charley's thin arms hold secrets (tepid) wrote in mnhttnprjct, @ 2010-06-26 01:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, charley thurlow, liz shipton |
LOG
WHO: Charley Thurlow and Liz Shipton
WHAT: Liz is staying with Charley after her house was broken into.
WHERE: Charley's District 5 apartment.
WHEN: Late Friday evening.
STATUS: Complete
RATING: PG-13 for language
The television (well, it technically was a holovision but the new name never really caught on) that was mounted on Charley Thurlow’s wall was on, a tinny noise coming from the speakers as someone on the nightly news chattered on about the rising crime rates and the budget cuts at NYU, but Charley wasn’t really listening. He sat on his sofa in his pajamas, a white tee and thin plaid pajama pants, fidgeting slightly. When Liz had texted him to say her apartment had been broken into he’d invited her to stay without hesitation, but now that she was here he was having second thoughts. Partially. He knew it was not perhaps the best idea, but there was no part of Charles Thurlow that would have turned Liz down in a situation like this. They hadn’t even argued once since her first text earlier that day, which definitely said something. Liz had gone out with her Harpies for drinks, and though Charley originally planned to head back to NYU to finish his grading in his office, he’d changed his mind and spent the rest of the evening at the kitchen table, his papers strewn across it in various stacks that only he understood. They were nearly finished but he was done for the day, opting to spend the last hour before bed winding down on the sofa. Liz had come in shortly after he changed into his pajamas and she was now in his bedroom, the door shut. He didn’t know if she was just changing and would come out again or if she had shut the door for the night and he fidgeted slightly. His toothbrush was in there and he needed to get it out. That “the Harpies,” as Charley may have thought of them, had offered Liz a place to stay had complicated her life more than she would have liked -- it meant that she didn’t have any logical reason to be staying here, and the fact that she had elected to continue staying with Charley in spite of other offers showed that she was being. Well. Illogical. Not, of course, that Liz was always a logical person, but she didn’t often admit this, not even to herself. It damaged her veneer of invulnerability. However, if the old adage said that you needed half the time a relationship had lasted to get over it was true, she wasn’t anywhere near that stage, and she wasn’t anywhere near kicking the instinct of calling her now-ex-husband first in an emergency. True, she had friends, but friends raised the question of which of them to ask first. The benefit of having a spouse was always knowing who to turn to first, and perhaps this crisis had shown that Liz wasn’t yet used to not having that security net. She also wasn’t accustomed to this weird feeling of unfamiliarity. They had, after all, been married for years. It wasn’t like there was nothing Charley hadn’t seen in her changing her pajamas or brushing her teeth. When they were married, even when they had been growing apart, they would have done this together and not bothered with shut doors. What, exactly, was the protocol with this sort of thing? Liz had no idea, and just decided to go with it. She had only had a few cocktails out with the girls, but she nevertheless pulled her hair up above her neck, pushed open the door to Charley’s bedroom, and went out into the living room. “Do you have Advil?” she asked. Having been not paying attention to the TV, Charley turned around to face her even before she spoke, and jumped up off the sofa immediately. “Sure do,” he replied, “it’s in the nightstand.” He walked into his bedroom and pulled open the drawer, rummaging a bit through the many bottles and pill packets he had in there. His allergy medication, Neosporin, Benadryll, Calamine lotion, one lone condom nearing it’s expiration date, ibuprofin, and- “Here it is,” he said, tossing it to her. He left the drawer open so she could return it herself, then leaned against the bed. “There’s paper cups in the bathroom. Trying to curb the hangover before it starts?” Liz took the bottle of Advil, popped it open, and retrieved three pills. She shuffled off to the bathroom, poured herself a cup of water, and downed the Advil. Coming back out, she said, “I’m not taking any chances.” She paused. She had been planning to go into work the following morning, even though she didn’t really need to, just to avoid the awkardness of hanging out in Charley’s apartment. However, she had a feeling that mentioning work -- that nebulous cause of so many arguments -- would just cause a fight, and as much as she could go stay with Lindsay or Naomi, leaving this late at night when she was already undressed as a result of one wouldn’t really be worth it. It’s not as though they’d cover any new territory. She put the Advil back and then stood there, her arms crossed over her chest. “You don’t have to give up your bed, you know,” she said, finally. It was strange with Liz as the guest in his home (though not nearly as strange as if one of them had still been living in their home in the Upper East Side), but even though it was Liz he wasn’t going to make a guest sleep on the sofa. His mother, if she ever found out, would simply kill him, crying that she had taught him better manners. And though Charley was not any longer actually afraid of his mother, most of her lessons on propriety were now second nature to him and he would not dream of being so rude. He looked at her, hair starting to come undone from the events of the night, and he realized that he hadn’t seen this Liz in a while. He saw her so rarely now that he mostly saw the ‘perfect’ Liz, hair and makeup touched up right before a photograph was taken, but that wasn’t really the Liz he knew. It was nice to see her again, and it was nice to not be arguing with her, even if he knew that wouldn’t last long. “I don’t mind,” he told her, truthfully. “I wouldn’t ask you to take the sofa.” Liz just stood there for a moment, arms crossed over her chest. It took a moment to summon up a Liz Shipton Stare Down -- practiced though it was, she still had to prepare herself. Think about things like Tabatha Schlottmann and President Koetke, and she could glare so ferocious that it whithered the most puffed up of fellow pundits. Narrowing her eyes, she shot a look at Charley. Usually, she kept this one for things like the dishes not being done, when they were married, but it seemed like an appropriate time to whip it back out again. “You’re the one who’s old. Sleeping on the sofa will do a number on your back.” She wasn’t trying to start an argument, just teasing, so her tone was light, but then, considering the circumstances, she realized that he might not take it that way. It was hard for Charley to tell, actually, how she meant it. The Look was one he knew well and a force that was not to be reckoned with, but the way she spoke was confusing. Had they still been married he probably would have understood immediately that it was teasing, but she hadn’t teased him in ages and they hadn’t been on good terms in so long he couldn’t understand why she would now. He sat down on the bed since it was a bit uncomfortable to be leaning on it, his brown comforter hiding the clean cream sheets that were underneath. “Lizzy, I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.” Joking was easier (or smarter, in this situation, really) than actually starting an argument, but maybe it was better if she didn’t keep doing it, as he didn’t seem to have gotten it. Liz sat down on the bed, too, stretching out her legs in front of her. For a second, the half-baked thought that she needed to go tanning crossed her mind, but she wasn’t about to voice it out loud. “Trust me. I’ve slept worse places than your sofa.” Like her desk chair at work. And benches before she had a proper desk chair. Oh, and the bathroom at the Hawk and Dove in DC, but she wasn’t about to mention that, either. It hit him, finally, that he had just called her Lizzy like he had while they were married. Shit, this entire situation was fucking with his head and he was almost feeling like he was back in college when he and Liz first started dating, completely awkward around her. He was surprised, though, that they hadn’t started arguing yet - and this disagreement couldn’t be called an argument. There was no name-calling. They weren’t even angry. “And I’ve fallen asleep on my sofa a million times,” he pointed out. It was lonely living alone, and sometimes if he was watching television late at night he would just collapse on the sofa since there was no real reason to go to bed. Liz, for her part, hadn’t noticed that Charley had called her ‘Lizzy.’ Well, she had, but what that meant hadn’t really registered. Then again, this was more like normal for them. Old normal, not arguing every chance they got normal. Back in the old days of being married, this would have just been them getting ready for bed. Except, she reflected, she wouldn’t have a poster of the ‘Periodic Table of Desserts’ hanging on the wall in their master suite. She would have relegated it to his office at NYU, a kind alternative to binning it when he wasn’t looking. They also wouldn’t have been arguing about who was going to sleep where, come to think of it. “Look. We’re acting stupid. It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before. Just don’t roll over on me and we’ll be perfectly fine.” She said this in a business-like manner that showed no vulnerability or a hint that she would be hurt if this suggestion would be turned down. Charley hesitated a moment, something telling him that he shouldn’t even though her logic made sense. There was really no reason for him to think it was a bad idea, since they were both adults and he had shared a bed with plenty of friends on vacations and such throughout his life. They were divorced though, and that meant that he shouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed with her. The logical answer made more sense, and being a scientist he really liked logical answers. Unfortunately, human beings were not always logical creatures, and before he fully realized it, Charley found himself agreeing. “All right,” he said, immediately beginning to justify it in his head. Most divorced people would never sleep in the same bed as their ex, but that was because most hated their ex completely. He and Liz were friends. Well, friendly. Sometimes. Or, at least, he didn’t hate her. Most of the time. Liz turned and gave Charley a sharp look -- not a critical look, but an I know that there’s something you’re not saying look. Liz had a varied repertoire of glares, each of which expressed a slightly different shade of anger or incredulity. This one was a gentler one, one she might have used if she had had time for something like couples counseling. “You have to promise not to stab me in the middle of the night, though. I have work to do in the morning,” she said. She was teasing again, even though it was probably a bad idea. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. It was easier than expressing real feelings, at any rate, or showing uncertainty, which Liz never liked to do, under any circumstances. She reached up and undid her hair, so that it fell over her shoulders. The look was ignored as Charley got up to fetch his toothbrush out of the small travel-case he often took with him to NYU when he knew he would be there a good portion of the day. He knew she heard the hesitation, but he didn’t care. She hadn’t said anything about it. “Fine, I promise not to stab you.” His tone was serious still, but he could also tease. “But if I have to promise that, can I at least cut off your hair?” He left the room without waiting for a response and popped into the bathroom to brush his teeth. It took him only a moment and he was back, ready for her response. At that comment, Liz couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with her hair. She twisted a strand of it around her finger and looked for split ends. She was slightly overdue for a trim and some hair-and-makeup person would be getting on her case for that the next time her photo was taken. And her roots were probably showing, but it wasn’t as though Charley, being a man, was going to notice either of those things. “Is there something wrong with my hair?” she asked, frowning. Untrimmed, in need of a tan, lacking a television and a wedding ring that very well could’ve been pawned (no, really, it could have), and sleeping (literally, not figuratively -- that was a problem she didn’t need) with her ex husband. She, Elizabeth Grace Shipton, had sunk to new lows. Actually, no. Immediately post-divorce, she had been in much worse straits and she was probably better off reminding herself of that. “What?” That thought would not have even crossed his mind, and if for some reason it had, he definitely wouldn’t have remarked on it. “I was just being stupid. Your hair looks good- great.” He went around to the other side of the bed and began turning down the covers, moving the pillows around a bit so that Liz would have only one (just how she liked it) and he would have two. Getting into bed, he looked at Liz and her hair. It looked fine. Pretty even, as the waves fell against her shoulders. “Do you need anything?” he asked. Liz shook her head, pushed her hair off her shoulders, and then pulled the blankets back more so that she could get in bed. She slid underneath the sheets, feeling strange in a way that she couldn’t quite name. It had been a long time since they’d gotten in bed together, or even shared a living space. Not, of course, that it was really shared -- the Periodic Table of Desserts proved that. Something else was weighing on her mind somewhat, something that she thought she should tell Charley, if anyone. There was a relatively long silence, after which, she finally said, “They took my ring, you know.” Charley, too, felt a bit strange being in bed again with Liz, but at the same time it felt completely normal. Which was, of course, why it felt so strange. He ran over her words in his head a few times, though they made perfect sense the first time. “Oh.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. It had been an expensive ring, and he had bought it yes, but was he allowed to care? Their rings no longer symbolized the promises he and Liz once made but now just were reminders of their broken marriage. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react, but the thought of it being gone put a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Oh,” he repeated. Maybe it had been a bad idea to tell him -- it wasn’t a secret, per se, but it was a touchy subject. Then again, if she told her friends, she was sure that, with the possible exception of Naomi, their responses would be it’s probably better that you just got rid of it. After all, it had been a painful reminder sitting in her jewelery box for the better part of the last year. What to do with it had been an issue all along. She couldn’t throw it out (like she had with a Star Wars t-shirt that had wound up in her boxes of clothing), or donate it to the New York Public Library (like she had with some of his books), or stuff it in a box under the auspice of returning it to him (like she had done with everything else of his she had). And it wasn’t like she could pawn it. So it had just sat there, until some robber had taken it away and solved that problem. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Admitting that she was upset it was gone would mean admitting that it had sentimental value, and admitting it had sentimental value would mean admitting that she wasn’t ‘over’ their divorce. It was just a ring, after all. An expensive one, but still, just a ring. “I didn’t mean to lose it.” Charley shrugged. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice void of emotion about the loss. He didn’t meet her eyes, but he noticed her hand sitting on the bed and he reached over and squeezed it, pulling back quickly. He slid down in the bed so he was now laying down fully and stared at the ceiling, not really wanting to think about it any longer. Or feel about it, since the strange feeling was still just as strange and not going away at all. “I think I’m about to crash,” he said not entirely truthfully, but sleep was a good way to get away from it all. “Night Lizzy.” He had to bite back the second phrase that normally followed the first, but he replaced it with another. “Sleep well.” Liz didn’t know how to feel about that hand squeeze, or how to respond to it. There was a part of her that, since the divorce, had been hoping that things weren’t really over between them. It was a deluded notion to hold onto. They were, after all, divorced. She had signed the papers without complaint, or really, even any legal wrangling. She reached over and turned off the last light on the bedside table. “Good night, Charley,” she said, and then rolled over and tried to go to sleep. |