazardly shoved into his pockets and his gently swaying frame, he reads totally at ease. She likes him like this, with his guard down. It’s a rare moment of levity, usually indicating he’s nursing a buzz—or tired enough that he might as well be.
“Hey there.”
“Got room for a lonesome cowboy?” It comes out clunky and rushed, almost like a laugh.
It’s so endearing, she almost swoons.
Almost.
It occurs to her then that he’s there sans truck. The prospect worries and intrigues her in the same beat. On the nights she walks out to find him waiting, idling, and the parking lot deserted, their night begins and ends there. Occasionally, usually when his mood is grim and he’s looking to ditch familiarity, they’ll move their little rendezvous to her car. When he’s like this, though, untethered and almost giddy, he tends to stick around a while. She flushes at the idea.
Abandoning the banter out of pure curiosity, she asks, “Did you walk?”
His smile devolves into a crooked grin so dramatically she can actually see his jaw go slack, “Oh, yeah, yeah. Just me and the tumbleweeds for ten or so miles.”
She sucks her teeth, unimpressed.
“Alright, alright,” he pulls his hands out of his pockets and puts them up, feigning defense, “I had Joe drop me.”
“Hm. That mean you got thrown out?”
Finally, she’s over the initial shock of seeing him and able to fall back into their rhythm. Trading laughs. Never serious enough to get complicated.
Entirely casual.
He laughs again, casting his gaze to the boot he’s raking across the gravel, “Nah, nah. Just wasn’t ready to end the night just yet.” His eyes flicker to hers, betraying something more.
Her heart droops a bit then, at the way he never really crosses that line, toeing it just enough to coax her over it.
She clicks her key, unlocking the car with a sudden beep, shattering any lingering implications.
Making a move toward her door and prompting Rhett to stand upright, she quips, “You’re lucky to have me, Abbott.”
He shakes his head. That’s what she calls him when things veer a little too close to earnest.
Opening her door with another faint laugh, quietly he says, “Oh, I know it.”
The drive barely registers in her mind, too focused on breathing steadily and finding relief in every mile marker that passes and Rhett is still in the seat next to her. It isn’t until the orange light of Main Street comes into view that she allows herself to believe she isn’t having some sort of sleep-deprived delusion.
It’s pathetic, her ability to read so much into so little; to revel in next to nothing. Still, her heartbeat quickens with every mile closer to her apartment. No sudden movements and they can exist in this curated indifference a bit longer.
Her apartment is dark, save for the yellow street light filtering in through gauzy curtains. She steps in first, nervous, and he crowds in quickly behind her. He’s so close that his front grazes against her with every shift.
She shrugs off her coat.
Brush.
Lets her purse fall on the table.
Sweep.
They're like matches, trying to catch just right.
His breath is hot on her neck, and in the fragile calm she can hear it, too. Soft and even, clashing against her heartbeat in her ears. Giving in to the flutter in her chest, she relaxes back into him.
Strike.
For the first time that night, he's propelling things. Frantic hands and jagged breaths. His mouth is on hers before she can even turn all the way toward him.
It’s a mess of stumbles and tugged hair and stretched clothes, breadcrumbing all the way into the doorway of her room.
₊⊹
Maybe it’s a disturbance in the air, or the first tinges of pink flittering over her eyes, but she wakes with a jolt. Usually she’s restless on nights like this, hesitant to drift off and find that Rhett has slipped out before she wakes up. Tonight, though, she felt easy in his presence—so comfortable it's put her off a bit.
Her unease is the only things cutting through her stupor. With sleep still clouding her eyes, she lets her hand rake up the sheets next to her. Her fingers disturb the fabric, unobstructed, sweeping over nothing but cold pleats.
Her stomach twists so violently that the accompanying wave of nausea sends her catapulting upright. All at once, she feels clammy and disoriented, trapped under the sheets she’s suddenly too aware of. It was stupid to let her guard down, to settle in, to expect too much.
Like this time was going to be any different?
Needing to be anywhere but there, she peels the sheets back, kicking them off and fumbling around the room for something with a little more coverage. She lets her eyes dart around the space as she stuffs her arms into a sweater, a concerted effort to look at anything but the bed.
She considers for a moment locking herself in the bathroom, showering her previous indiscretions away. And, while the idea of vicious scrubbing and scalding water is tempting, she’s a little too defeated to commit to it. Instead, she settles for a splash of cool water on her face, not bothering to flick the lights on and avoiding the mirror.
Her eyes feel sore and the tension building behind her temples makes her face tight. Her brain feels like it’s ricocheting off her skull, her head a mess of dull thuds. God, she needs to sleep. It’s been a long day.
Just sleep.
That’s all.
She blinks away any looming thoughts, trying hard to look through her clouding vision and swallow the tugging in her throat. The pang in her chest doesn’t go as easily.
Water.
The shift is atmospheric crossing the threshold into the untainted still of the living room. The hardwood floor is cold against her bare feet and the room is still cool in the muted tones of early morning. Every conscious breath alleviates some of the tightness in her chest, affording her some composure, inch by inch. The coming days will be hell, she’s sure. It’ll be days of keeping her head down, pretending she’s fine, and saving her well-mannered, well-timed tears for the privacy of her apartment. For now, cold water and Tylenol to soothe her back to sleep will suffice. If she lets her mind linger too long, she’ll lose any ground she’s gained—so she sniffles and tamps it down, clearing the haze as she makes the final stride into the kitchen.
She stops so quickly in her tracks that her upper body teeters a bit over her staunchly planted feet.
There he is in front of her, braced against the island, head low. Her lungs turn to concrete in her chest as she assesses his slouched figure, innumerably grateful that he’s turned away from her. She combs her eyes over him, studying his bare back, the expanse of it washed blue by the blooming light.
He’s half dressed, bare feet and shirt discarded somewhere out of sight. From the way his jeans hang looser than usual and belt straps fall to the side unclasped, she can’t imagine those are done up either.
Like he got caught mid-escape.
Her throat is a little too thick to manage words, at least any with conviction, so she settles for an obnoxious throat clearing instead.
His head whips around to her as if on cue, his body straightening up to meet her a few seconds later. She tries her best to look expectant, demanding and unimpressed—hell, at this point she'd settle for indifferent—by his typical behavior.
She hopes the way she folds her arms tightly across her chest, stretching every fiber of available fabric over her, conveys a bit more of a What are you still doing here? than a Why can’t I keep you here?
But she can feel her lip quiver and her resolve along with it.
She's wrought with the same tension that has plagued her since the day she met him. Like her skeleton is connected by a string of knots rather than flesh, tied too tight and fraying. Looking at him now, eyes brimming and breaths escaping her, she can't help but feel she's given him something she never really offered, betraying herself countless times for his sake.
He's standing directly in front of her, eyes fixed on her so intently she can feel his gaze even as her vision blurs in and out. His shoulders are drawn tight, physically pent up. The rising and falling of his chest is pronounced enough that she can measure each breath.
The observation catches in her throat, air sputtering out of her as she lets herself deflate, finally. Her cheeks have gone tacky, tears dripping where they've been left undisturbed. She doesn't move. Doesn't turn away or look down or wipe any of it away.
For the first time, Rhett's attention is unwavering. He's watching her, his face twisting into something she can't quite discern. It's enough to knock the wind out of her all over again.
They're both still, caught in the briefest of phases, blue light slowly leaching out of the room, chased out by dawn.
Somehow, this is the most honest they've ever been with each other. Breaths slowing, faces settling, unraveling.
He opens his mouth then clamps it shut just as quickly like he's searching for the courage to say something. His brows pull together thoughtfully, his eyes narrow then dilate, he swallows thickly. Her chest swells ever so slightly, threatening to send her senses back into a frenzy. They're so close to something tangible, she can taste it.
For a beat, their locked eyes mimic the synchronization of their breaths.
In.
Out.
Then, as a ray of intruding sun catches his eye just right, he blinks it away, letting his gaze fall to his feet with a slight shake of his head. Gone as abruptly as it came, any clarity seems to retreat from the moment. They stay focused there for just a moment before he straightens up.
His face is caught somewhere in a half-shadow, partially impeded on by the intensifying morning light. He's gone rigid again; she can see it in the way his shoulders have rolled back and his lips have pulled tight, unrecognizable from just moments before.
He manages to quickly fix his wide eyes into that fawning non-smile he does so well. His shoulders deflate, as if assuming position.
Irrelevant probably but I think timkon would be into some arthurian knight style roleplay. Kon asks Tim for his favor before a fight. They both start breathing heavy and shooting each other significant looks. No one else can tell if this is a bit. They desperately hope it's a bit.
I'm gonna be so real I don't think Susie's eating habits are indicative of her home life, I think Tricky Tony just thinks eating things that aren't food is funny. This is a game where you eat moss off the ground.
