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05 August 2011 @ 10:01 pm
fic: synthesis  
word: synthesis

Old country music plays from the jukebox. Scout gets up from the table with two quarters to go change the song. She complained about the sound of ripped piano wires and yodeling inbreds before he searched his coat pocket.

He orders their food while she’s up; two Monday night specials, extra onions for her, no lettuce for him. He orders two beers, but when she gets back she says all she wants is water.

“You sure?” he asks taking a sip of the bottle in front him.

She looks at it like it’s going to sting her or something. “Yeah.” She pushes it towards him and drinks her water.

He’s almost done with his dinner while she’s only munched on a few French fries, ripped a part the bun, but she’s downed three glasses of water. The look in her eyes far off, like her answers are in the bottom of her cup, between the ice cubes. Her thumb nail bleeds and she doesn’t seem to notice anymore.

“Hey,” he says, touching her hand. She finally looks at him, tilting her head. She licks her lips. “Are you okay?”

She sort of smiles, one of those half-smiles that people normally put on for show. “Yeah. I’m just tired. Thinking about where to go for my next article.” She hasn’t written a piece for the magazine in almost a month.

He knows that she’s lying; you don’t spend four years with someone and not know their lie-face. He thinks she’s still mad at him because of the hunt. Exorcised an angry spirit that had a lot of fun tussling him about the tiny house, throwing his body against the wall, flinging pots towards his head and chest. He taunted it ruthlessly while she read out the incantation. She thinks he’s too reckless.

The cheesy country starts up again as Cam is on his third beer. “Jesus,” she mutters and sticks out her hand for more quarters.

“These are my last two.” He digs deep in his pockets.

“Whatever.” She snatches them and walks away. He watches her intently, through the smoke and dim lights. The curve of her ass, the peeks of her tattoo over the line of her jeans as she bends a bit at the jukebox. Flowers and leaves dancing from one hip to the other.

He orders a shot of whiskey to make the throb in his shoulder stop. She asks the waitress for a box and another glass of water.

“You wanna head outta here?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Like to, before that awful music starts again.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

She rolls her eyes, “Oh please.” Stands and takes the box, then leans over him, her breasts in his face as she reaches into his coat pocket. He grips her hips and she kisses his forehead before pulling back, dangling the car keys on her thumb. “Come on, tiger.”


Inside the motel room he has her pinned against the door as soon as it closes, his hands slipped under her shirt and skirting over her stomach, then back to her hips. She drops the food on the dresser and tilts back her head, letting him bite, press his body hard against hers.

She mmms as he undoes her jeans, slowly pulls down the zipper, a tease. His fingers finding the waistband of her underwear, dipping underneath the stretchy material. She gasps and thrusts against his hand.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers along her ear, kissing her jaw, then her mouth, dragging his teeth against her tongue.

“Ah, ah,” she says grimly, touching the center of his chest. “You need to brush your teeth.”

“Seriously?” he scrunches his brow.

She takes her hand and runs it over his jeans. “Do it for me.” She bats her eyelashes and palms his erection through the material. He retracts his hand and goes to the bathroom.

The light causes him to squint and he knocks over the toothpaste into the trashcan. He stares a moment, as if the tube will magically pop out of the bin and back into his hand. After a minute or two, he concedes and kneels over, digging through the can until his fingers brush hard plastic. Then another.

He pulls out two sticks, two pregnancy tests and sets them on the sink. Each stick has tiny double blue lines almost fuzzed together. He looks at the sticks, then back into the room.

She’s lying on her side, head propped up on her hand, shirt off, but her jeans and bra still on, her breasts ready to fall out of the lace material. It surprises him, that most of the time under her t-shirts and jeans, her grungy hunting gear, she wears Victoria’s Secret, lace and silk and that he can’t ever wait to get off.

“What’s your problem?” she asks, pulling him out of his gaze, his thoughts of biting past the lace.

The light in the bathroom is still harsh as he reaches in and comes back with the tests in his hand. He walks closer to the bed, so she can see what he has. “We gotta talk about something?”

“Oh.” She sits up and stares at his hand, like she’s left one of her books in his way. “That. I was going to mention it tomorrow.”

“You took two.” He puts them on the nightstand.

“Dude, I peed on those.”

They sit next to a bottle of water and her watch. He ignores her and sits on the bed, his back to her. The mattress creaks with his weight, with her stirring. They’re saving right now, slumming it a bit. Not the fancy hotels the magazine pays for. Have a few more payments left on the cottage. His head still buzzes from the two shots of whiskey and the beer. “They accurate?”

“I think so.” He hears her ruffling her hair. “That’s why I took two.”

The mattress moves with her as she crawls towards him. She presses her front to his back, draping one arm over his shoulder, the other around his waist. Her face pressed to his neck, he can feel her words from her lips as she speaks. “I was going to tell you tomorrow,” she says.

“Are things…” he scratches his head, tilts back a bit to see her. She doesn’t really let him; she’s latched on pretty tight. “Okay?” his voice shakes at the possibility of the answer no. He remembers the heavy weight of her body as he carried her to the car, a trip to the hospital where they told them she’d miscarried and had an infection.

“Seem to be.” She lets go of him, leans back. When he turns to her she’s sitting cross-legged, her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t this sick last time,” she says in passing, then kind of smiles.

Suddenly she’s the warmest and holiest thing he’s ever seen. “So, like, this is really happening?”

“Unless you can think of a reason why it shouldn’t.” She shrugs, but still has a bit of that smile. There are a million reasons why it shouldn’t. Their work, the threat of demons and vampires. He didn’t have a real job.

“How uh, how long?” he clears his throat.

She scratches her head. “Like, ten weeks? Maybe eleven.”

“That long?”

Her face drops. “We’ve been busy.”

One tiny writing assignment, three jobs. They hardly had a second to breathe, much less discuss anything.


He can’t take his eyes off her, he tries to pinpoint where maybe she’s changed. But she doesn’t look any different; no extra weight, no bumps or bulges.

She sort of just sits there, still. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of her chest, he’d think she was a statue, a doll. He leans in close.

He devours her mouth, sucks on her tongue, tasting the very little bit of lemon from her water. She smiles through the kiss and as he maneuvers their bodies, she’s on her back, he hovers over her, working her jeans down and off, nuzzling her breasts. His nails trail down her sides, to her hips, over her thighs, back to her stomach, where he places a shaking hand under navel. As if he could feel, or sense the life that she was making. His body goes ridge, his breathing stutters.

“Hey,” she says, one hand touching the side of his face. He ducks his head and kisses her palm. “We’re going to be okay, right?” now her voice threads a bit, coming undone. He wonders how hard it was for her to hold it in, keep this secret alone until she knew things were going to be okay. He doesn’t blame her. Not after last time when he was the one that fell apart and she held him together.

“Absolutely.” He kisses her palms and wrists, the insides of her elbows. She giggles when he kisses down her belly again, runs one hand along her ribs.

“Stop,” she says, lacing their fingers together, but he keeps kissing her stomach, resting his head there. He hears her stomach digesting, his head rises and falls with her breaths. She cards her fingers through his hair, scratches along his ear. “Love you,” she whispers. Always like it’s a secret, like she’s not sure if she does or not, or if he’s been lying to her the last few years.

He nods, squeezing her close, presses his lips to her skin again.