Derek Miller (throughthemill) wrote in the_colony, @ 2010-08-12 07:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | ^ week 19, derek miller, meghan callahan, | derek and meg |
Week 19 - Tuesday
Characters: Meg Callahan and Derek Miller
Location:: The Farmhouse Porch and Livingroom respectively
Summary: Derek and Meg fight during guard duty but when he reveals he plans to leave the group, they find more to like about each other than they thought.
Rating: K for kissing
The winter nights in Oregon after the lights of the world had all been put out were dark. Darker than dark on nights when the clouds blanketed the stars (of which there seemed to be a trillion more, without modern light pollution), but not that any of it mattered to Meghan Callahan, who sat like a living statue on the farm house porch at a quarter to three in the morning. Complete pitch blackness or a million light bulbs in one room--it was all the same nothingness.
The fact that she had offered to help with the night time guard duty was met with some pretty stunned silences, followed by what she could only guess were odd looks. Still, sleep was an elusive animal to the blind woman, so she might as well help if she could--even if her contribution might be scoffed at (and it was, by one person in particular--that person was currently in the living room, ironically on guard duty with her).
Sarge lay curled up at her hip: a large, personal furnace for the chill that was slowly creeping its way through her many layers of clothing. She kept her hands in her pockets, curled into chilly fists--her eyes, unbidden by her glasses, stared straight out into the night under somewhat heavy lids. She surrounded herself with the noises of the woods beyond: still as death in the winter, which actually made it easier. Boring... yes, but also necessary, or so she told herself. At least focusing on every single possible sound occupied her head on purpose, instead of trying to fight it all in an attempt to sleep.
Her wait was rewarded by Sarge, who suddenly tensed against her: his large head perked and as still as his human. Instinctively, the hand closest to him pulled from the pocket and set on his back. He smelled or heard something she couldn’t detect quite yet--until the distinct crack of a stick.. about ten yards off.
Meg held her breath and strained for the sound, or any like it. Sarge wasn’t growling--he was alert, but not alarmed, which was a great fucking comfort... but listening to something move in the yard, probably in full sight of her and the dog, was still a little unnerving.
The stick crack was followed by another, lighter noise... small, careful footsteps in the frost covered grass. An animal of some kind, slow moving. Not a squirrel or rabit or raccoon. Not a wolf, or Sarge would’ve been a lot more tense.
“Sarge.. stay.” she whispered to the dog, who maintained a visual on whatever she was hearing. She stood up very carefully--and when she did, the thing stopped. It was as cautious as she was.
It hadn’t run yet, and remained still as Meg slowly traced the rail back to the door. She opened it as silently as she could, but didn’t go inside. She only whispered, beckoning to Derek, who she certainly hoped was in earshot.
“...something’s out here.”
It was no secret that Derek thought Meghan standing guard was somewhere between a waste of time and a really bad fucking idea. A blind woman watching for trouble was akin to shouting ‘fire’ at a deaf person. He could understand it but at the end of the day, it wasn’t helpful and would probably end up with somebody getting hurt.
More than anything though, Derek wished that Meg would go guard with somebody else. Since their conversation by the fence Derek would have preferred to avoid her completely. Meg made him feel exposed and he wasn’t sure whether telling her about his experience or the way she examined his face made him feel more like she knew too much about him. Either way, in the past day or so, vague ideas about possibly leaving the group one day started become more solid plans. Derek never intended to join up with a group and part of him couldn’t help but feeling he would be better on his own.
Derek was more than happy to leave Meg alone outside in the cold, staring into nothing while he was warm in the house. He was killing time reading by a battery-powered lantern when he heard Meghan’s voice through the stillness. Regardless of how useless Meg guarding probably was, her hearing tended towards the uncanny so if she said something was out there, Derek believed her.
Heart pounding as he remembered the ambush in Vegas and his experience with the Sevens, Derek snatched up his gun and the lantern and stepped outside. “What is it? A car?”
“shh!” Did he have to be so loud? Catching the heavy footfalls heading from the sofa, Meg pressed the valley of her spine against the doorjamb, half-expecting to be plowed over with his momentum. She also kept her voice down, and obviously not as alarmed as he was.
“Relax... just an animal, but it’s close.” And hopefully something that could feed them all for a week. She was so tired of canned food.
An animal? She went and got him for an animal? Derek satisfied himself by giving Meghan the dirtiest look he could manage. Raising the lantern cast just enough light for him to see what was there. “It’s a deer.” His voice quiet but no less annoyed. “You almost gave me a heart attack for a deer. Can I go inside now?”
“‘Cause I ran inside screaming and flailing...” A good amount of sarcasm went into that statement, even though it was whispered. It’s not like her initial summons of him had any urgency to it. As far as she knew, the deer was still there in the yard... probably frozen like one of those ceramic lawn ornaments she’s stubbed more than one toe on--listening to the two humans bicker on the porch.
“You gonna shoot it?” Someone was showing their hunger.
“What do you mean, am I going to shoot it?” Was she out of her mind? “It’s three in the morning and I’ve got a handgun. You care so much, you shoot it.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know all you had was a handgun?” Meg shot back, a bit perturbed and now no longer concerned about keeping her voice down. She heard the thing dig it’s hooves in the frost and scamper back toward the woods. Sarge groaned.
“I don’t know,” Derek snapped. “The same way you’re going to see an attack coming. Why you think firing a gun at this hour is a good idea is just beyond me.”
Meg didn’t have a reply for that, and it showed by the furrowed brows and the arms that folded across her chest. Her jaw set a bit, teeth clenched at the frustration of the late hour, the fatigue and hunger, Derek’s tactless implication that she was useless on guard duty, and now an inward reflection that he had a point... and that was irritating.
She sighed heavily through her nose, her chin dropped a little toward her chest--fogged eyes open and staring blankly toward the porch rail across from her, just off to Derek’s side.
Derek sighed too in frustration, checking the safety on his gun before tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. “Great. Can we go in the house now?”
Meg shifted weight from hiking boot to hiking boot, and after a quick snap of irritation, one hand pushed the door back open--holding it for him. “Ladies first.”
“Don’t strain yourself, sweetheart,” Derek huffed. He went back inside, settling his gun and his lantern back down in their previous positions as if Meg’s interruption had not happened.
“You’re the one who ‘almost had a heart attack.” There was a little bit of spite left in her voice, but most of it had melted away. She was still irked, but not really at him. With a pat on her thigh, Sarge dragged himself up from the porch steps and trotted through the door before she stepped in the house, shutting the door behind her.
Derek was too flustered to return to his reading and he set it aside. Hopefully, he could get through the last part of the shift without incident. “Look, can we just get through the next hour without fighting? Cause that’d be great.”
Setting herself in the overstuffed armchair across from him, Meg tossed her hands in the air for a subtle gesture of truce. Maybe even surrender. Her thoughts loomed over a number of things, but nothing really in particular, except for the sound of his voice.
She had an idea of what he actually looked like, which was more than she could say for everyone else, besides Molly. It may have been ironic, the awkward, tense line that had been crossed between them--that neither wanted to think about. But in the dead of night, hungry and tired and generally miserable... it was difficult not to connect with the misery’s company. No matter how uncomfortable it was.
Derek wasn’t sure whether Meg’s silence was her agreeing with him or a sign that she was still pissed, but he supposed it didn’t matter. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with me much longer. I’m probably going to be taking off soon.” Might as well give her some good news.
Wait...what? Meghan stilled on the armchair (she’d been trying to get comfortable). Her eyes were up, and aimed in his direction-- blindly catching the faded light cast by his lantern.
“What do you mean ‘taking off’?” Surely he meant going to bed early?
Derek had to admit the sound of surprise from Meg kind of threw him. “I’m leaving. By spring at least or maybe I’ll go south for the winter, but I’m gone.” He’d been thinking about it so much the past few days and he really felt he had to go.
Derek wasn’t the only one thrown off track. She sat there, obviously a little stunned. Was he kidding? No-- there wasn’t any hint of joking in his tone. It was obvious by the way her lips fell open for a moment lacking speech or thought, the only word that made any sense finally passed them.
“...why?”
“Come on, do I really seem like a group person?” he asked. “I shouldn’t even be here. I would have taken off after Vegas if I hadn’t been shot.” That Derek was sure on. He’d been with the group only days and he’d been shot for his trouble. If it wasn’t for needing the medical care, there was no way he would have stuck around.
“Who the hell cares if you’re a ‘group person’ or not? You think it’s better out there?” He couldn’t be serious. Sure, he butt heads with a lot of people on the farm, but... Christ, was he suicidal? Her voice betrayed her as well--not irritated, not argumentative: truly concerned. And she didn’t even realize it.
Derek noticed though and it was easier to pick up on that and try to make light of it than really answer her question. “Gee, Meg, keep talking like that and I might start to think you like me.”
Her brows pinched above the freckles on her nose: an expression that went cutely with the way her lips pursed, then twitched very faintly into one cheek. She scoffed and shook her head with the smirk. “Well who the fuck would I argue with if you left? I need you for entertainment.” That wasn’t exactly a blatant lie as it was a bend of the truth. She did not want Derek to get hurt, and in her opinion, leaving the farm was the best way of doing that.
Before he could stop himself, Derek smiled. “Go give Tom shit. The guy could use a laugh.” He still wasn’t explaining why he needed to leave and it seemed strange to joke with Meghan now. Not when it felt like she knew too much about him.
Meg’s smirk only deepened. She could hear the smile in his voice plain as he could hear her concern earlier. It felt like a victory, but more importantly, it was a step toward relief. It wouldn’t be complete until she knew he wasn’t planning on taking off on his own... back out to those redneck meth-heads he’d met before.
“I do give him shit--and I feel he still looks at me like I have antlers or a third arm.” Different, in other words. Not necessarily a bad thing, but she got the distinct feeling the veteran had absolutely no idea what to do with her, simply because she was blind.
“He’s just like me, then.” Derek had made no secret that he felt there were things Meg should not be doing because she was blind. Besides the blind thing though, Derek found himself intrigued by her as a person. When she wasn’t pissing him off.
“No, Tom’s not an asshole.” She smiled when she said it though. Only a little, but it was genuine. “You should take that as a compliment, though...” Meg arranged herself in the armchair, still trying to find a comfortable spot. She settled with her legs draped over one arm, her hair over the other. “At least you’re not afraid to try and offend me--you fail miserably, but I appreciate the effort.”
“You’ll just have to find someone else to piss you off.” A couple of jokes weren’t enough to change his mind and the point remained that he still intended to leave.
Meg was quiet for a moment: her face aimed toward the ceiling as his words bounced around her head. Her lips pressed and rolled, and she stopped trying to just suppress or redirect the constricted feeling in her chest that came with the thought of him gone. Not just leaving for some other place--but gone. As in, with finality.
The thought twisted her stomach in knots, and made her taste bile. Like him or not--she was attached to the douchebag.
“Don’t leave...” She said finally, after the pause. Nothing hidden or twisted in her words. It was a plea, straight out and honest.
Derek took advantage of his sight, watching Meg in her chair in the low light from the lantern. She genuinely looked upset and Derek was surprised at the way her words twisted in his gut. He felt suddenly as if he was filled with lead.
“Don’t...” It took him a second to figure out what he didn’t want Meg to do. “Don’t make me feel bad. You know too much about me already. Don’t make me feel bad.”
Making him feel bad wasn’t her intention, but if it kept him there--if it kept him safe-- she might have to resort to that, but for now, she just tried honesty, and maybe a little logic to cover up the genuine emotional ache that was driving the whole thing.
“So what, I know too much about you...” Which really was barely anything at all. Derek wasn’t exactly an open book. Certainly not a book in Braille, on top of it. “What does that matter? How can an irritating blind woman cause you any trouble?” She smiled in his direction, hoping to at least convey her subtle point. “Everyone has their demons here.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here. I do better alone, where I can look out for myself.” Derek wanted to be away. No more late night guarding shifts, no more arguments, no more trying to figure out why what happened between he and Meg at the fence affected him so much. Someplace where he wouldn’t have to think about Alice possibly being crazy or getting attacked because people weren’t trustworthy and they had a lot of supplies. Just away.
“Then where exactly were you supposed to be?” Meg injected quickly. She tried very hard not to put the edge on her words that would’ve been there naturally, because she wasn’t trying to goad him into another spar. She was trying to get him to see how irrational he sounded. Of course, she went on before he could answer. Something that took her voice down low, and emphasized all the seriousness she had invested in the conversation. “Hanging from a tree?”
Derek took a quick breath in his shock and the sound was a low hiss. She had no right going there. “Don’t.” There was an edge in his voice warning of a line dangerously close to being crossed.
She didn’t push it further. Meg knew perfectly well that her words would’ve been harsh, but he needed that proverbial slap in the face. She sat up from the her ‘casual’ lay in the chair and crossed the room, using furniture landmarks and memorized floor-plan as her guide. When her hand found the table he sat at, she trailed it to the chair nearby.
She sat, leaning her arms on her knees facing Derek squarely. She knew he was in front of her--she could hear him breathing and smell the soap on his skin. Only a hint of her original blue and green irises peeked out from the oddly opalescent cataracts that caught the rest of her eyes like a cat’s at night. From her angle, they were aimed at his chest.
“Please don’t leave. We need you here, and as unhappy as you are, its only gotta be worse out there.”
Derek wanted to make a joke, to tell Meg that his ‘eyes are up here, princess.’ He didn’t. Instead he stared back across at Meg. “You can find another guy to swing a a hammer...” Derek’s voice was quieter now, almost plaintive - as if Derek was asking for Meg’s permission to leave.
She sighed through her nose, and let her shoulders deflate. The majority of her hair captured in a pony tail that lay draped over one shoulder, shifted when she shook her head. “I’m sure we could find a lot of things. That still doesn’t justify you being gone.”
“Why?” Why was the key question here. Why stay; why go; why? “Why should I stay? What;s here? A roof over my head and food? I can find that somewhere else.”
A look of confusion crossed Meg’s features quickly, like she didn’t understand what he just said. Or possibly, like it was the stupidest question she’d ever heard.
“I don’t want you to leave.” Her voice fell, raw with honesty and nothing else. It was as blunt as she knew how to be at that moment.
Derek couldn’t ignore the twist in his chest knowing not only that someone wanted him but that Meg wanted him. He didn’t answer, at least not out loud. Instead, Derek continued whatever it was that had happened between them the other day and leaned across the space between them to kiss her.
She heard the subtle shift in his weight on the chair, signalling movement--but nothing had prepared her for the sudden and unmistakable pressure of lips on her own. Instantly, her breath seized in her chest, and she tensed on instinct. She hadn’t been kissed since... Michael. Her husband, dead for all she could let herself imagine in the pessimistic gloom that had become their world. Almost a year had gone by with little more physical contact than someone’s hand, a shoulder.. a face now and then under her fingertips, but a kiss...
She hadn’t pulled away. Not in the first instant, when she was sure her heart stopped from surprise (this was Derek), and not in the moments that followed--her body screamed confusions and longings that erupted like a dry field under touch of a lightning bolt. Meghan’s sightless eyes closed, and before she realized it, she was kissing him back.
Derek had expected Meg to cuss him out or maybe take a swing at him, so the feel of her kissing him back was a pleasant surprise. In an odd piece of circular logic, kissing Meg made him realize just how much he wanted to be kissing her. He certainly wanted to keep kissing her and visions of being able to take this somewhere more private flashed through his mind. First though, he got even with her. Meg had traced his face and now, as he brought his hand up to her cheek, it was his turn.
Meg was a bit breathless: her body was overrun with confusion-and-surprised-laced instinct and made her own hands tremble in the slightest way. The feel of his palm on her cheek was a rough familiarity, touched by long hours of work and an uncertainty that paused her own hand on it’s way to--well, it didn’t have an aim. Besides the breath-laced kiss, she felt frozen: stuck between the force of guilt and foreboding, and the knowledge that she wasn’t fighting it, and didn’t want to...
Then the decision was made for her by a low, gravelled growl: extremely familiar to Meg as the voice of the protective animal that never left her side. Sarge shoved his huge head under Meg’s hand and chin, effectively pushing the two apart, and stood rather defensively staring at Derek. Her eyes opened on instinct, and the hand closest to the dog laid on his head (following it down to his collar) and gently pulled him back. “Settle...” She whispered, still shaken by what just happened. “I’m--I’m sorry...” For what? She wanted to reach across the space and touch the cheekbone she’d felt earlier in the week, and trace his lips with her thumb... but her fingers were trembling. “He’s.. really protective.”
It took Derek a second to find his voice, overwhelmed by what had just happened, how much he wanted to do it again and the knowledge that he had never disliked an animal more than he hated the dog right now. “It’s okay, mutt,” he finally got out. “I’m not hurting her.”
Derek pulled his hand back but what he wanted to do was find her own and guide them to him, to tell Meg that he was right here so she could find him and they could go back to kissing.
“It’s not that...” Meg was still breathless, and he could probably hear the shaking in her voice, but she let the words trail off... squeezing her eyes shut as they aimed down at the floor. Unable to complete the thought. You’re not Michael hung sickly in the back of her throat. She choked the words down, unable to face them. Unable to give them credit. Michael was dead. He was dead... not suffering somewhere in this shit-hole of a country when she was safe and warm and kissing another man.
Finally, she forced a breath hard through open lips and turned her face back up toward Derek’s voice. One hand stayed on Sarge’s collar while the other tentatively reached upward in search of the source of the voice in front of her. Her fingertips grazed his chin first, then traveled with a feather’s touch over the corner of his mouth and on up over his cheek--catching bits she had missed out by the fence. It wasn’t just the exploring touch it had been then, but something that was a bit deeper, even if she wouldn’t recognize it verbally.
Derek was struck again how intimate this felt and he held perfectly still for her at first. He didn’t want to do anything that would make her pull her hand away. When he did finally move, it was only to gently trace a fingertip across the back of her hand. “So, how do I look?”
That cracked a smile on the woman’s face. It leaned a little into one dimple, but there was a sense of relief in that grin. It broke a certain bit of tension that felt like it was choking her. Her thumb lightly traced the upward sweep of his cheek, then down the bridge of his nose and onto his lips--she was genuinely appreciative for this one simple gesture, even if it felt like it carried all the weight that the impromptu kiss had. He’d have to forgive her: this was just a lot easier at the moment. That, and Sarge wouldn’t wedge himself between them for the time being.
“Fugliest Princess I’ve ever known.” She teased in familiar territory, but with triple the affection that was usually in her jibes and nicknames. The lines of her throat tensed lightly as she swallowed, and turned her hand to take hold of the one that was tracing it. This was all still ...overwhelming, and a strange mix of comfort and discomfort. She held his hand between her own, his palm up and cradled by her’s, fingertips traced lines like a palm reader--just mapping a sight most people took for granted.
“Please. I’m hot. What are you, blind?” He smiled at Meg, watching her trace the lines of his palm and surprised at how good it felt. It was hard not to be selfish and want to do some of the touching but he could see her and it didn’t seem fair to interrupt what passed for her own sight.
For a moment, she was sorry she’d taken her hand away from his face so soon, because she could hear the smile in his voice, and wanted so much to know what it ‘looked’ like. Her own reaction was a low, throaty chuckle.
What are you doing... the little voice in the back of Meghan’s head chimed in, pausing the gentle touch on his hand. She didn’t know how to answer it. She didn’t know to begin with. She was silent for a long moment, her expression one of contemplation and a heartache that she rarely showed or talked about. Meg had to make a decision, similar in stakes as Derek’s own to talk about what had happened before he came to this group. Something that would effect them both for days...weeks... who knew how long.
She lifted his palm to her lips, and pressed a kiss there--gentle, but less pensive than their earlier embrace. Her words and breath tickled the sensitive skin there before she lowered it. “I need to...” She trailed off, rolling her lips lightly... as if that could rebuild her composure. “I have to take a step back.” God, why was that so hard to say? She followed it quickly: “It’s just... it’s been so long.” Please understand...
Where Derek had been languid and relaxed, suddenly he tightened, straightening up and leaning away from her. It had been too long? In Derek’s opinion, too long was a good reason to press forward. He wasn’t even sure what a step back was. That this was all she could right now? That this was all she could do ever? Tom would be down soon and Derek would go to bed; when he woke up, would they pretend this never happened?
“What exactly is a step back?”
His sudden withdraw was as unexpected as the advance that had started the whole thing, in that Meg caught her breath again. Half of her felt relieved and wanted to follow suit. The other half screamed at her.
A shaky sigh pushed through her lips. “You caught me way off guard...” And I surprised myself. Meg pressed her hands to her hands to her knees and stood, but slowly, bracing a palm on the table to keep her bearings. “I just--” Another breath, though this one was more cleansing than tentative. When she spoke again, it felt more calm--a little more in control of the raging chaos that was between her mind and heart (not to mention the physical aspect).
“Please...” The hand on the table made a soft, smooth guess at where his shoulder was--and found it. It moved along the solid ridge of muscle under fabric to graze his throat, giving her a beacon. Meg leaned in, and pressed her lips to the ones her thumb had softly traced. She whispered against them afterward. “gimme a little time to catch up.”
Derek still wasn’t sure what a little time meant: if she needed the rest of the night, the rest of the day, or the rest of the week. But the kiss was comforting and he was shocked that he was suddenly in a position to need comfort. If Meg needed time though, he didn’t have much of a choice but give it to her.
“Okay,” he agreed. “I really didn’t see this coming either. Sure as hell didn’t plan for it.”
Sarge was especially tense when they were close, but she still held him back with one hand on the collar. A half-smile pulled back when she did, and though her fingertips lightly squeezed his shoulder before she pulled away completely, they were obviously quivering. “Thank you, Cream Puff.” The moniker game was comforting: familiar in this completely unknown territory between them. Meg felt like her knees were made of jelly when she and Sarge tried to traverse the kitchen toward the hallway, and ultimately her bedroom. Her mind was electric and fuzzy--unclear as static.
As soon as Meg was out of sight, Derek exhaled loudly, nearly collapsing into his chair.Meg wasn’t the only one with some thinking to do; Derek had no idea how he’d gone from convinced he was leaving to kissing a blind woman. He no longer felt he was leaving but he’d replaced the decision to go with so much indecision and confusion. Running through everything was an undercurrent of want. Derek had no idea how he was going to get to sleep and even less idea what his life would be like when he got up.