charley's thin arms hold secrets (tepid) wrote in mnhttnprjct, @ 2010-07-23 23:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, charley thurlow, liz shipton |
WHO: Charley Thurlow and Liz Shipton
WHAT: #shiptonwars after Charley's text.
WHERE: Charley's District 5 apartment.
WHEN: Friday evening.
STATUS: Complete.
RATING: PG-13 for language.
Liz was not a pleasant person when she was angry. Not, of course, that most people were pleasant when they were angry, but Liz was exceptionally unpleasant, and the series of text messages she had just exchanged had been definitely anger-inducing. She had said that, no matter what her answer to Charley’s question was, he was going to end up throwing it back in her face, and she felt like he had done just that. Angry at the way the conversation had gone, and that she’d broken her phone by tossing it against the wall, she stepped out of the cab that had taken her to Charley’s apartment and let herself up to his door, which she pounded on. “Charles Oliver Thurlow, I’m coming in whether you let me in or not!” she shouted, and without waiting for an answer, she put her key in the lock and opened it. (She had it left over from when she was stayed there after her apartment was broken into.) Charley hadn’t actually thought that Liz would come. Well, he did, but he was still surprised. He was sitting on the couch in his living room when she came into the apartment, a bottle of gin open on the coffee table with a shot glass sitting next to it. He’d only taken it out near the end of their texting conversation and by the time she’d arrived he only had taken one shot, but between that and his drinks earlier with his colleagues after leaving the lab, he was still somewhat intoxicated. He said nothing at first until she was all the way inside, then just glanced up briefly. “I’ll need that key back.” Liz was business-like enough to return the gin bottle’s cap to its proper place before she entered her tirade. She then set it back down and dug the key back out of her purse, which she had returned it too. She was still seething, really, but had made it a priority to seem calm and in control for as long as possible. “Take your stupid key back, I don’t want it,” she retorted, setting it down on the table next to the gin bottle. “You have a lot of nerve, you know that!” she continued. “You are stupid, and, and -- “ She struggled for the word that she wanted to say. Mean was coming to mind and it was such a juvenile word that she didn’t want to use it. “ -- Cruel, and you already ruined my life once, and I think that that’s your limit, Charley.” The urge to bash him over the head with the gin bottle was strong, but the threat of assault charges and headlines of Domestic violence plagues conservative pundit prevented her from doing it. After a number of drinks and having already developed a headache (though that was his own fault) from texting Liz, Charley was about ready to just fall asleep. The last thing he wanted was shouting, and though he did want Liz there, in a way, the shouting was making him irritated. He snatched the key off the table - not really because he needed it but because it seemed like the thing to do, then got up to put it into his pocket - and because he certainly wasn’t going to ask Liz to sit down. “Ruined your life!?” he spat out at her. “Just shut up, Liz. You started all this.” He wasn’t too specific about what ‘this’ was, but it pretty much worked no matter how Liz took it. Normally, Liz would have started spinning the situation to her advantage. She would have started on why this was all Charley’s fault, how she hadn’t done anything wrong and he should take all responsibility. It was a carry over from her job. There had been a time in her relationship where she’d been better at admitting that she was wrong, but it was difficult to do nowadays. As it was, she didn’t have enough composure to play spin doctor. “You’re the one who wanted a divorce. And I said that I knew that it was my fault! I don’t know what else you want. I don’t know why you decided that you had to text me and tell me all of these things so that you could not care what I have to say.” Charley threw his arms up, exasperated already. “So I could not care what you have to say? You didn’t say anything, so how the fuck can I care - or not care - about it? “ He picked up his iHolo and started flipping through the texts that the two had just exchanged. “Well what do you expect me to say?” he quoted, then hit another button to go to the next text. “You are so stupid. There are a lot of things that I would like to say.” He threw his iHolo onto the couch behind him and crossed his arms. “Why did you text me and tell me all those things?” “Because I was drunk and it seemed like a good idea, that’s why.” It was the best answer that Liz could think of, and probably the most honest one she could come up with, anyway. She was dangerously close to tears already, and being faced with her own stupidity was making it worse. “You texted me too. Whatever, Charley, it doesn’t matter.” She reached up a hand a wiped away the forming tears, feels of embarrassment making matters worse. Not, of course, that he hadn’t seen her cry before. They had been married, after all, and though she wasn’t the weeping-at-sad-movies sort, she did have functioning tear ducts. What was embarrassing was how the tears revealed how upset she was. There was a box of tissues across the room and Charley stepped around the table to get to it, taking two out of the box quickly and then moving closer to Liz so he could hand them to her silently. He was only a foot away from her now and could see the tears clearly, but he tried to do her a favor and look away as she cried though he couldn’t help to glance up. A surge rose up in his chest, the geneticist struggling to find the proper words or actions in this situation. His instinct was to embrace her, but he knew that wasn’t a good idea, so instead he raised his arm, awkwardly patting the air until he finally put his hand on her shoulder. Liz wiped her eyes and her nose with one of the tissues, taking deep breaths to try and calm herself down. She didn’t like crying -- embarrassment aside, she hated the ugly, stuffy feeling that it gave you. She was stupid and stuffy and as her rage was abating, to be replaced by sadness and anger of a more tempered variety. “You can’t just say those things without an agenda, Charley. I don’t know what it is you want. How am I supposed to respond when I don’t know what you want?” Perhaps it was just the moment, but more likely it was the alcohol, being unsure of how to reply to her and a little bit of stupidity. Were he in his right mind he would be yelling at himself to stop, but once again, Charley was not in his right mind. He didn’t really know his agenda - that’s why it took him nearly a month to even bring up Liz’s original text, and why he only did it after drinking. Instead of answering, Charley moved his hand down to Liz’s elbow and leaned in, eyes closing and mouth going for hers. In any other situation, Liz might have been pleased at this development. Of course, it could have been a possibly very bad decision, but it also might have been a reason for them to get back together, so she would have gone along with it. As it was, his breath smelled like gin and that wasn’t exactly a turn on -- more like a reminder of all of the stupid things they’d said while intoxicated. Gently, she pushed him away, feeling more tears well up in her eyes. “Charley, I’m sorry, but you’re drunk,” she said quietly. “And I can’t do this when there’s a possibility that you’re going to wake up in the morning with a hangover and regret it.” Taking a step backward, Charley glared at his ex-wife, feeling suddenly a bit more sober and once again angry. He said nothing for a moment, staring at her and the tears that were reforming in her eyes. Digging the key out of his pocket, he threw it at her then spun around, storming into his bedroom. “Goodnight Elizabeth,” he called behind him. “Lock the door when you leave.” Liz stood for a few moments, shocked, though she wasn’t really sure why, before sinking onto the sofa in tears. Nothing that she did was ever right when it came to Charley. It didn’t matter if she made bad decisions (drunk texting) or good ones (not letting him make a drunken move on her), they always turned out to be the wrong decisions, and frankly, nothing short of moving back to Miami -- effectively as far away from him as she could get -- seemed likely to fix anything or make anything better. It took a good five minutes and pile of tissues for her to control her tears, but when she did, she brushed her hair back into some semblance of fixed, rose, and quietly pushed open his bedroom door. “Charley?” she whispered, voice displaying uncharacteristic uncertainty. “Charley, look, I’m sorry.” He was in the middle of taking off his pants (and perhaps having a little difficulty with it) when she came in, but Charley didn’t acknowledge her at first and simply continued undressing into his pajamas. He tossed his jeans into the corner and took a shirt out of his dresser, stripping his own off. “I’m going to bed,” he informed her as he poked his arms through the new shirt and pulled it down around his head. “If you’re going, go. If not, there’s a shirt in the top drawer you can wear and we can talk about it in the morning.” Liz was normally such a divisive person that being in a situation where she didn’t know what to say or do was very troubling for her. She stood in the doorway, fighting to keep calm, so that she wouldn’t become angry or tearful again because that wasn’t going to help anything. Then, lacking anything better to do, she picked up his discarded clothing and folded it before putting it in the hamper. “I am sorry,” she repeated. She was trying to apologize, damn it. It wasn’t very often that she put herself out there, and she wanted results, or at least the credit for it. “I’m really sorry about everything. About the divorce, about being a bitch. I’ve been awful, and I know it, and I’m standing here, trying to apologize and you’re just blowing me off.” The thought occurred to her that maybe she deserved that, but she didn’t voice it out loud. His head was pounding now, and while he wanted to think about what she was saying, he was finding it difficult. He slipped into his bed and rested his head against the headboard, closing his eyes briefly. He sat there for a moment, saying nothing, until he figured she’d about given up. “Do you think I wanted the divorce?” he said quietly, his eyes still closed and his hands folded on his stomach. “I just couldn’t live like that anymore.” Those words stopped whatever stilted apologies Liz had planned for next. She had expected another rebuffing, and perhaps this, the truth, was more upsetting than being told to leave him alone. There were a lot of things she could have said, she wanted to say, like that she didn’t know how to balance, or that she was selfish, or that she had always known it was her fault. She remembered what her father had said when she’d called with the news: you’ve made your bed, Lizzy, now you have to lie in it, and as much as that, well, sucked, she knew it was the truth. “I didn’t want it either,” she replied in a tight voice. “I just didn’t know what else to do.” Scooting down in his bed, Charley let out a yawn. His head, on top of pounding, was feeling really wobbly and he was finding it very difficult to even think about opening his eyes. It wasn’t that he wanted to, but after a number of drinks, a long day at work and all this stress with Liz, he was exhausted. “I’m about to fall asleep,” he muttered, words slightly slurred. “Let’s talk ‘bout it tomorrow.” “Okay,” she said softly. She realized that she hadn’t locked the door to his apartment, went out into the living room to do that (being burglarized had made her more diligent about such things, years ago she probably would have forgotten), and replaced the bottle of gin in the liquor cabinet while she was at it. By the time that she returned, Charley had fallen asleep, which, at least, she had expected. Quietly (though it probably wasn’t necessary), she changed into one of his spare t-shirts, leaving her clothes folded on his dresser. This is probably stupid, she thought as she climbed into his bed, gingerly, so as not to wake him. One arm was wrapped over his waist, the other tucked into the crook of his shoulder, and hopefully, by the time he woke up in the morning she would have rolled over to the other side of the bed. |