(no subject)

[correctiveshoes621]

She heard the heavy front door close, downstairs, and the clink and jingle of his keys as he tossed them into the ornate brass dish on the vestibule table.

That's odd, she thought. He was home awfully early..



Knowing him - and her - she'd figured she'd had at least three to four more hours to herself. Her only plan had been NOT to think about what was occurring - but to just schmoke up a bit, put an almond-oatmeal masque on her face, and paint her toenails. Blasting music, of course..She'd gotten no further, really, than the application of said masque and had been about to light up the bowl when she'd heard his tread upon the stairs. Quickly, she grabbed a facecloth and began to scrub the masque off her skin. It was like mortar, this stuff, and, in a panic, she splashed water all over herself in an effort to get it off.

She was drying her face with a towel as she opened the door in time to see him rush past her down the hallway in a blur of white. Briskly. Not even giving her a glance, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Hmmm. What had happened? She felt an icy finger tap at her heart.

..and a guilty one, at that.

'...peter brian?', she said, in a small voice, 'You're home pretty early..'

There was no answer. Only the sound of him kicking his deck shoes off onto the carpet.

There was still a bit of light, left in the sky, and it flowed into the darkening room, and showed his clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor. SO not like him. They lay as if he'd taken them off as he'd gone..first the shirt..then, the trousers..then, the shoes, one by one..There was the sound of the toilet flushing and then the water in the bedroom sink, as he washed his hands. He came out of the bathroom in his underwear - his face, clearly shaken at her sudden appearance - and then went straight for the bed. He pulled the covers aside and crawled under them, rolling towards the wall, away from her; then pulling said covers up almost to the top of his head.

It was barely seven 'o clock in the evening. Was he sick? Did he get too much sun on the boat?

...and why hadn't he showered? I mean, if they'd...

'peter brian? Are you okay?', she asked, timidly.

The only answer she received was an unintelligible gruff-sounding mumble. The springs creaked as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached out and pulled the covers down..just a little...and reached out to feel his forehead.

He sat up in a flash, growling, 'Can't you see I just want to get some sleep?'

She pulled back her hand in a hurry, shocked, and stood up quickly and backed away a couple of steps.

'Christ, you grouch, what the fuck, Pete..' She knew that he hated it when anyone called him, 'Pete'. He sighed, heavily.

'Just..let me sleep.', he said, still not looking at her, then lay back down in the bed again, covering his head.

*~*~*

She came back up the stairs a little while later, with a tray of tea and his favorite cookies. As she got to the doorway, she paused, still concerned; with her free hand out and about to turn the knob.

She heard..a faint noise....a sort of..squeaking..Yes; there it was, again.