Title: The Importance of Knowing
Author: AJ (another_juxtaposition@hotmail.com)
Notes: CJ/Toby, little over 500 words for the bordello's future tense
fic challenge. 

* 

She knows: She isn't a fairy tale, won't ever want one; regardless, 
will always struggle with a definition of what they are. Mobility, 
flexibility, the secrets to survival, and though he will follow 
anywhere, baggage can't always be checked at the counter. She never 
asked for an anchor, never thought that perhaps she wasn't the one 
listlessly drifting. 

He will share his bed and she will steal the covers. 

He won't yell, not really. He might push her off the bed, kissing her 
red elbows while she laughs, might roll over and tug gently at the 
blankets until she is drawn to him, closer, closer. Part of her will 
always want to run from him. Part of her can't breathe without him. 

She will dream of being buried alive, hands clawing at the coffin, her 
coffin, and he will keep throwing dirt down. His eyes too full of tears 
to see the subtle shift of the surface, Orpheus inverted. It will be 
her dream and she will embrace it, somewhere hating its message so 
clear and uncomplicated. Somewhere hating how complex it is. How 
complex they are. 

At first he will try to wake her from her nightmare, holding her, 
whispering. She will turn away, shrugging out of his arms. Eventually 
he will give up, hiding behind sleep. She will know, of course, what 
she is doing. She will always know. 

Later, much later, she'll make him coffee and he will be well founded 
in his suspicions. She will say (she has rehearsed in front of the 
bathroom mirror) "I hate myself when I'm with you," and he responds, "I
 know." Breathing, heavy eyes on her skin. "But I don't."  

The urge to hit him with "That's not the fucking point" will be 
overwhelming, but too easy. She knows he is waiting for it, knows she 
craves that excuse to yell, to scream, to tear her hair. He will give 
her all of him, but never that. So instead she loses thirty, forty 
years, pleading with wide eyes. "Why? Why?" Repeating, broken, 
believing that no answer could ever be enough. It won't be how she 
envisioned. He always goes off his lines, knowing he can find better 
words.

And he, with all those words, will be quiet. He will touch her there, 
and there, and in between. She'll finger his hair, wanting to resist, 
wanting release. She gives in to his lips, to his skin, to his 
carefully placed fingers and he has always known more than she wanted 
to acknowledge. 

In daylight, when his eyes are stroking her, she'll often hate him. 
When darkness falls, she'll hand herself to him, exposed and bare. He 
will ask her about days, weeks, months, (years unspoken) ahead. She 
will dream of fingernails against polished wood every other night, then
 once a week, but he always lets her shake alone. She'll never 
understand why he's still there in the morning, but eventually, she'll 
learn that why isn't important, but rather, how. 

She will never ask for him (never has to ask). And she will never say 
yes, but gives him the keys to her car and leaves the escape route 
unplanned.

He knows: He will always love her. 

*