|Are You The One That I've Been Waiting For?
Author: Acepilot6 PM
No.14 in the Road series, now reposted without lyrics. Tommy tries to hook up with Lil. But things are never easy, especially where love is concerned. Please review.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Tommy P. & Lil D. - Words: 2,404 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 1 - Published: 07-14-05 - Status: Complete - id: 2484986
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
You) The One That I've Been Waiting For
AN - No.14 in the "Road" series, a spin-off of an idea given to me by Americanpride911. I almost left the series at 13 stories, because "The Rain" seemed like a great note to end it on - but I just couldn't bring myself to leave it all behind...This isn't a songfic in the strictest sense - the same way that "The Rain" wasn't. It was inspired by the song of the same name (written by Nick Cave, the lyrics are at the end of the fic). It's TL, again. Making up for lost time, I guess. This is how they got together in the "Road" universe. To those who asked - I won't be doing their wedding. Or at least, I don't plan to. Please r&r.
Disclaimer - The characters of Tommy, Lil and the rest of the AGU cast are property of KlaskyCsupo. The song is by Nick Cave, property of Mute Song. And the plot is mine.
"I love you."
No. Too heavy.
"I love you."
Too nasal. I sound like Chuckie.
"I love you."
My voice has broken. Trust me.
I hang my head in my hands and despair at the possibility of ever going through with this. I once asked Phil what the key to talking to girls was, he shrugged and said that if he knew, he'd have a girlfriend.
Somehow I think there's more to
it than that.
I love you is, however, perhaps a bit bold to say first up. Maybe I should ease into it. Ask her on a date or something. A nice, simple gesture. "Do you want to go to a movie?" See, my voice didn't even crack once.
But it's also not what I want to say, and I know it. And she'll know it. Don't ask me how she'll know it, she'll just know it. It's an inevitability. Girls know these things. You've got to watch yourself. When a female asks you "So is that all," it means that you've got something else you want to say, whether you know it or not.
"I love you."
"I never knew you had such affection for the bed," a voice behind me says, and I jump off the chair and land in an ungraceful and somewhat painful heap on the floor. I peer up at the sight of my brother smirking at me, shaking his head slowly. "When you outgrow it we're going to be in trouble."
I glare at Dil and clamber to my feet. "Don't you have anything better to do than sneak up on people?"
"Eavesdrop," Dil offered. "So, I assume you're picturing Lil in the bed?"
"That's who you keep saying I love you to? And asking to the movies. And for coffee. And at least once to go to the wierd sushi-bar thingy on the west side of town -"
I throw a pillow at him, and he shuts up. But I know it's only momentary.
Moment's up. "Don't you think professing an undying love is a bit strong for an opening line?"
"Yes," I agree, reluctantly. "But it's all I've got that she'll believe."
He giggles uncontrollably. "I won't disagree with that. I know I wouldn't believe it if someone invited me to go to the park to poison pigeons as a first date."
I glare at him once more. "I was listening to Hey Mr. Producer."
"I know, but I'm never going to let you live it down, now."
The movies was a bad idea. I knew it was a bad idea, she knew that I didn't want to be there, and the resulting vibes I was giving her probably suggested that I didn't want to be with her.
Should have opened straight off with "I love you." Get less confusion that way.
But it's a bugger of a phrase. People never seem to know whether they want to hear it or not. It's very hit and miss. "No, no, you don't love me. It's too soon." Or, alternatively, you could get in a fight that you haven't said it often enough. Or at all. Love is irritating when defined like that, like a measure of commitment. Where did saying "I love you," become a marker of a relationship? Where did it stop being this beautiful term of affection? Because, let's face it, if you have to hear someone say "I love you," to you, then you really don't get it. Because, when you love someone, you don't have to hear it. You know. They know. And vocalizing it is great. But it shouldn't be necessary. It should be a mutual understanding - no, wait, that sounds too much like a business deal. It should be known, to the both of you, and words shouldn't be needed.
There's a film in here somewhere that I'm itching to make.
"Something on your mind, Tommy?"
I turn to look at her. First mistake. Never look directly at a girl you're in love with and expect to be able to make coherent conversation for at least fifteen seconds. Her long hair is bunched in a ponytail - she's finally let it grow out, partially as a rebellion against twindom again, I think - while that red, teasing streak dangles over her brow, standing out almost painfully vibrantly against the uniform brown of the rest of her hair. It makes me want to run a finger through it.
I'm a little weird.
"What do you mean?"
She buries her hands in her jacket pockets as we walk onward. "You've been quiet all night."
"Oh." I knew that. I was kind of hoping she wouldn't notice, but slim chance there. "Sorry."
"Nah, it's okay." But it's not, and we both know it.
"I love you," I tell her.
Hang on. I do what?
She might have gasped "What?", but I'm not sure. It's a definite possibility. Even if she didn't, the expression on her face says it all. Her eyes are wide. They're normally pretty wide, but this is extremist.
"It's...I wanted to say it," I mutter. That's not what I wanted to say then, either.
I turn back to look at her again, and she's staring at her feet. Her eyes haven't shrunk again. They're practically out on stalks, and it's beginning to creep me out. "Oh."
"Look, I just - "
"Tommy, I think I'm going to walk the rest of the way on my own," she says.
Oh god. I've screwed this up. I've said three words and I've screwed it all up.
"Lil - wait - "
"Tommy, I think that we shouldn't talk about this anymore."
She's starting to speed up, and I'm having to walk even faster to keep pace with her. I've got a bigger stride, but she's determined. "Why not?"
She doesn't stop. "Because this isn't right."
Oh, this could not go worse. But I can't seem to stop. "How isn't it right?"
Finally she stops, but I can already see tears brimming her eyes. "Because we're best friends, Tommy. Best friends shouldn't have this kind of discussion. Best friends should come to each other with problems, best friends should be there for each other when they've been dumped. Best friends should talk about guy problems, and girl problems. But best friends shouldn't say 'I love you,' not like that." She sniffs, and it's the first breath I can remember her taking since she started talking. "And best friends shouldn't get together. No matter what."
There are a million things I want to say right now. But I don't know how any of them can make this situation better.
I don't even offer a feeble "but..." as she walks away. I just watch her.
"I love you," I whisper under my breath, and my voice doesn't crack once.
It's past three in the morning but I can't sleep. It's past three in the morning and I'm sitting up, sitting on my desk chair and staring at my bed. Because if I lay in bed, then I roll over and look out the window, and she's out the window.
There's nothing to do at three in the morning. Chuckie once told me that he writes a lot in the middle of the night. I can't really do that with filmmaking. It has to be spontaneous, and being spontaneous at three in the morning without other people around is not exactly my forte. I need other people to play off if I want to make films.
I've played two hands of Solitaire. I read three Garfield books, and two Peanuts anthologies. The big ones. It's been five hours since I left my room, and I haven't slept a wink. And I'm not tired. Not even anything resembling tired.
I am, however, kind of thirsty.
The water from the kitchen sink is, no matter how much I put the cold tap on, still warm. I down the glass quickly, pouring myself another one and drink that swiftly as well, setting the glass down on the bench and heading back toward the stairs. Back to my prison, back to my room. Back to the chair, and the window.
It's past three in the morning, and there's a knock at the door.
I have a feeling I know who it'll be. But despite that, I have to struggle to reach the knob, I have to fight my own instincts, telling me to ignore it and go upstairs, in order to unlock the deadbolts and open the front door.
"How did you know I was up?" I ask her, not moving to let her in.
"I saw your kitchen light on," she whispers. Whether they're the tears she cried before that I'm hearing on her voice, or new ones, ones that she's cried in the seven hours since I saw her flee from me, I'm not sure. But either way, the effect is the same.
"You were watching?" I query, surprised.
She nods. "I...I do that, sometimes."
I don't know whether to be flattered or freaked. "I really don't know what to say to that."
"You weren't meant to," she says quickly. "Tommy...I'm...I'm sorry."
I raise an eyebrow. "You're sorry?"
She shakes her head. "No, I'm not. It's the wrong word." She hugs her floor-length coat - it's Phil's trademark one, I realize - closer to her, and begins pacing, her hands moving erratically, gesturing to accompany non-existent words. "I'm..."
She doesn't know what she's trying to say. But I have a fairly good idea.
So I grab one of her hands in mid gesture. "Don't worry about it."
"You were saying these amazing things I'd wanted to hear for so long," she says, her voice quiet but not whispering. "And I was afraid."
"I was scared to say it," I tell her, and she hears, and she listens, but I'm not sure that she acknowledges it then and there. Which is fair enough.
"I was afraid that, if I told you how I felt, and we did something - anything - then we'd regret it, or we'd ruin it, or something. And you know me, you know what happens with me and guys - "
"I'm not guys," I cut her off. "I'm me. I'm different."
"Yeah, but...it's still -"
"I know," I assure her, and realize I'm absentmindedly stroking her hand with my thumb. "I know."
"I'm scared of this, Tommy," she says. She's barely an inch away from me, and I can feel her breath heavy on my face. And it's like the sweetest thing I've ever felt.
"I'm terrified as well," I tell her. "But we can do this together. That's what best friends do, isn't it?"
She nods, and I cup her cheek with my other hand. "We can do this?"
"Unless you don't want to," I assure her.
She shakes her head feverishly. "I want to, I want to. I just..."
I kiss her at that moment, and she's thankfully stopped talking, and stopped trying to talk. I don't know what I've just gotten myself in for, or how to do it. But I've got her in my arms, and I'm kissing her, and I've never felt anything like it in my life.
"I love you," I tell her when we part.
"I love you too," she returns, and kisses me again. "I should go home."
"Are you going to?" I ask, kissing her softly but insistently, pushing the oversized coat off her shoulders, letting it collapse to the floor. Phil'll be narked if it gets wrinkled, but I can't bring myself to care.