weep for yourself, my man; you&#39;ll never be what is in your heart

Fletcher never calls unless there's a problem or a new development she's to be made aware of. Needless to say, she does not have a good feeling when the phone starts to ring and his name flashes on the screen.

The narration does not want to know what the ringtone is anymore.

"Fletcher," she says in a level voice. She stands, moves into the kitchen, and gets herself a beer.

This ought to be good.

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Please, Sam. Don't drink any just yet. You might end up spitting it all over everything.

"I'm dating Richard."

...there wasn't really any point in dancing around the issue.

"Call it cheating if y'like, but I still love you. You're free to not believe me. You're also free to tell me you never want to see me again and hang up. I won't call back." And that's not a threat; that's just Fletcher being uncharacteristically pathetic and defeated.

B'aw.

Edited Date: 2010-08-23 03:51 am (UTC)

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Sam, thankfully, has not taken a sip of her beer.

She also, surprisingly enough, does not seem to be in shock over what he has just told her. He's there, he's not here, he has a roommate he could never explain away, and why shouldn't he be seeing someone else?

Sam shoves away the sharp pang in her chest. God, she's so stupid.

"...You're dating someone else and you expect me to not calling it cheating?"

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"I guess, technically, it is."

Because it is.

But.

Fletcher doesn't know. He sighs and rubs his forehead. He's pacing.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I never wanted to hurt you, Sam. Please believe me."

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"You're right. Technically, it is. We haven't been together for a very long time." Truth. It stings and she's furious, but there it is.

"You didn't hurt me." Lie.

"I hope you're happy together." Also a lie.

"You don't have another Kara on your hands, if that's what you're worried about."

Her name is Kerry, Sam. But you know that.

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Sam's intentional messing-up of Kerry's name always makes Fletcher laugh, but now he barely cracks a smile. "That's not what I was worried about."

He's silent for a few seconds. Blame the lump in his throat.

"You haven't hung up yet."

It's something he thinks he should point out, in case Sam forgot where the 'end call' button was.

(In reality, it's Fletch's way of trying to confirm that Sam doesn't completely hate him.)

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"You're dating someone else, living your life in Chicago while we keep the Order from collapsing. Don't act like you're worried."

Sam falls into the silence with him.

Instead of answering, she simply ends the phone call.

Part of her does hate him.

Part of her really, really does.

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About an hour later, Fletch leaves his room and heads to the kitchen.

He grabs an apple, perches himself up on the counter, and starts picking at the skin with a nail.

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Maybe he's looking up when Richard walks in. Maybe not. But Richard walks in, anyway, and stands next to Fletcher, cautiously placing a hand on his knee.

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He's not. He does, though, once Richard touches his knee.

"Hm?"

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"Are you all right?"

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"Yeah."

This is actually true.

"Sam didn't take it well, but I didn't really think she would. I'm not gonna try to talk to her again for a while."

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"That's fair." He gives Fletcher's knee a little squeeze. "At least you told her."

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The words you mean, you MADE me tell her rise in Fletcher's throat, but he swallows them back and shifts his gaze down to the apple once more.

He pulls the stem out.

"Now what?"

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"What do you mean?"

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"With us. Can we move on, now?"

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He removes his hand from Fletcher's knee, folding his arms across his chest. "Of course," he says, staring at the floor.

(He can't say why, but something about Fletcher's questions have annoyed him.)

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"Good. Because I don't wanna dwell on this."

He observes Richard for a moment, then frowns.

"I'm sorry, if that counts for anything."

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"Sorry for what?"

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"For this whole ordeal with Sam, and whatever—"

He stops there, sighs, and shakes his head. He doesn't know where he's going with this.

When in doubt, kiss.

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The kiss catches Richard off-guard--and at first, he doesn't want to kiss back. But he does.

(And wonders if he isn't kissing so back so much as he is submitting.)

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Fletch senses Richard's hesitation. It doesn't really have any effect on him; he ignores it and places his hands on Richard's hips, pressing forward and deepening the kiss little by little.

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This is a trick. Richard shouldn't fall for it. He should force Fletcher to speak, to say what he was sorry for--

But little by little, Richard forgets what he's supposed to be angry about. Little by little, he gives in just a bit more.

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His hands slide up, up, up and tangle in Richard's hair, pulling him in a little more, close enough that Fletch has to reposition his feet to keep from losing balance.

He knows what he's doing and he knows that Richard knows, too. And he's okay with it.

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He always reaches this point. Damn his weakness, his lack of assertiveness when it comes to Fletcher, but he can't help giving in.

Neither can he help the hints of irritation and aggravation that seep through his kisses. He hates this power Fletch has over him as much as he--

Doesn't want to think about it. The more he keeps it at the back of his mind, the less likely he's liable to say it by accident.

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This is where Richard makes a critical error. He should know better by now, Fletch thinks—haven't they been together long enough? Hasn't Richard picked up on a few things by? Like maybe the fact that if he shows Fletcher that he's annoyed, it's only going to make Fletch press on further.

And he does.

If Richard isn't going to resist, Fletcher's going to go ahead and try to lead him over to the couch.

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