Fic: ER, "Distance Between"
Mar. 30th, 2009 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anxietygrrl(Wrote this during my LJ sabbatical, thought I'd post it here just to keep everything in one place.)
Title: "Distance Between"
Fandom: ER
Characters/Pairing: Ray/Neela
Word Count: ~2500
Rating: T
Completed: 03/17/09
Spoilerish for S15
Thanks:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jesshelga and kirbyfest
On November first she wakes at half-past ten, hours later than she likes to on her Saturdays off. She malingers in bed for another twenty minutes, headachy and melancholy and cross with herself for sleeping half the day away.
If she were at the hospital, she could focus on concrete, important, impersonal things. As it is, there's nothing to divert her from dwelling on the night before. She worries over possible missteps. She wonders if she came off as too needy, or too distant; if there was something else she might or should have said. She feels foolish even as she recycles events in her head, again and again, as if it had been some kind of a...some kind of first date.
She's clumsy and distractible as she runs her errands. She spills her coffee on the El platform—no one even bumps into her—and it splashes all over her shoes. She leaves half her groceries at the Jewel and has to go back for them, only to realize when she gets home that she's forgotten to buy bread. Maybe it's better she's not treating patients today after all.
She blinks away details of how it felt to be so close; the way he held her, the way he smelled, the way her arms hung heavy at her sides as he kissed her goodnight. She blames him for confusing her, him and the strange new deliberateness about him, not just in how he moved, but in how he was. At least a dozen times she thinks of calling him, ready to demand, 'See you soon? See you soon? What does that mean?'
She decides to clean her apartment, and to accompany her she makes an impromptu playlist from her classical music folder, hours of shuffle with nothing to remind her of Ray. She dusts to Beethoven, vacuums to Mahler, and scours the kitchen to The Magic Flute. She's scrubbing the toilet to Phillip Glass when she admits to herself, in a moment of clarity that borders on epiphany, that she doesn't like Phillip Glass and never has.
The bleach starts to go to her head, so she sits on the couch and sips a glass of water. She looks at the clock and wonders if he's left town yet.
She'd been so glad to see him, that's all. She's so glad he's doing so well.
She wonders if 'in a good place' is a polite way of saying 'I've outgrown you now.'
He shifts in his aisle seat, adjusts the air, switches on the light so he can read, and then switches it off again when he can't concentrate. The businessman in the window seat is snoring, the in-flight entertainment sucks, and he has nothing to do but think about last night. He doesn't know why he can't just put it away, because he's pretty sure—like, ninety-nine per cent—that he did the right thing.
He'd just wanted to see her, hang out, whatever. Talk to her. Make her laugh. Show her he has his shit together. No pressure, no expectations. He hadn't come with any intention of opening that door.
He hadn't expected to find it still standing open anyway, or for her to nudge it even further. And then there he was, as always, stumbling through.
But he'd caught himself, and just in time. Maybe he could have stayed, and maybe it would have been...
He closes his eyes, and scratches the back of his neck.
It doesn't matter how soft her hair was, or how she'd leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. It doesn't matter how she'd smiled at him, or that sometimes, in her eyes, he thought he'd seen something he'd always wanted to see. It doesn't even matter what she'd said, because no matter what she says, there's always a roomful of other things she doesn't say.
But he doesn't need to hear them now. She's got her life. He's got his head on straight.
He'd made the right call.
He thinks...he knows he probably could have stayed.
There's an outside chance he's actually the stupidest man alive.
When the flight attendant comes by with the trash, as he hands her his Coke can he asks her how long until they land in Baton Rouge. She says, "Oh, we're about halfway home."
Yeah, that sounds about right.
She nearly buys him a coat at Macy's after-Christmas sale. A real, proper, grown-up coat, in a wool-cashmere blend. It's not quite an impulse, but it's something less than planned. Just a silly idea that's been in the back of her mind since the fall, when she noticed him still carting around that same worn-out jacket he's had at least as long as she's known him.
She walks past the men's department on the way to make her returns; circles round a few times as she browses marked down sweaters and accessories. After about an hour of glancing over and internal debate, she looks up from a pair of gloves and finds herself right across the aisle from outerwear. And, well. It wouldn't do any harm just to look.
At first nothing seems right. The salesman sees her frowning and approaches. She demurs, but he's persistent. "Can you tell me a little about who you're shopping for?"
She feels herself flush with embarrassment, and says firmly, "I'm just browsing, really. Thank you."
She turns to go, ready to abandon the whole ridiculous enterprise, and that's when she sees it hanging on the wall. Single breasted, with a classic silhouette that's just modern enough not to look like a banker's or a lawyer's coat. Three-quarter length. Charcoal grey so dark it's almost black. It looks very soft, and very expensive, and both impressions are confirmed when she picks up the sleeve to read the tag.
It's too expensive, even on sale. Not more than she can afford, but far more than is appropriate to spend on a belated Christmas present for a friend. Even if it's perfect.
She steps back for another appraisal. It would fit him just right, she knows it would, because she knows his height, knows the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms...
She holds the cuff between her thumb and forefinger, reluctant to walk away.
He wouldn't have to know how much it cost. If he asked she could shrug it off, say she used a coupon. It wouldn't be that strange to buy it, not if it's something he needs.
It would have to be shipped, of course, she knows that. But for some reason, when she imagines him opening the box, quizzical and surprised, she sees herself there, too. The scene fills her with a strange, buoyant anxiousness.
He'd hold it up and say, "Wow. Isn't this a little much?" But she'd see he was pleased.
She'd say, "Oh, well, you know, it's nothing, really," as he tried it on.
He would ask, "How do I look?"
And she'd say, "Very professional." She'd be brave, and say, "Very handsome." He'd cock his head, and smile, and ask a question with his eyes.
In answer, she would reach out to straighten his collar, and then...
She is standing in a Macy's in Chicago, touching the cuff of a gentleman's overcoat to her cheek. He is nine hundred miles to the south, where, it occurs to her now, the winters probably don't require a lot of wool. She drops the sleeve, feeling foolish, and checks to see if anyone was looking.
It was a stupid idea, anyway. He doesn't actually need a new coat at all.
Or, she thinks as she walks out the door, if he ever does, his girlfriend is welcome to buy him one.
Things with Josie are going really well.
She's pretty, bright, and upbeat in that half-cheerleader, half-drill sergeant kind of way that physical therapists have. She's also refreshingly un-weirded out or inspired to pity by the prosthetics, which he has to admit was a big part of the initial attraction.
And she's blonde. He thinks he might try blondes for a while, see how that works out for him.
They have fun hanging out; they like the same movies and music; they have friendly, energetic sex. It went past casual a little fast, but it's never quite arrived at serious, and he thinks they're both comfortable letting it idle somewhere in between. If they're still together by Valentine's Day, he might take her to New Orleans for the weekend, maybe catch some shows.
On a warm, sunny day, he meets her at her place near LSU, and they go for a run along Lakeshore Drive. Last year he'd barely noticed the weather enough to enjoy it, but now it's starting to feel right again, wearing short sleeves in January. He makes an offhand remark about not missing Chicago winters as they're resting against the tailgate of her Jeep. He doesn’t bring it up a lot, so he guesses she's kind of curious when she asks him what he does miss.
What does he miss the most?
He freezes for just a second, and then comes up with, "The takeout," and she laughs. "And, you know. The people, I guess," he says, which keeps it from being a lie. "Friends."
Things are going really well. Josie's cool; he likes her a lot.
He stares out at the houses and trees on the far side of the lake, thinking of someone else's face.
Simon says he's going to teach her to surf.
She's been sleeping with him for weeks, but it isn't until he starts talking in future tense, about surfing lessons and hypothetical trips to Hawaii, that she realizes she's acquired a boyfriend.
It seems to be working out all right.
He's good in bed, though a bit of a showoff, and not particularly responsive to cues. But she's not terribly assertive, either, so she can't blame him entirely if the sex isn't always amazing.
Mostly, it's nice to have someone to care for; someone to do things with, when she has the time. And it's normal, certainly more normal than whatever she'd had with Tony.
It's a relationship, and it's worth trying to make a go of it.
She gets used to hanging around his place, with its leather and chrome bachelor furniture and expensive lamps, even if she never gets quite comfortable shoving aside a GQ and putting her feet up on the cold glass coffee table.
They go back there one night after having a few drinks—maybe more than a few—and before he can lead her to the bedroom, she pushes him down into his Italian armchair and straddles him, grabbing for his belt. For once, he follows her lead.
She fucks him right there on the armchair, fast and heedless, with her eyes closed.
After that, he gets the idea, and lets her be on top when she feels like it.
She closes her eyes, and in her mind she bites a shoulder that's not Simon's shoulder, leans into a touch that's not his touch, presses her thighs against hips that aren't his hips.
Sometimes she feels a bit guilty, a bit pathetic. She tells herself, you can't know if something could have been anything from two kisses in as many years. You simply can't. There's no point in useless wondering.
Life goes on, that's all.
Still, she really doesn't care to learn to surf.
After work, he grabs a beer and sits down to check his email.
There's a forward from his mother—probably something about angels—which he deletes, and there's a long update from Josie about her new job and settling in in Birmingham. He's about eighth in the list of CC's.
There are three from Neela. She's been emailing a lot lately. It's not like he minds, and it's possible he's reading her wrong, but...they all seem kind of unfinished. Like there's something else she wants to say. When he replies, he always wants to close with, Is there something up with you? He hasn't yet, but he might. Maybe he will today.
The last of the three has an image attached. He opens it first, and laughs when he finds a grainy cell phone picture of her and Sam with a couple of Rastafarians, and the message Didn't have time to send you a postcard from Seattle. This will have to do. Bizarre, but somehow not surprising, especially once he goes back and reads the details. It's pretty much the kind of thing that only happens to her.
He saves the picture to the Neela folder on his hard drive, and like every time, feels a little lame for having one in the first place. But he has all this stuff—pictures; MP3s he thinks she'd like; half-written letters that never got sent. Even, God help him, a few old GarageBand projects he hasn't touched in forever.
Once, back when things were bad, he'd dragged everything, all the little pieces of her scattered all over his life, out onto the MacBook's desktop and into the Trash. Three days later, he still hadn't emptied the trash can. After that, he had a Neela folder. And it keeps on growing.
Back when things were bad, he'd tried to wish he'd never met her, but it never took. It's hard to wish that about someone when you don't even know who you'd be if you'd never met her.
He looks at the picture again, at her slightly goofy, put-upon smile.
All these fragments that almost add up to something solid, something worth holding onto...
Something worth waiting for.
He clicks Reply.
She thinks about it for a good long time. She's a little puzzled, a little scared, a little bit oddly thrilled he'd even asked. Is something up with me?
She tries out some answers in her head: I'm making a lot of big decisions about my life right now.
I broke up with Simon.
I'm thinking an awful lot about you.
Every time they email, she wants to call him. Every time they talk, she wants to see him. If she saw him, she'd want to touch him, and if she touched him...
It's silly to pretend she doesn't know what that means.
She types a response focused on career matters, touching on some of her fears and doubts. It's hard to stop there. She wants to tell him everything, all the things he's missed, every major event and minor detail.
If she could see him, she probably wouldn't know what to say.
Maybe she'd tease him, or pay him a compliment: "I like your haircut," perhaps.
He would raise a hand to his head, self-conscious, and say, "Thanks."
And then he'd reach out to touch the hair alongside of her face, just for a moment, and he'd smile. "I like your...everything."
And then, maybe, she'd take his hand.
And then.
Title: "Distance Between"
Fandom: ER
Characters/Pairing: Ray/Neela
Word Count: ~2500
Rating: T
Completed: 03/17/09
Spoilerish for S15
Thanks:
jesshelga and kirbyfestOn November first she wakes at half-past ten, hours later than she likes to on her Saturdays off. She malingers in bed for another twenty minutes, headachy and melancholy and cross with herself for sleeping half the day away.
If she were at the hospital, she could focus on concrete, important, impersonal things. As it is, there's nothing to divert her from dwelling on the night before. She worries over possible missteps. She wonders if she came off as too needy, or too distant; if there was something else she might or should have said. She feels foolish even as she recycles events in her head, again and again, as if it had been some kind of a...some kind of first date.
She's clumsy and distractible as she runs her errands. She spills her coffee on the El platform—no one even bumps into her—and it splashes all over her shoes. She leaves half her groceries at the Jewel and has to go back for them, only to realize when she gets home that she's forgotten to buy bread. Maybe it's better she's not treating patients today after all.
She blinks away details of how it felt to be so close; the way he held her, the way he smelled, the way her arms hung heavy at her sides as he kissed her goodnight. She blames him for confusing her, him and the strange new deliberateness about him, not just in how he moved, but in how he was. At least a dozen times she thinks of calling him, ready to demand, 'See you soon? See you soon? What does that mean?'
She decides to clean her apartment, and to accompany her she makes an impromptu playlist from her classical music folder, hours of shuffle with nothing to remind her of Ray. She dusts to Beethoven, vacuums to Mahler, and scours the kitchen to The Magic Flute. She's scrubbing the toilet to Phillip Glass when she admits to herself, in a moment of clarity that borders on epiphany, that she doesn't like Phillip Glass and never has.
The bleach starts to go to her head, so she sits on the couch and sips a glass of water. She looks at the clock and wonders if he's left town yet.
She'd been so glad to see him, that's all. She's so glad he's doing so well.
She wonders if 'in a good place' is a polite way of saying 'I've outgrown you now.'
He shifts in his aisle seat, adjusts the air, switches on the light so he can read, and then switches it off again when he can't concentrate. The businessman in the window seat is snoring, the in-flight entertainment sucks, and he has nothing to do but think about last night. He doesn't know why he can't just put it away, because he's pretty sure—like, ninety-nine per cent—that he did the right thing.
He'd just wanted to see her, hang out, whatever. Talk to her. Make her laugh. Show her he has his shit together. No pressure, no expectations. He hadn't come with any intention of opening that door.
He hadn't expected to find it still standing open anyway, or for her to nudge it even further. And then there he was, as always, stumbling through.
But he'd caught himself, and just in time. Maybe he could have stayed, and maybe it would have been...
He closes his eyes, and scratches the back of his neck.
It doesn't matter how soft her hair was, or how she'd leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. It doesn't matter how she'd smiled at him, or that sometimes, in her eyes, he thought he'd seen something he'd always wanted to see. It doesn't even matter what she'd said, because no matter what she says, there's always a roomful of other things she doesn't say.
But he doesn't need to hear them now. She's got her life. He's got his head on straight.
He'd made the right call.
He thinks...he knows he probably could have stayed.
There's an outside chance he's actually the stupidest man alive.
When the flight attendant comes by with the trash, as he hands her his Coke can he asks her how long until they land in Baton Rouge. She says, "Oh, we're about halfway home."
Yeah, that sounds about right.
She nearly buys him a coat at Macy's after-Christmas sale. A real, proper, grown-up coat, in a wool-cashmere blend. It's not quite an impulse, but it's something less than planned. Just a silly idea that's been in the back of her mind since the fall, when she noticed him still carting around that same worn-out jacket he's had at least as long as she's known him.
She walks past the men's department on the way to make her returns; circles round a few times as she browses marked down sweaters and accessories. After about an hour of glancing over and internal debate, she looks up from a pair of gloves and finds herself right across the aisle from outerwear. And, well. It wouldn't do any harm just to look.
At first nothing seems right. The salesman sees her frowning and approaches. She demurs, but he's persistent. "Can you tell me a little about who you're shopping for?"
She feels herself flush with embarrassment, and says firmly, "I'm just browsing, really. Thank you."
She turns to go, ready to abandon the whole ridiculous enterprise, and that's when she sees it hanging on the wall. Single breasted, with a classic silhouette that's just modern enough not to look like a banker's or a lawyer's coat. Three-quarter length. Charcoal grey so dark it's almost black. It looks very soft, and very expensive, and both impressions are confirmed when she picks up the sleeve to read the tag.
It's too expensive, even on sale. Not more than she can afford, but far more than is appropriate to spend on a belated Christmas present for a friend. Even if it's perfect.
She steps back for another appraisal. It would fit him just right, she knows it would, because she knows his height, knows the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms...
She holds the cuff between her thumb and forefinger, reluctant to walk away.
He wouldn't have to know how much it cost. If he asked she could shrug it off, say she used a coupon. It wouldn't be that strange to buy it, not if it's something he needs.
It would have to be shipped, of course, she knows that. But for some reason, when she imagines him opening the box, quizzical and surprised, she sees herself there, too. The scene fills her with a strange, buoyant anxiousness.
He'd hold it up and say, "Wow. Isn't this a little much?" But she'd see he was pleased.
She'd say, "Oh, well, you know, it's nothing, really," as he tried it on.
He would ask, "How do I look?"
And she'd say, "Very professional." She'd be brave, and say, "Very handsome." He'd cock his head, and smile, and ask a question with his eyes.
In answer, she would reach out to straighten his collar, and then...
She is standing in a Macy's in Chicago, touching the cuff of a gentleman's overcoat to her cheek. He is nine hundred miles to the south, where, it occurs to her now, the winters probably don't require a lot of wool. She drops the sleeve, feeling foolish, and checks to see if anyone was looking.
It was a stupid idea, anyway. He doesn't actually need a new coat at all.
Or, she thinks as she walks out the door, if he ever does, his girlfriend is welcome to buy him one.
Things with Josie are going really well.
She's pretty, bright, and upbeat in that half-cheerleader, half-drill sergeant kind of way that physical therapists have. She's also refreshingly un-weirded out or inspired to pity by the prosthetics, which he has to admit was a big part of the initial attraction.
And she's blonde. He thinks he might try blondes for a while, see how that works out for him.
They have fun hanging out; they like the same movies and music; they have friendly, energetic sex. It went past casual a little fast, but it's never quite arrived at serious, and he thinks they're both comfortable letting it idle somewhere in between. If they're still together by Valentine's Day, he might take her to New Orleans for the weekend, maybe catch some shows.
On a warm, sunny day, he meets her at her place near LSU, and they go for a run along Lakeshore Drive. Last year he'd barely noticed the weather enough to enjoy it, but now it's starting to feel right again, wearing short sleeves in January. He makes an offhand remark about not missing Chicago winters as they're resting against the tailgate of her Jeep. He doesn’t bring it up a lot, so he guesses she's kind of curious when she asks him what he does miss.
What does he miss the most?
He freezes for just a second, and then comes up with, "The takeout," and she laughs. "And, you know. The people, I guess," he says, which keeps it from being a lie. "Friends."
Things are going really well. Josie's cool; he likes her a lot.
He stares out at the houses and trees on the far side of the lake, thinking of someone else's face.
Simon says he's going to teach her to surf.
She's been sleeping with him for weeks, but it isn't until he starts talking in future tense, about surfing lessons and hypothetical trips to Hawaii, that she realizes she's acquired a boyfriend.
It seems to be working out all right.
He's good in bed, though a bit of a showoff, and not particularly responsive to cues. But she's not terribly assertive, either, so she can't blame him entirely if the sex isn't always amazing.
Mostly, it's nice to have someone to care for; someone to do things with, when she has the time. And it's normal, certainly more normal than whatever she'd had with Tony.
It's a relationship, and it's worth trying to make a go of it.
She gets used to hanging around his place, with its leather and chrome bachelor furniture and expensive lamps, even if she never gets quite comfortable shoving aside a GQ and putting her feet up on the cold glass coffee table.
They go back there one night after having a few drinks—maybe more than a few—and before he can lead her to the bedroom, she pushes him down into his Italian armchair and straddles him, grabbing for his belt. For once, he follows her lead.
She fucks him right there on the armchair, fast and heedless, with her eyes closed.
After that, he gets the idea, and lets her be on top when she feels like it.
She closes her eyes, and in her mind she bites a shoulder that's not Simon's shoulder, leans into a touch that's not his touch, presses her thighs against hips that aren't his hips.
Sometimes she feels a bit guilty, a bit pathetic. She tells herself, you can't know if something could have been anything from two kisses in as many years. You simply can't. There's no point in useless wondering.
Life goes on, that's all.
Still, she really doesn't care to learn to surf.
After work, he grabs a beer and sits down to check his email.
There's a forward from his mother—probably something about angels—which he deletes, and there's a long update from Josie about her new job and settling in in Birmingham. He's about eighth in the list of CC's.
There are three from Neela. She's been emailing a lot lately. It's not like he minds, and it's possible he's reading her wrong, but...they all seem kind of unfinished. Like there's something else she wants to say. When he replies, he always wants to close with, Is there something up with you? He hasn't yet, but he might. Maybe he will today.
The last of the three has an image attached. He opens it first, and laughs when he finds a grainy cell phone picture of her and Sam with a couple of Rastafarians, and the message Didn't have time to send you a postcard from Seattle. This will have to do. Bizarre, but somehow not surprising, especially once he goes back and reads the details. It's pretty much the kind of thing that only happens to her.
He saves the picture to the Neela folder on his hard drive, and like every time, feels a little lame for having one in the first place. But he has all this stuff—pictures; MP3s he thinks she'd like; half-written letters that never got sent. Even, God help him, a few old GarageBand projects he hasn't touched in forever.
Once, back when things were bad, he'd dragged everything, all the little pieces of her scattered all over his life, out onto the MacBook's desktop and into the Trash. Three days later, he still hadn't emptied the trash can. After that, he had a Neela folder. And it keeps on growing.
Back when things were bad, he'd tried to wish he'd never met her, but it never took. It's hard to wish that about someone when you don't even know who you'd be if you'd never met her.
He looks at the picture again, at her slightly goofy, put-upon smile.
All these fragments that almost add up to something solid, something worth holding onto...
Something worth waiting for.
He clicks Reply.
She thinks about it for a good long time. She's a little puzzled, a little scared, a little bit oddly thrilled he'd even asked. Is something up with me?
She tries out some answers in her head: I'm making a lot of big decisions about my life right now.
I broke up with Simon.
I'm thinking an awful lot about you.
Every time they email, she wants to call him. Every time they talk, she wants to see him. If she saw him, she'd want to touch him, and if she touched him...
It's silly to pretend she doesn't know what that means.
She types a response focused on career matters, touching on some of her fears and doubts. It's hard to stop there. She wants to tell him everything, all the things he's missed, every major event and minor detail.
If she could see him, she probably wouldn't know what to say.
Maybe she'd tease him, or pay him a compliment: "I like your haircut," perhaps.
He would raise a hand to his head, self-conscious, and say, "Thanks."
And then he'd reach out to touch the hair alongside of her face, just for a moment, and he'd smile. "I like your...everything."
And then, maybe, she'd take his hand.
And then.
