Et elle se prend au jeu ...

On se prend au jeu. Tous ensemble. Parce que c'est plus facile. Parce que c'est plus pratique. Et ça marche. La machine se met en marche. Et on ne sait plus trop ce qui nous compose, ce qui fait de nous des Hommes. On joue à cultiver nos champs sur FaceBook alors que les agriculteurs balancent du lait dans leur champs. Et le monde continue à tourner. Et n'est pas prêt de s'arrêter.

Malade depuis Samedi, presque pas sortie depuis Samedi, je cultive une espèce de nostalgie maladive. Mon père m'appelle et me dit qu'il a été en Australie. C'est cool.

On nous a nommé la "génération virtuelle", la génération "post-mur de Berlin" (qui est très à la mode en ce moment). Je préfère la "génération Harry Potter". Lui au moins il peut s'envoler.

Sinon je n'ai encore que peu de choses à dire. Pas de review pour aujourd'hui, juste le travail d'aujourd'hui pour ceux qui regardaient FBI : Portés Disparus et qui parlent anglais. Je n'ai pas encore relu ni rien alors c'est probablement bourré de fautes. Je posterais la version définitive un jour.

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Untitled (pour l'instant)

Disclaimer : I own nothing but my inspiration.
Setting : Well this is the Baraboo scene so during the affair, pre-pilot.

Rain doesn’t wash off the pain. Rain doesn’t free people. Rain doesn’t care about that. Rain makes people think. It makes them remember, cry, laugh, believe in a better world. She’d realized this when she had landed in JFK the first time she ever stepped on New York’s wet floor. And she definitely hated that.

She raised an eyebrow as she saw him writing ‘Baraboo’ on that old piece of paper he’d found in her apartment a few days before. When did everything start feeling so casual for the both of them? The excitement, the fear, the desire rising each time their eyes met, the need to talk to him, to learn everything about him… Jack and his brown eyes, Jack and his short dark hair, Jack and his strong arms and comforting embrace, Jack who was there right here and now, holding her tightly against his chest, laughing about her childhood stories, Jack who still wore that damn golden ring around his fourth finger.

“What are we doing Jack?”
“We’re lying on your bed, listening to the rain, doing a cross…”

Somehow she let him finish his sentence but stopped listening. “Come on” she whispered, taking a deep breath while replacing her head on is torso. She saw him hesitate, probably wondering what she was expecting. They never talked about them, about their relationship. Talking implied feelings. Feelings they didn’t have, didn’t share, feelings they weren’t supposed to experience; it was all about the sex, right? Then why had she just started telling him about her childhood?

Softly, she heard Jack sigh, before he drew her closer to him and placed his head upon the top of hers. “I don’t know” he admitted sadly his fingers gently going through her soft blonde hair.

Time went by as they just stayed still while she wondered if this moment will be part of the few ones you never ever forget. After a while she ran her hand over is black shirt, and rolled over to check the time as she heard him take a deep breath. She couldn’t look back at him. Gosh, how had she become the only thing Jack Malone couldn’t control in his life?

“It’s Wednesday, you should be heading home” she muttered, reminding him today was the only week day when the girls had the right to watch TV, which would mean that if he got home early, he could see them a little, maybe read them stories before tucking them in.

“And my mistress is the one telling me that” he answered laughing slightly at the irony. He didn’t realize the impact his words had on her until he caught a glimpse of the look on her face. “You feel guilty don’t you?” he asked her, finally meeting her brown eyes.

How ironic was this? She wasn’t the first mistress in the history of humanity, yet she was sure not that many had been asked that by their lover.

“I have no idea,” she said quietly, choosing honesty over the lie. Not that she wanted to tell the truth for that matter, she just couldn’t lie to him. Not now. Not ever. “You’re the one supposed to feel guilty” Samantha added. And did he? Once, she’d read in a magazine a story of a guy who had realized something was wrong with his marriage when, as he was having sex with his wife, he felt like cheating on his mistress. Jack had told her he wasn’t even having sex with Marie anymore. She wouldn’t really have cared, after all, she wasn’t the one with the ring, but still it felt weird, meaning more to him than his wife did.

“I do… I do feel guilty” his voice echoed in her ears. “I feel guilty because we’ve just spent the evening lying on your bed, listening to the rain, doing a crossword puzzle”. Her bedroom’s old lamp was experiencing the bad weather conditions, switching on and off every minute for the last half hour. He didn’t seem to care that much, obviously deep into his thoughts when she told him “Jack, I need to tell you something”. Because that’s when it hit her, the comprehension, the need to say it out loud. It wasn’t all about sex anymore. It stopped being about that a long time ago. Yes, sex with him was incredible, but she also needed and wanted to talk with him, to know everything about him.

He turned to face her and kissed her sweet lips tenderly. She wondered if he knew what she wanted to say, she wondered if he just wanted to shut her up. Shut her up and make her desire arose, make her kiss him back; make her love him for the rest of the night. Somehow it didn’t feel right. “I need to tell you something and I don’t want it to change anything between you and me, I don’t want you to get scared or whatever, I just…”

She saw his face become a little tense, making him look a little nervous. “Relax,” she joked, “I’m not pregnant”. The lights went off as they heard the thunder rumble right above her building. As a child she used to count the seconds between the lightning and thunder to see how far the storm was from her room at night. At the time she was sacred. Today, with Jack it felt safe. And that was why she needed to tell him…

She took a deep breath, but he stopped her from saying anything, rolling on the top of her, kissing her silent again. The easy way would have been to give up, because it was late and it was Jack and his very dark eyes begging her to do so.

But Samantha Spade was not an easy girl and in the dead of the night she whispered “Jack, I love you”. His hands travelled upon her athletic body, starting working softly on the buttons of her white blouse. It was dark outside, dark in the room but still, she knew by the look in his gaze that he’d heard her.

She wondered if he would say something, anything. If he did, it would mean he wasn’t living in denial anymore. It would mean he accepted the fact that this was more than sex. If he didn’t, well, maybe pretending was the best thing to do for everyone. She didn’t expect him to say he loved her too, that would have been weird. And dangerous.

He stopped kissing her for a while, contemplating her delicate features, the way the moon reflected on her skin and in her eyes in the night. The light came back and he muttered a small “I know” in her ear before switching it off again. Somehow, she knew they’d face the consequences in the morning, tonight, they didn’t need the truth.

THE END