Artistic License

by Elle Pierson

  Sophy’s fingers plucked frenetically at the sleeve of her light jumper. She found a spot of absorbing interest on the wall behind his ear and examined it in careful, attentive, minute detail.

  “Not when I was with Melissa,” he said more firmly, sounding a little more his old self. He winced. “But that made it…a bit awkward,” he added, in a mastery of understatement. “To say the least. I didn’t know how to approach you about it, or whether I even should.”

  He shouldn’t have. End of story. Melissa was her cousin. They lived together, for God’s sake.

  She still said nothing, not wanting to make the moment even worse for him.

  “Then I got the idea to send you a few anonymous gifts, just sort of jokingly. It was after we watched that programme, remember?”

  Sophy stared at him. “No…”

  “It was on TV not that long ago. This guy sent these, like, heart gifts. Anyway.” Dale sounded flustered. “I would never have done it if I’d thought they would scare you. And I didn’t mean for you to get one right after that messed up shit with the bomb. I’d actually put the vase in your office days before that. I guess you just didn’t notice.”

  Sophy winced slightly. Maybe she needed to tidy up just a little. “Did you follow me after work one night?” she asked suddenly.

  Dale grimaced. “I wasn’t – following you. Not exactly. I was meeting a client in town that night, and I saw you leaving work on my way home. I was going to stop and offer you a lift, but all of a sudden you bolted and were gone by the time I turned the car around.”

  He looked so miserable that she kept a damper on the scathing retort that came to mind.

  “Sophy, I’m sorry. About everything. About the gifts. I thought - I thought you’d like them.”

  “I did like them,” she said eventually, some of her irritation with him dying away. The presents had been misguided and poorly timed, but undeniably thoughtful in their choosing. If he did…like her, and she was still having a hard time wrapping her head around that, he liked her for who she was. He knew what she would find useful and beautiful. It was difficult to be mad about that. “I couldn’t have chosen better things for myself.”

  “But you wouldn’t have chosen to receive them from me,” he said, unemotional now in voice and expression. Only the restless movement of his fingers gave away his tension.

  She couldn’t deny it. “I’m sorry, Dale.”

  And she was. To her, comparatively, the whole thing suddenly seemed so very…unimportant. The only part that hurt was the look he was trying to keep from his eyes. She suspected he might have come here still hoping for the start of something; instead, she thought this was the end of a friendship of sorts. They were neither of them the sort who could blithely carry on. He was too proud, still had that core of arrogance, and she lacked the finesse to end the situation gracefully with everyone’s dignity still intact.

  They both discovered exactly how graceless she could be when he nodded, just once, and made a move forward.

  Later, Sophy realised he had been stepping to avoid her discarded tools. In the moment, her mind and reflexes suffered a flashback to the events of the night before, and registered a potential incoming threat. She stumbled back, and her heel caught on a jagged crack in the floor. She twisted, her ankle did not, and she went down hard.

  Dale automatically grabbed for her, but her instinctively flung arms caught hold of a heavier limb. Hades, in all his muscular glory and dead weight, was nevertheless a victim of momentum.

  The child of Olympus fell.

  There were a few seconds of appalled silence after the enormous crash, and then doors began to open and voices sounded in the hallway. Sophy lay winded, although thankfully not in the early grips of another asthma attack, despite the horrible similarities of gasping for breath amidst clouds of white dust.

  For a bizarre moment, she felt no physical sensations at all. She couldn’t even feel the floor beneath her hands. Her brain seemed to be absolutely convinced, however, that her right foot was gone. She would be prepared to swear it had snapped clean off, as if she was made of detachable Lego bricks or something. She didn’t want to look.

  Her eyes stared directly in front of her and into the sightless, broken gaze of Hades. She could vaguely hear the frantic voices of Dale and Don, the hum of interested onlookers in the hall. Raising a trembling hand, Sophy touched the remains of the face she had carved with such care and love, the hints still recognisable here and there of Mick’s features.

  The work was destroyed beyond repair.

  “Sophy? Should we call the ambulance, or would it be quicker if I carried you to my car?” Don was asking, and she finally registered the anxious queries.

  Ambulance?

  Well, yes. She would need to go to the hospital, wouldn’t she, if they had to reattach her foot. She turned at last, stretching her neck to view the leg in question, and was vaguely astonished to see that all limbs were intact.

  Not pointing in the right direction, but intact.

  Oh.

  The pain and the nausea hit simultaneously, as if the disgusting sight was all her brain needed to connect the missing wires to her nerves.

  “The car,” she managed at last, through gritted teeth. “I’ll go in the car.”

  This was ridiculous. She was not having emergency services summoned on her behalf for the third time in as many weeks. Her photo would end up in a staffroom somewhere.

  And this was now officially the worst twenty-four hours of her entire life.

  It was the same bloody hospital room.

  At least they’d let her keep her own skirt and blouse for the time being. Sophy lay on the bed with her foot splinted in a temporary cast. They were transferring her to Dunedin tomorrow to see an orthopaedic surgeon, so she was going to have to ride in the ambulance again after all. Un-fucking-believable.

  The nurse was plumping her pillows with one hand and holding a thermometer to her ear with the other.

  It clicked, and he took it away to check the reading. “All good,” he said, smiling at her. “How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Five,” said Sophy.

  It was at least a six, but she wasn’t ready to take her pain pills yet, not until she’d seen Mick. There were overdue things to be said, and she didn’t want to be as high as a kite when she said them.

  It had been a reasonably nasty break, and a very long few hours. She’d finally managed to get rid of Don and Dale by faking a nap. They had fussed and clucked through every examination and unpleasant procedure. Dale had been particularly bad, apparently suffering severe and misplaced guilt that he was responsible for her inability to remain safely upright.

  “Someone will bring you something to eat soon,” went on the cheery nurse. “In the meantime, is there someone I can call for you?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.” Sophy reached for her phone on the bedside table. “I can do it.”

  At last. It had been taken off her when she’d arrived, and this was the first moment she’d had to herself.

  Her thumb moved quickly and unhesitatingly over the screen. The text was brief and to the point. I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ve broken my ankle.

  He broke all speed records in calling her back.

  She had just ended a rapid-fire interrogation over the phone as to her location, the extent of her injuries, and why the hell hadn’t she called him earlier, for God’s sake, Sophy, when her dinner tray arrived.

  She stared at it in disbelief.

  It was the same quiche.

  Literally, for all she knew. Its appearance couldn’t have worsened much even had it been left to age for a few weeks.

  Grimacing, Sophy left it untouched on the tray and reached for the dessert bowl. It was unidentifiable in specifics, but appeared to contain chocolate, and her leg was sore.

  She was watching reality TV again, her mouth full, when the door was shoved open without ceremony. Mick stood there, looking in dire need of a sha
ve and a cold beer.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he started to say, his disbelieving gaze on her suspended leg, and then he caught sight of the plate of quiche.

  He stopped, blinked, and the tiniest hint of a smile turned up his lips.

  Suddenly, his eyes holding hers, he reached out and knocked deliberately on the door. “Miss James?” he said, completing the full circle of déjà vu. “May I come in for a moment?”

  Despite the increasing pain running up her calf, Sophy found herself returning his grin.

  How the times did change.

  “You can come in for good,” she said firmly and a bit nonsensically.

  She reached out a hand to him, and he took it, pulled it up around his neck, and bent to lean his forehead against hers. They stood that way for a time, eyes closed, just breathing in the scent of each other’s skin. Mick felt warm and solid, and he smelled faintly of sunshine and thyme from the outdoors. She suspected she was emitting more eau de disinfectant, but he didn’t seem inclined to let her go.

  Tilting her chin with the side of his thumb, he pressed his mouth to hers in the gentlest of kisses before he pulled back far enough to examine her injury. His large palm covered her knee, just above the cast, in a feather-light, comforting hold.

  “Honey,” was all he said, and renewed tears stung her eyes. She was like a leaky tap; they just kept coming.

  Prior to that week, the last time she’d really cried she had been wearing braces and watching an ice-spangled Leonardo di Caprio bob around in the ocean like a cork while Kate Winslet hogged a perfectly sizable chunk of boat.

  “Don’t be nice to me,” she ordered, “because my ankle is killing me, and I’ll cry again.”

  “No worries. Wide shoulders right here.” Mick tapped a finger to one of the shoulders in question, his eyes warm and concerned on her face. He was smoothing her hair back from her forehead, stroking it carefully.

  A hint of a dimple appeared through his five o’clock shadow. “Although if you’re determined to keep chucking yourself headfirst into the floor, we might have to invest in some kind of stunt gear. Otherwise, I’m going to be completely grey in about a week.”

  Sophy planted the tip of her forefinger between his eyebrows and pushed his head away in mock-annoyance. “Did I say to come in and stay in?” she asked. “Because I’m re-evaluating.”

  Mick grabbed her stabbing finger and brought her hand to rest against his chest. Her thumb, apparently acting under its own volition, stroked the fabric of his shirt, tracing the outline of muscle. Her sneaky fingers were likewise creeping toward his buttons, finding a gap, nestling in a sparse scattering of hair. She could feel his heart pumping beneath the pulse in her wrist, the rhythm quickening just a little.

  He ran his own thumb over her lips, stroked the line of her nose and the curve of her cheek. “How bad is the pain?” he asked, and he caught sight of the little cup containing her pills. “Is that the next dose? How long until you can take it?”

  “Um…” She couldn’t stall to save herself. If she were ever tortured for information, she would cave the moment her interrogator entered the room and cleared his throat.

  Mick held the pills and a glass of water under her nose with an uncompromising expression.

  “I wanted to say things first,” she protested. “I have a very low tolerance for medication. You’ll have about five minutes of lucidity before I start holding a conversation with my toes.”

  “I’ll risk it,” he said, unwavering, and she reluctantly swallowed the meds – not because he was bossing again, but because her pain threshold wasn’t all that impressive either, and physical discomfort tended to make her cross. The more she hurt, the more irritating she found the people around her.

  It wouldn’t bode well for making heartfelt declarations if he started to grate on her nerves because he was breathing too loudly or she decided she didn’t like the colour of his shirt.

  “At any rate, you should be resting,” he said, putting the empty cups to one side and picking up her hand again.

  He bent forward and brushed a kiss over her mouth that turned into a second and then a third much more interesting encounter. When he tried to pull back, she resisted, holding him to her and leaning into him. Her breath was coming in quick, uneven bursts when he finally managed to lift his head, her hands clutching around either side of his neck. “Like I said,” he said huskily, his forehead still pressed to hers. “Resting. Dangerous woman.”

  Silently, she traced her fingertips over his face, following the lines of features she had carved so intimately in stone.

  “What actually happened?” Mick was sitting still and quiescent under her touch, for once unflinching and unsuspicious of a direct gaze.

  He frowned. “It was an accident in the studio? Did you trip?”

  “Hmm.” Sophy brought her hand to her mouth and bit pensively at her thumbnail. “Loose floorboard; fatal attraction for gravity. Same old story.” She hesitated. “I was talking to Dale.”

  “Gallagher?” He had gone very still and watchful. “What was he doing there?”

  “He came to…talk. Apologise.” She tried to think of how best to explain, torn by a desire to protect at least Dale’s privacy if she couldn’t save his feelings.

  Mick started to speak, then stopped. His eyes were narrowed and something flickered in their depths, but eventually all he said was, “I see,” in even tones.

  Feeling compelled to change the subject, and quickly, Sophy cast around for anything of interest, and suddenly realised, “God, I should call Mum and Dad. And Melissa.”

  “Your dad knows.” Mick made the jerky, abbreviated movement that was, for him, the equivalent of a full-on fidget. It was Sophy’s turn to eye him suspiciously. “I was actually with him when your text came through. He and your mother are going to call in later tonight before the end of visiting hours.”

  “You were with him?” Sophy repeated. She arched a brow. “Ran into each other shopping, did you?”

  He seemed to be weighing up the advantages of truth versus enigmatic hedging.

  She groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t storm the police cells in some kind of Shakespearean showdown.”

  “I can safely promise that nobody set foot in the cells.”

  “Why do I feel like there are volumes to be read between each word in that promise?” Sophy sighed. “You know what, never mind. I don’t think I want to know. As long as my dad’s not in imminent danger of arrest.”

  “Not unless things took a dramatic turn after I left him alone with Sean.” He intercepted her appalled look. “If they don’t show up in the next hour, I’ll check in and make sure everyone’s still free and functioning.”

  “Sean?” Sophy shook her head. “I really don’t want to know.”

  “He’s angry on your behalf,” Mick said, and all humour had faded from his voice. “We’re all angry on your behalf.”

  She looked down at her bitten nail, playing with a peeling flake of pink polish. The sun was still beaming intensely across her bedcovers, and the pain pills were starting to dissolve in her stomach, casting the very edges of her awareness into a faintly spongy marshmallow sensation.

  She felt quite relaxed, all things considered, quite surprisingly positive, and the ugliness of the previous day was the last thing she wanted to talk about. But there were parts that needed to be discussed and explained. Things that needed to be forgiven.

  “Mick, I’m so sorry,” she said, unable to meet his gaze, pulling hard at a loose thread in the quilt. “That I…shut down. That I pushed you away like that. I wasn’t thinking about what you needed. And I think that you needed to help me.”

  “Sophy.” He cupped her jaw, waited until her eyes rose reluctantly. “You have nothing to apologise for. After what happened, you needed to be able to deal in whatever way worked best at the time. I had no business laying all that on you at that time. It was bloody selfish.” He looked uncomfortable. Streaks of red slashed up his cheekbones.
“I just – I didn’t want to lose you. I panicked.”

  If that had been Mick panicking, he even lost his cool with an air of capable stoicism.

  “I still shouldn’t have run,” Sophy said, also flushing. “Because I was running. I wasn’t just freaked out because of what happened at the bar. I was just…escaping to what seemed safe, instead of accepting what I…what I want.”

  There was a muscle jumping in his jaw. “And what’s that?”

  She swallowed hard, managed a slightly misty smile, held onto his fingers like he was all that stood between her and a precipice. “You,” she said simply, and if it was the drugs that were giving her the courage to speak her mind, openly and seriously, she supposed she could only be thankful. “I want to be with you. I don’t know quite what that will look like or how it will work, but I want you. I want…I want us.”

  He held both her trembling hands between his own large, steady ones. “I meant what I said, Sophy.” Pure, undiluted relief was beginning to touch his eyes, deepen the lines at their corners, soften the harsher grooves around his mouth. “I love you. In a way I never expected to love anyone.”

  He gave her fingers a quick shake. “I’m not going to crowd you,” he said firmly. “I understand the need for space.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “I might be a bit overprotective at times.”

  “No,” she teased through a film of tears. “You? Mister “Don’t you think you should carry a third inhaler in case the first two accidentally explode?” I never would have guessed.”

  “Don’t be cheeky,” he said, grinning. He tugged her face closer to his. “I’ll try not to be an overbearing prick about it,” he said against her lips. “If I’m getting on your wick, you can just tell me, you know. I was career Army. I can take direction.”

  Sophy huffed a laugh through her nose, her mouth being otherwise occupied. “I’ll risk it,” she said as they parted to breathe. It was a light-hearted parroting of his earlier phrase, but she recognised the truth of the sentiment deep in her gut. She would risk it – and she would bet high stakes that she wouldn’t regret it.