sylviedevereux | sorry seems to be the hardest word [Open]

Entry tags:

sorry seems to be the hardest word [Open]

She spends the entire flight wringing her hands. As soon as the plane took off she regretted her decision and wished she was anywhere but strapped into her seat heading towards the United States. She's never been to the USA, and on some level, that's exciting, she supposes, but on the main level, oh mon dieu, what am I doing? Four years ago, she said that she was done with this, with him, with everything that kept tying her down to that mess of a life. She said that she was done, but here she is, flying straight into the eye of the storm.

She comes armed with more books on the occult than she thought she'd ever be able to find. Her local librarian had thought she was losing it a little with how many books she had gathered, but she had to know everything she could before she faced him again. Once, he had told her what he was, and despite the love and the gorgeous life they had shared, the whole idea had stricken icy fear down her spine. She had thought she couldn't get tangled up in that mess again; she had wondered, briefly, if he had been one of them, sent to find her.

In her rational mind, Sylvie knows it was all a gut reaction, that two years of trusting Shea Cooper with everything she had should have taught her better than to doubt him at a second's notice. She'll regret making that decision until the day she dies, and this is some kind of atonement for it, like she can forgive herself for throwing away her happy ending if she just sees him one more time.

The plane touches down and she's in a cab heading for Siren Cove before she's really ready for it, and then the cottage she'd organised online is staring her in the face and this is real. She gives herself long enough to unlock the door and put her bags down before she grabs her handbag and heads straight back out the front door. If she's going to deal with this, the first thing she needs to go and find is a bottle of wine, and maybe by tomorrow she'll have steeled herself to track him down.

ooc: hi, this is sylvie. quick intro post for her before I have to hiatus :( catch her around town, or maybe be her neighbour?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For the first full minute he catches sight of her, Coop is sure that she's a ghost. A ghost or some figment of imagination or maybe this is one of those dreams that start out as a mundane trip to the grocery store and quickly degenerates into some horrible nightmare because if there's one person in this world he'd never pictured stepping foot in Siren Cove, it's her.

He's got a shopping cart full of essentials--toilet paper, protein powder, fruits and veggies, skim milk, beer--but he nearly crashes into some asshole who clearly hadn't been looking where he was going and gives Coop a totally unwarranted nasty look, but Coop can't really bring himself to give a shit, much less apologize. He realizes he's being a little creepy, but he tails her to the Wines & Spirits aisle, and he doesn't need to make sure it's her because he knows. He knows the sway of her hips as she walks, the bounce of her hair, the dip in her back and the curves of her cheeks. He'd spent practically every waking moment getting to know every aspect of what makes Sylvie Sylvie when they'd been together, and he'd been able to bury enough of it over the last four years but now, it's like no time has passed at all.

She hasn't changed much, at least not in a physical sense, and the same could be said of him. He's a little tanner now, maybe, a little scruffier and bulkier, but he knows that she wouldn't have to think twice to know it's him if she turns around right now. His heart's beating in his chest, and it's got to be loud enough for everyone in this store to hear, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone but him. He wants to ditch the cart and leave the store right now, turn his back on her and forget he'd ever seen her, forget he'd ever fucking met her because she'd messed him up in so many ways that he doesn't even know what could every make up for it or what possible explanation she could have for coming here.

But he doesn't turn around, he doesn't turn his back on her, he doesn't leave. He stays, she's the only person who could ever have made him stay, and he hates so much that it's apparently still true. He parks the cart at the end of the aisle, empty except for her, and takes a deep breath to steel himself before rolling his shoulders back and approaching her.

"If you're looking for a recommendation, I'd go with the Château-Grillet," he says, crossing his arms over his chest so tightly that he's almost hugging himself and pressing his lips into a thin line. Château-Grillet had been the first bottle of wine they'd shared together, he'd bought it on their first date at La Coupole in Paris to impress her, and the memory of how unbelievably beautiful she'd been that night and how shamefully overjoyed he'd been every time he'd made her laugh or smile sends a pang through his chest.

She knows she's running something of a gauntlet as soon as she steps foot inside the store, but she manages to squash the feeling. She's been in this town five minutes, there's no way she's ready to confront Shea yet and she has no reason to think that the grocery store is where she'll find him.

She's not hungry enough to actually buy groceries for dinner; the plane food was shit but her stomach is too tied up in knots to really think about keeping food down. In all honesty, she probably shouldn't be drinking on a stomach or a state like this, but the idea of being here is throwing her so off kilter already that she can't wait to get home, draw a bath and clutch a wine glass. Tomorrow, she thinks to herself, she'll go and find him. There's no point in putting it off any longer than that, she'll only torture herself by keeping her distance. She has no idea what she's supposed to say to him - sorry I abandoned you the morning after you proposed? Sorry I couldn't bear the thought of being caught up in magic again? There's so much she never told him about those years. Enough that he knows she had a rough time, enough that there was a hold up, but not that they were witches. That much she's never been able to admit, because it sounds absolutely crazy, or it did, until he turned out to be the very same.

She realises she's been standing blankly in the aisle staring at nothing for about five minutes, and forces herself to click back into concentration. The first bottle she sees is the Château-Grillet, because of course it is, the universe hates her. She remembers him opening it that first night, remembers the hopeful smile on his face, like he was worried she was going to chastise him for choosing the wrong wine.

A voice speaks from behind her, and she'd know that voice anywhere, she'd know that voice in her sleep, and she freezes. Every muscle in her body goes rigid and she can't breathe, she swears she's going to pass out then and there because it can't be him, she's not ready, she hasn't planned what to say. Her hand had been halfway to the bottle and she snatches it back as she turns around, hardly daring to look at him. But then she does and oh he hasn't changed a bit, he's everything she remembered and she can feel her heart aching. Four years vanishes into four seconds and she wishes the ground would swallow her so that she'd stop staring at him like a moron.

"Shea." It's all she can bring herself to say. He was always the smooth talker, and that's true now more than ever. Here he is, with his lines about wine and the past and all she can do is stare at him. "It's a good choice," she murmurs finally, and her voice sounds weak to her own ears. She wants to smile at him but she can't, and she's pretty sure that if she weren't so frozen her legs would have given out beneath her. Dieu me soit en aide.

He has so many questions that he doesn't even know where the hell to begin. Why did she leave? Why is she back? Right, so it turns out he's got two very big questions, and he's prepared not to get any especially satisfactory answers right here and now but he thinks she better damn well agree that he deserves them.

"Good choice," he repeats, huffing a humorless laugh with a shake of his head. "You been making a lot of those the past few years?" It's a little harsher than he'd really meant to be, at least out loud, but the longer they stand here staring at each other, the more pissed off he gets. Four years, four fucking years without a goddamn word, and here she is, looking as beautiful and flawless as ever, and he really doesn't think it's fair. He'd always imagined that if he saw her again, she'd look completely different, so different that he'd have to do a double take to make sure it's her, but he realizes now that he'll always know. He'd let go of so much of what had made Shea Cooper the Coop everyone back in Siren Cove had been so familiar with, and he'd done it for her. She hadn't asked for it, she hadn't pushed him to change, he'd wanted to because he'd been so in love with her.

It's beyond frustrating to think that maybe it's not as much of a past tense kind of thing as he'd thought. Coop had been done, he'd washed his hands of it all. He's fucked half this town, and he's never once felt guilty about it because there's no guilt in enjoying his life, but he thinks of what it had been like to roll over in the morning and wraps his arms around the waist of the same person every morning or how incredible it had been to just stand in their kitchen and cook a meal together. Simple things, really, things that he can do now with anyone but it isn't the same. Nothing's the same, and it makes him let out a heavy sigh.

"Sylvie, what the hell are you doing here?"

The first thing she thinks is that she's made a huge mistake in coming here. The way he's looking at her... A mix of anger and betrayal and then this longing that makes her wish she could reverse the last ten years of her life. She'd do anything to go back and do it all over again, maybe to even find Shea without the mess of what happened when she was 22. Anything to do that all again, to have him without the rest of it, to have him without ruining it. She bites her lip; she made this mess and she has to deal with it.

She thinks of the note she left him and she bites down a little harder. She hadn't known what to do. She couldn't tell him she had to run because of what she was scared he could do, of who he could be. So she'd scribbled some stupid words out of a stupid book and run and never looked back because if she had, she wouldn't have been able to stay away. And it was all for nothing anyway, because here she is, looking at him.

"No, I haven't." She owes him so many answers, but it feels ridiculous to give them here, late at night in the middle of a grocery store. She needs at least another three bottles of wine before she can do this. "I came because I had to explain." It's four years too late, she knows that, and even though she knows it's going to piss him off, knows he's going to throw that straight back in her face, she says it anyway because it's true and she deserves whatever he's going to throw at her. "There are some things I didn't know then, that I... Know now." It's not enough, it'll never be enough.

She wants to touch him, but she's scared it will burn her fingers.

He feels guilty, which is stupid as hell because he's not the one who up and left. He's not the one who said yes then left a goddamn note for him to find the next morning; but she still looks so much like his Sylvie, like the woman he'd have given the world if he could, the only person who's ever made him feel like he wants to build a future with someone--one someone, and that's not something he'd ever wanted before her--and she's got this look in her eyes that always makes it seem like she's prepared to recoil from him even he even moves at all and so, he feels guilty.

He hates that after all this time, his instinct is still to reach out to her, to ask her if she's okay and how he can make things better, but he shoves his hands in his pockets instead to ward off the temptation. "Oh, you had to explain," he scoffs, shifting his gaze from her face, from those eyes, to the row of wine bottles in front of them. He scans the labels but doesn't read any of them, he can barely even think straight right now because for the first time in a long time, all he wants to do is go home and fucking cry. "You had to explain and there are some things. Great, awesome, glad you could make it but you know what, you're about four years too late for explanations."

He sighs heavily, pulling a hand from his pocket and running it through his hair, ignoring the fact that he's shaking a little from how incredibly tense his body has become before dropping his arm back down to his side. He needs a drink. He needs about ten cases of beer, and he needs to talk to someone, anyone. Owen or Genevieve or maybe he could call up Joel, he's not even sure it matters because what he's going to have to say will be the same no matter who's listening. He doesn't know why she's here now, why she'd suddenly decided to walk back into his life without warning, why a part of him wants to forget all of it and just take her in his arms right now just to be able to feel her arms around his waist again.

He glances at her again, and it's like something's tearing at his insides. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to say."

She deserves his anger, she knows, she deserves everything he can throw at her, but it still hurts to hear him talk to her like that. She's never heard him so angry with her, never heard him tell her he doesn't have the time of day for her, and she knows that this isn't Paris and she's put too much bad blood between them to deserve anything more, but she still aches for it. Hearing his voice is torture; she feels like she never wants to stop listening to him, but at the same time the words he's saying are piercing her with every syllable.

"Je suis tellement désolé," she says desperately, slipping into French before she even realises it. She wonders if he still speaks it, or whether he cut that off when he moved on as well. "I know I have no right to be here." She doesn't know how to make him understand, and maybe he has every right not to. She walked away from him four years ago, and god knows she doesn't know why he should listen to her now, but she had to try. Now though, standing here, she knows she's made a mistake. He doesn't want her here, she shouldn't be here, and she's only going to make things worse than they already were. Maybe it was better to have left without a word, but some part of her had needed the closure, and it was probably more selfish than she'd realised.

"If you ask, I'll go." The idea of turning around and getting straight back on a plane feels futile, but she can't stand the way he's looking at her. She doesn't know if she's saying the words right, she doesn't know how to convey the fact that right now, all of the cards are his. She made the call last time and she made it wrong and she ruined them both; this time, it's all him. She has to put all the balls in his court because it's his choice, whether he listens or tells her to get back out of his life. She can't be trusted with decisions after last time, and more than that, he deserves to be the one to make the call this time.

He gazes at her for a long stretch of silence, warring inside of himself over what he should do or say, whether he should let her offer her explanations, unsatisfying as they may be. Coop doesn't know how to do this, he doesn't know how to face her, isn't even sure how he's still standing on his own two feet right now because his knees feel like jelly and his stomach keeps turning like he might be sick. He keeps telling himself that it wouldn't be too harsh to turn around without another word, walk back out of her life just like she'd done to him, but he knows it's not happen. Even now, he could never do that to her, and it only sharpens that pain in his chest because he doesn't know what it means that it had seemed so easy for Sylvie to leave; but she's telling him that she'll go if he asks, and he just can't find it in himself to do it.

"Ne me quitte pas," he says softly, nearly in a whisper as he stares down at his shoes. Confidence has always been one of his leading traits, something that has earned him envy and respect alike, but he feels like he's lost all of it now. He'd been so ready to marry this woman, to give himself to her completely, and he'd looked forward to it because there are few things that had provided as much contentment as watching her blink awake in the morning or having her slip a hand in his as they walked through the city or feeding her a taste of his cooking to gauge whether he'd gotten the recipe right.

Four years is a long time, but he hasn't forgotten any of it, as much as he might have tried. He's never felt so small as he does here, in the middle of a grocery store in his own hometown, and he finds that it's something he never wants to feel again. With another sigh, he gestures at the wine. "Did you still want to get something? We can take it back to my place if you want. Or whatever, shit, I don't know."

She'd thought she was done for before, when she was drinking him in, remembering every tiny feature and having sparks go off in her memory like fireworks. It's like she can suddenly remember every minute they spent together etched out on his face. Then he speaks, softly and looking at his shoes, and his pronunciation is as good as it ever has been, she wonders if he's been practising or whether it's all muscle memory flooding back. Still, the sound of him speaking to her in her own language sends a jolt down her spine and she has to bite her lip again to prevent herself from saying something fucking stupid like je t'aime.

"Are... Are you sure?" He's inviting her over, and it's late, and this is more than she bargained for. The idea is so tempting she feels like she's dreaming, and she can't believe that the offer of sitting around with him drinking wine ever came back into her future as a possibility. She knows that he's hurting, so is she, and she knows it's taken a lot of effort for him to allow her this. She doesn't want to ruin it again. "I'd like that. Really."

She picks up the bottle of Château-Grillet and hesitates. She's half expecting him to rescind the offer and she doesn't know what she's supposed to do now.

He's not sure and that's pretty much the biggest problem--okay, no, the biggest problem is that she's here and he doesn't know what the hell to do about it--but Coop knows that if he leaves right now to go home alone, he's going to be up all night thinking about what Sylvie might have had to say. The way she'd said his name when she'd first seen him keeps ringing through his mind--Shea, Shea, nobody he knows anymore even calls him that aside from his mom, and it's so fucking bizarre that this is happening, he feels like he's in the Twilight Zone.

She reaches for the Château-Grillet and he can't answer her because his words catch in his throat, so he just takes the bottle from her hands and turns on his heels to head back to his cart. He pauses once he's at the end of the aisle, beckoning her with a nod as he sets the bottle in the cart and clears his throat. "Allons-y," he says, and it makes him frown as he turns to head toward the register because he'll use French once in awhile to say things he doesn't want people to understand or to flirt with men or women because French always seems to impress people; but this is different, this is his mind falling back into the habit of using the language for her, and he's not sure that he likes that because he doesn't know what it might lead to.

He doesn't say another word until the groceries are bagged and they're out the door, but he finally turns back to her once they reach his car. He doesn't bother to ask if she'd driven here because he's already pretty certain that she hadn't, but he studies her for a moment before unlocking the doors, setting the groceries down, and opening the passenger side for her. Always the gentleman, that's what his mom would have said, and he learned it from watching his dad. He swallows hard as he thinks about the advice they'd give him if he were to call them up right now. His mom would gently urge him to listen to what Sylvie has to say, would tell him that she knows Sylvie had broken his heart but she's back now for a reason, and doesn't he deserve to know what that reason is? His dad, on the other hand, wouldn't be as forgiving, but Coop guesses that it doesn't matter because he's not about to call them right now for some tips on how to deal with an ex-fiance. Maybe later.

"I'm trying really hard to keep an open mind," he tells her as he climbs into the drivers' seat and starts the ignition. "You know me--" He pauses, wincing because she had known him, but he wonders if she can still read him as well as she'd been able to once. "Anyway, I'll listen to what you have to say, but you can't expect anything out of me. That's the deal here, all right?"

He reaches out to take the bottle from her and she has to force herself not to startle, though she makes careful of the fact that their hands don't touch. If they did, she'd probably drop the bottle entirely. He turns around and walks away, beckoning her to follow, and again the French leaves his lips so effortlessly and she can't help but hide a smile. She missed him so much it hurts.

The cold wind outside whips her hair about as they head to the car, and she can still barely believe this is happening. In the moments of silence her mind races, trying to pull together the words to say to him, to make sure that she knows what to do because this is all happening a lot sooner than she was prepared for. She hadn't expected to see him at all tonight, let alone be getting ready to explain the last four years. Her mind is exhausted and she's not confident that she's going to be able to do this properly in any language, let alone in English, but she has to try. He deserves it and she has to try for him, if this is what he wants.

Sylvie slides into the passenger seat and tucks her hands in her lap neatly, trying not to touch anything or be a nuisance. She feels so weird, like she's walking on eggshells around him, and it seems so wrong considering how much she never cared about that before. He's seen her at her best and at her worst, dressed up to the nines and waking up with bed hair, and yet here she is, worried that she'll make an idiot out of herself by sitting in his car wrong.

"This is already more than I expected, Shea," she says, honestly.

He doesn't know what to say to that either, so he glances at her once then keeps his eyes forward for the rest of the drive. Looking at her means everything and nothing at all, and he doesn't know what to make of it when he's spent the last four years very much moving on from the thought of her. He doesn't think about her every morning anymore, isn't reminded of her by every little thing throughout his day. He can go weeks without thinking of her sometimes, though when he does, it's to remind himself not to get too close to any of the people he's sleeping with. She'd done that to him, she'd broken him so terribly that he doesn't even want to let put as much trust as he'd put in her for fear that his feelings might be trashed again. There's a part of him--a very small part, pretty much minuscule--that can acknowledge that it isn't right or fair to put that all on her, but it's easier to do that than to admit that maybe that damage has been a part of him all along. He'd dated a few people in high school, throughout college, but none of the relationships had ever really stuck. His relationship with Owen is probably the closest thing after what he'd had with Sylvie to be something he'd have been willingly and readily committed to, but that clearly hadn't worked out either.

He knows better than to convince himself there must be something wrong with him, that he's incapable of loving because he knows love, the reason why he does is sitting right next to him right now, and he can allow people to get close, to become his friends; he just can't bear the thought of being left the way she'd left him again. There are some who have called him a commitment-phobe, others have accused him of being a slut or a player or disregarding of people's feelings, but Coop doesn't think he's any of those things, not really. The way he lives now is a choice he makes not because he's afraid of commitment but because he's afraid of losing it.

It's not far from the store to his house, and he knows that home in Siren Cove is a far cry from the apartment they'd shared in Paris but it is home now. He pulls into the driveway, noting that Genevieve's car isn't there right now, and he selfishly hopes that his cousin stays out late night because he has no idea what's going to happen in the next few seconds, minutes, hours, and he'd rather Genevieve not witness a complete meltdown if that's what this ends up amounting to.

"This is it," he says, stating the absolute most obvious thing before climbing out of the car. She's out, too, by the time he gathers the grocery bags, and he's both surprised and maddened by how easily he hands her a bag to free up a hand so he can unlock the front door. It's like they're back in Paris, except here there's no laughter or light teasing or kisses being exchanged before they can even make it over the threshold. The only thing that manages to make him smile is the whimpering of the dogs on the other side of the door, and he pushes it open, only to find Sunny and Lucy bounding outside to jump at his feet. Both dogs pause to stare curiously at Sylvie, momentarily distracted by the stranger before they run back inside.

"The living room's right through there. Or you can head out to the deck, if you want." He's already heading toward the kitchen, plucking the bag he'd handed to her out of her hands on the way. "Close the door behind you, would ya? I'll grab a couple glasses and find you when I'm doing putting this away."

The drive is silent, and she's okay with that. She normally wouldn't be, he's not a very silent person and it suggests that he's seething under the surface more than she's ready to bear the brunt of, but at the same time it means he's also not screaming at her or throwing her out of his car. It also gives her more time to think, though try as she might, all she can think of is Paris, and the easy way they'd shared a life together.

Walking out had been the hardest thing she's ever done, and the hard part now is that she doesn't know if she can do it again. She doesn't expect him to want her anymore - she's four years too late for that and he's sure to have moved on. A chill runs through her when she thinks that for all she knows he has a girlfriend now, a fiance, a wife. It's maybe unlikely that he'd be bringing her home this late at night if that were the case, it would require a lot of explaining, but she can't shake the thought. She's spent four years unable to settle down with anyone again.

There'd been a guy, just the one. His name was Étienne, and he would have been perfect for her if not for the fact that he wasn't Shea. She couldn't let go, couldn't give herself over, and eventually he'd walked out on her, just like she had. Afterwards, she'd sat on the floor in the middle of her apartment and tried to summon some kind of regret, some kind of anguish over the fact that she was losing another man, and she couldn't. She'd sat there, dry eyed, and that's when she realised that she was never going to have that all encompassing kind of love again. Sitting here now, she wants to cry just looking at him, and she doesn't know if that's better or worse.

They pull into the drive and she steps out, wishing suddenly that she wasn't still wearing the clothes she'd worn on the plane. She had planned to look nicer for their first meeting. Still, that's how it's ended up so she decides there's no use lingering on it, and follows Shea to the door. When it opens, there's a couple of dogs bounding at her, and her lips fall into an easy smile as she reaches down to pet one. They'd always talked about getting dogs, but the apartment in Paris hadn't allowed for it. She's glad that he has them now, at least.

She's a little dumb struck as she walks inside, staring around at his place. It's filled with a life that doesn't involve her.

"Okay," is all she can bring herself to say as he busies himself putting away groceries, and she immediately heads out for the deck. The quicker she can be outside the better. She feels like she's suffocating and feels unbelievably out of place in the house he's made for himself and no longer for them.

He takes longer in the kitchen than he might have under any other circumstances but it's because he had to take a moment to grip the counter, knuckles whitening with the strain, and take a deep breath to accept the fact that this is happening and there's not a goddamn thing he can do to change it. He hates that she's here, he's relieved to see her; he wishes she'd just walk back out of town, he doesn't know if he can handle her leaving again. He's at war with himself, completely incapable of making a decision one way or the other about how he wants this conversation to go or what he wants to hear. How can she explain throwing away what they'd had together in one evening? How can she expect to fix anything after it's been four years, after she's given him this much time to grieve and then move on?

The worst part is that he'd thought he had moved on. The first time he'd realized he'd gotten through a day without hoping that she'd be next to him in bed in the morning or that she'd be downstairs cooking breakfast or that she'd welcome him home with a kiss when he came home from work, it had been such a strange feeling. He'd welcomed it, had already been sure that he'd never see her again, and as time has gone on and he'd started to become the flirty vet so many people know him as now, Coop had felt like himself again. The Coop he'd been before Sylvie, before idea of commitment, before heartbreak.

He likes who he is now, but he hadn't hated who he'd been with her and maybe that's why he can't seem to figure anything out right now. It's with a heavy sigh that he pours the wine into two glasses and shuts his eyes tight for a moment before carrying them out to the deck where Sophie's standing with her arms wrapped around herself by the infinity pool that looks out at the beach. The stars are bright tonight, the moon a mere crescent, but Coop doesn't need much more lighting to be well aware of how beautiful she is.

He holds one of the glasses out as he approaches her, offering a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he holds his own up in a weak attempt at a cheers. "So." He doesn't know what else to say, rendered speechless not for the first time tonight, and his eyes wander to the shoreline as he watches the waves crash against the sand.

There's a chill in the air as she stands by the pool, but it's nothing compared to the chill she feels at being here at all, facing what has been terrifying her for the last four years. She hadn't wanted to ever see him again at first; she was too scared, it would be too painful, and she didn't think she could ever forgive herself. There's also a part of her that wondered if she could ever forgive him, for keeping that secret from her for so long, for waiting until she'd gotten herself in too deep before springing it.

Now, she knows her fear was justified, and it takes everything she has not to run. It would be cruel to do that again, to turn up here only to run out that door once more. She stands her ground, though she can't help but avoid his eyes, clutching the wine glass he hands her in a death grip. She's almost scared that it will shatter in her hands and send her blood running, and at the rate her heart is beating, she's sure she'd bleed out standing next to his goddamn pool.

"So," she echoes, and it's weird how incredibly awkward she feels when at the same time she doesn't feel out of place at all. There's always going to be a space for him in her life, she realises, regardless of whether he throws her out tonight or not. He's always going to fit, whether he's filling a space or creating it. She can never escape him, that much has become obvious in the last four years.

"I don't know why I'm back here except that I couldn't stand not to be anymore," she starts, knowing it sounds dumb but forcing herself to plow ahead. The words are a struggle, she wishes she could speak it in French, but she owes him this. "There are things that happened to me a long time ago that will explain... Not excuse, but explain, maybe, why I left." The words come out broken, stammered, and she clenches her free hand to try and pull her nerves together. "I owe you that, and a hundred apologies."

Coop can admit that he'd played a big part in Sylvie's leaving. One of the things he values most above all else, especially now, is honesty, and he hadn't been entirely honest about who he was until he'd asked her to marry him. He hadn't told her because it hadn't been relevant, not really, because he'd stopped the dreamwalking in high school once he'd come to understand just how violating it can be; he'd wanted to succeed as a vet on his own terms rather than rely on magic to heal animals, so he hadn't used that particular set of talents when he'd been studying in school; and he sure as hell hadn't run into anyone who'd tried to use any powers on him so the fact that he can withstand that kind of thing hasn't mattered for as long as Coop can remember.

So he'd kind of just left that part out because it's not like it's a thing that could come up in casual conversation. In Siren Cove, the existence of sirens and witches is a widely known thing. Not everyone knows, a lot of humans are definitely left in the dark or blinded by their own need to put logic to the most obvious hints of the supernatural, but it's enough that Coop had never felt the need to hide. Practice caution, sure, but hide? No. Two years into their relationship, Coop had fallen madly in love with this woman, and he'd wanted to clear that last skeleton from his closet. He'd expected her to be surprised, to be unsure of what to do with the information, to have to prove it to her and maybe even prove that he's not dangerous; but he hadn't expected her to just walk away and that's where the blame comes in. He knows he could have told her soon, maybe even should have, but he would never have just walked away from her, no matter what.

That's why it makes him feel so sick to his stomach that he can't find it in himself to tell her to forget it, that he's changed his mind, that he wants her to get the fuck out of his house because she doesn't belong in this town or in this life, she belongs far, far away from it. He looks at her now, and he doesn't know what to feel. A part of him is desperate to hold onto his resentment, onto the hurt, and the other... The other part just wants to take her in his arms and beg her to never leave him again.

"You made a choice with me, you know. You chose to walk out that door instead of telling me after I told you everything, and I--" He takes a breath, swallowing down nearly half his glass of wine as he tries to remain calm. It won't do any good to snap at her, and he knows he's only reacting with nearly five years' worth of bitterness that he'd been sure he'd gotten rid of already. "Look, I'll listen. I promise, I'll listen, and if it explains why you left then it explains it but I don't need a hundred apologies, okay? I don't want them. If you're going to be here, if you're going to stay, then I need for you to not be apologizing every goddamn time you see me so just start talking. Tell me what the hell happened."

That's fair, and she sits down abruptly, pushed by the force of his words and suddenly not caring if she's inviting herself to sit on his furniture. She takes a sip of her wine to steady herself as she perches on the edge of a wooden deck setting and oh, this was such a bad idea.

She bites her tongue on an apology and tries to take a breath to start explaining, start reliving. She feels a little like she's going to throw up as she remembers why she left and ruined this whole thing between them. All she can see are flashes, her father begging her, cruel eyes staring her down, a ziptie cutting into her skin and she can't breathe. She remembers how he had taken her air, how he'd sucked the breath tight out of her lungs and her hand tightens around her glass.

"You're not the first witch I've met." Even the word is hard to say. "You know what... What bad shape I was in when we met. I-" she stammers, knows the rest is stupid, knows still now that Shea would never hurt her, but the fear had been too real then, clutching at her like a vice and refusing to let go. "I couldn't go back to that, I was so s-scared."

She's looking at the ground because she can't look at him, she'll look anywhere so long as it's not at him. "Sorcières," she grits her teeth. "You deserve better, and I should have told you. But I couldn't go through that again..."

She knows she's being vague as all hell and once, she could have told him anything, but she's lost that right and she doesn't know how much he needs to hear the details.

She trails off, and he stares at her expectantly until he realizes she's done. She's just done, that's all she offers, and he tries and fails to hold back the scoff that leaves his throat. Coop rubs at the bridge of his nose, brow furrowing because he's pretty sure he can feel a goddamn headache coming on, and he sets his wine glass down on the poolside table so he can rest his head in his hands. He does know what bad shape she'd been in and for a long time, he'd been afraid to get close to her for it. Coop's always been a no muss, no fuss kind of guy. No complications, no strings, no trouble, that's what he's always been about and it's what he'd gone back to after Sylvie had left.

This is compicated. This is both muss and fuss, and he scrubs at his face with a groan. "So you're telling me that you left because I was a witch and waited so long to tell you, but you already knew that witches exist and waited another four years to tell me?" He takes a deep breath, knowing damn well that getting worked up right now isn't going to help either of them, and he straightens his back as he starts to pace. It's a slow pace, not a harried one because he'd really rather not start acting like a complete lunatic. As frustrated as he is, he doesn't want to scare her. He's not someone she'd ever have to be afraid of, the thought that she would have looked at him after finding out what he is and thought...

Coop shakes that off, running a hand through his hair as he comes to a stop in front of her. He wants to know more, he doesn't want to know more, he doesn't know what he wants. "Whatever happened to you, I'm sorry it happened. I truly am. But it's been more than four years, and I-- I don't know what you want me to say. Why explain now, after it's already fucking over, after-- after everything?"

Sylvie watches him pace and listens to him speak and quietly starts wondering when the soonest plane back to Paris will be. She can't even comprehend what a mistake it was coming here, and she can't stand the way he keeps looking at her, half derision and half pissed off.

"Je ne sais pas," she starts, feeling stupid and helpless. "I shouldn't have. Je vous ai manqué." She says the last quietly, wants to punch herself. "I won't stay, if you..." She'll leave again first thing in the morning, she promises herself. She doesn't know what she had expected coming back here, but this isn't helping anyone.

She says it, those words that he half wishes she'd have kept to herself while the other half of him wishes he didn't want to say right back to her. He won't, he can't because if he does, Coop doesn't know how far deep he'll end up in this. If he's honest with himself, there's never going to be a day that he stops loving her completely. She's the first person he'd ever genuinely wanted to build a life with and having her here is so utterly confusing that he doesn't even know how he feels anymore. He's still angry, still so frustrated that she'd walked back into his life here, but in spite of that, he doesn't want her to leave.

"No, don't go."

He says it before he can stop himself, and he sighs heavily as he drops down onto one of the pool chairs. "I mean, you can do whatever you want, obviously. But I just... need some time. I need to get used the idea that you're here because right now, it's just like... I don't know. Can you give me time?"

She's a little stunned that he doesn't kick her out then and there, and she blinks at her glass for a few minutes before she finally, painstakingly looks up at him. The sight of him makes her throat catch and she swallows hard.

"Okay. Of course." She doesn't know how much time she can waste laying low in her little cottage before she goes mad from boredom but she owes him this, and it's more than she expected, so she'll do it. She'll hide out until he's ready to see her around town, if that ever happens.

"You won't hear a peep out of me until you want to," she promises, and offers him a smile as best she can. She can't stand how much she longs for four years ago.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

sorry seems to be the hardest word [Open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject