The Proposal, Part 8/?

[jade--paper.livejournal.com]

Title: "The Proposal"
Author: jade__paper
Email: rice_kristi@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: BB/DM
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and mean no disrespect in writing this. <3
Author's notes: I am so. Sorry. For the wait. Goodness, don't you all want to kill me? I'm so sorry. I can't apologize enough. I didn't mean for it to take so long. News of the good sort though. I'm not feeling as lost in this story as I did before. It's on it's own now -- meaning that I just can't control where it's going anymore. I'm oddly confused as to how long it's going to be. Ah, well. -is stabbed to death by angry group of fangirls- Thank you for commenting: natureofme, trash_puppet, gabsy, hobbits_r_cute, irish_cocktail, aire_blair



Good morning. Welcome to Manchester Airport.

I don't know what I am doing here.

Me and my rash decisions, it's ridiculous. I just want to take it all back, all of it, never having even met him, and then maybe I'd be normal, married, kids.

But that can't happen, don't dwell in the past. That's what he told me once.

And now I can't help but thinking, does he love me at all, even if just as a friend? That would be a starting point.

A starting point is all I need. And I think the best place to start would be at home, and I realize that home is wherever he is.

I think maybe I came here to come home, when really, all I've done is stray farther away from it.

- - - - -

It is on the cab ride back to my home, although now I'm not sure that's what I should call it, back to safety, perhaps, that I realize he still has my book.

So, when I get out of the cab, and I pay the man, I get in after a lengthy search for my keys.

And for once, I have messages. They all sound the same.

"Hullo, I think we need--" Deleted.

"Hey, where've you been, eh? I'm--" Deleted.

"I hope you're not just sitting on your--" Deleted.

"I really have to tell you something about--" Deleted.

The last one I listened to really got my hopes up. But I give up and just delete them all. For the best, I tell myself.

Really, I don't think that's true.

Maybe it's time to move on.

- - - - -

He hasn't called me since I've gotten back. I don't know if I'm thankful or sorry. But sometimes things just happen the way they're supposed to. Am I just to get some lesson out of this, the kind I don't figure out until something major has happened?

I think about it.

Everything will be fine, I tell myself.

Then I make the mistake of answering my phone.

But we all make mistakes, don't we?

Reasonably predictable. "It's been a while," he says. "Have you checked your mail yet?" I haven't. "Well, maybe you should." And end call.

My mailbox is overflowing, rubbish, mostly.

But there are a few things, two or three bills, a card, and a package.

I try to look over the bills first, to be practical, but I open the package and there's my book. It doesn't look any different, or smell any different, and I'm sure none of the story's changed. I remember when I was sick, and I was reading. I look through the pages, I try to find it. What if it's not there anymore? If he's gone and erased it?

But I do find it, and I read the start again.

Still living in your mother's basement
We're still trapped in this glass encasement
Erase that, let's face it
Lead me into onto that stairway to heaven
Flights are eleven, maybe to hell

And then I turn the page, and it's highlighted in green, and I can't tell if it was highlighted before or not.

Even in hell, there is a chance still
If among fire and brimstone, conditions ill
A flower can bloom
Then in a concrete jungle soon
Against the odds, among the frauds
A love can too

And I see now. It's not my handwriting.

It's his.



01., 02., 03., 04., 05., 06., 07., 07 1/2.