The lights slowly flicker above the man sitting at the slightly worn mahogany dining room table.  He sits, hunched slightly over the dingy wood while his elbows rest uneasily on the tabletop, despite the years of training from the women in his life not to do so--it wasn’t polite, after all.  God knows he has heard that enough for twelve lifetimes.  

His hips are teetering uncomfortably on the edge of the cushion-less wooden chair, too restless to get comfortable, and too nervous to stand up.  His left hand is barely holding up the weight of his head, occasionally allowing his fingers to scratch lightly at the stubble that he calls his hair these days.  His right hand slowly plays with a metal ring, fingering it every once in awhile in between flicks of his fingers, sending the cool metal into circulating rhythms that eventually cease until he musters enough courage to pick it up and flick it again.

How did he get here?

He wonders that himself.  Often, in fact.  No...not just often.  Every fucking second of every fucking hour of every fucking day.  He used to be someone. He used to have family.  Notoriety.  Power.  He used to have control.  He used to have fame, and money, and luxury, and friends, and things.  Lots of things.  He used to be happy.  

He used to have her.

But now he has nothing.  Now he is nothing, except the shell of an existence that tortures his every waking moment.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears a knock on the door that echoes slightly against the bare walls of the eerily empty house, abandoned since his grandmother's death a few years ago.  He sighs, letting the air rush out of his lungs before barely finding his feet, taking every ounce of energy he has to push himself into a standing position.  He takes a deep breath to replenish the missing oxygen before sliding his wedding ring back into his front pocket as he starts the somber walk to the front door.

He looks down at the door knob, hoping silently that the person on the other side is someone worth seeing, even though he knew that wouldn't be the case.  His hand shakes slightly as he turns the knob ever so slowly, opening it reluctantly to find his former best friend, Trace Ayala, eyeing him curiously, almost in a nervous fashion.  No, he was not in the mood for this.  He was not in the mood for him.

“Hey man,” Trace starts.  He watches Trace look up at him wearily, his hands sliding deeper into his front pockets, an obvious sign of nervousness.  “Heard you just moved back into town.  It’s been awhile.  I just, uh...” he sighs, hearing Trace trail off as he watched the young man's eyes shift hazily towards his own feet, gently kicking at the torn welcome mat that isn't looking very welcoming these days.  “I just thought it’d be good to see you, you know.  I know...” 

He interrupts him.  He had to.  “What is it that you know, Trace?” he spits vehemently.  “You know that I’m a fucking fuckup?  You know I’m worthless? That I’m a piece of shit?  Is that what you came here to tell me?  Because  if that's the case, I've already heard it.  That’s what everyone else around here fucking thinks, and has reminded me repeatedly of since I got into town a few days ago. Or did you finally muster up enough balls to come here to admit that you were a shitty best friend?"

An awkward silence ensues before he continues his rant, desperately needing to get it off of his chest.  "So what is it, Trace?  Please...tell me what the fuck you know, because it’s really fucking obvious that I know absolutely nothing and would really fucking love your enlightenment,” he finishes pointedly, the hurt and sarcasm more than evident in his tempestuous voice.

He watches Trace sigh, and part of him felt a slight pang in his chest.  Deep down, he knows that none of this is Trace’s fault, but all he seems capable of these days is blaming people.  It’s easier than accepting any of the blame himself, and let’s face it.  Justin Timberlake is the master of blaming everyone else but himself.

“Stop being a fucking asshole, Justin.” Trace counteracts after he gathers his thoughts. “You can be pissed off at me and everyone else, for that matter, for the fact that you fucked up your entire fucking life, or you can be just a little happy about the fact that you’ve moved back here to Millington and can spend some time with some real people.  Not the fake and bake assholes that got you into this mess in the first place, but the real people that you pushed away a long ass time ago.  The real people that can get you back on your feet.”

“I don’t need your fucking charity, Trace.  It’s bad enough I’m living in Grammy’s old house. I don’t need this too,” he finishes, looking down at his own feet, feeling the shame painting his now cold features.

“I’m not trying to make you a charity case, Justin.  But we used to be best friends, before you married that stupid whore and wrote the entire world off. I know that I made my share...of, um....mistakes....and that you went through a bunch of shit, more than anyone deserves...especially being in the public eye...but you know what?  If it means it’s the only shot of getting the real Justin back, then fuck, man.  I’ll take it.  I fucking miss you, dude,” Trace finishes quietly.

He watches as the honesty slid easily from Trace’s lips, the young man's eyes holding a sincerity he hadn’t seen in a long time.  Trace was always so easy to read--his face and intentions as transparent as a ghost.  Yet, he still didn’t know if he should trust him again.  He didn’t know if he was even capable of trust, not after what he had been through.

“Fine, as long as you stop acting like a pussy.” he finally replies, almost bashfully.  What else was he supposed to say?  What else could he say?

He watches curiously as Trace nods in agreement before eliciting an uncomfortable display of awkward silence, followed by another awkward attempt at breaking it.  

“Good, now move your skinny ass aside.  Have you even eaten in the past month?  You look emaciated.  If you start getting that pot belly that the little African kids get, then I'm boycotting our friendship." Trace jokes, but he watches the young man's demeanor change as soon as he gives him the look of death, the look that he has perfected over the past year and a half.  Justin didn't even bother uttering another word to Trace.  He just let him pass by him into Grammy's house before Trace could start talking again.

"I’ve got some beer and some golf clubs...we can head down to the field in Shelby Forest and just smash shit like old times.  Looks like you need it,” Trace finishes, giving him that infamous side smirk that Justin knew so well.

The truth is, he would be lying if he even remotely denied missing that smile. It reminded him of the good 'ol days--of times filled with laughter, debauchery, women, and sheer happiness.  Times of carefree fun, of true friendship.  Yes, those were the days, indeed.  Oh, what he wouldn't give to relive them again.

But will those days ever exist again?  Is there even a point in going to Shelby Forest, of lamely trying to rehash old traditions in the woods? Is there a point to him coming back to Millington, to this small-ass town that he swore he would never come back to?  Him and Trace are both very different, but Justin is more than just different.  He's monumentally different.  His soul has been so badly rocked to the core over the last five years, that he barely recognizes himself in the mirror.  

He stares at Trace for a minute, silently wondering what the man's motive is, but he decides not to question it.  It's not like he has a life to get to, or something better to do.  All that is gone, now.  So instead, he holds out hope.  Maybe there's a chance this really could be like old times.  

Or perhaps they're both just trying to hold onto something that they will probably never know again, but are too afraid to let go of.  

Only time will tell.

Ugh.  

He sighs.  He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he can feel the warmth of the sun dancing on his skin, mocking him playfully and pulling him from his fitful slumber--the same slumber he had finally fallen into a mere thirty minutes ago.   He definitely wasn’t ready to wake up to face the day.  Not here, not now.  Not ever.  

If I could just go to sleep and never wake up again, that would be just fantastic.

Unfortunately, he could feel a familiar tingle, the formation of sweaty beads building up slowly on his now creased forehead, threatening to make a trail down his temple.  He manages to release a loud guttural moan before unhappily moving his bare forearm to wipe off the salty liquid, minimizing its chance of hitting the pillow.  He hates sweaty pillows.

He sighs again.  Fuck me.

It takes every ounce of his being to push himself into a sitting position and out of the path of the sun that is now happily cascading through the window. He tries not to allow his anger to build.  He swore that he had taken the time last night to not only find a blanket to cover the god-forsaken window, but to also find a cheeky way of affixing said blanket over said window for the sole purpose of keeping this EXACT situation from happening.  Upon further inspection, however, he sees that his makeshift curtain has now fallen, allowing the sun to assault his being, despite the fact that it is very obviously unwelcome here.  He was never very good with handiwork.  He had always hired someone else to do it. 

God hates me.

He finally pushes himself up, his muscles protesting as his languid body poorly attempts the transition from his sitting position on the bed.  His muscles were still sore after the faux golf outing he and Trace attempted almost two weeks ago upon his arrival.  It didn't end well--not surprisingly, they got into an argument, and as such, he had forced himself into solitude in his own "sanctuary," drowning his problems alone with his steady vices: whiskey, beer, and pizza.

He finally moves to a full standing position, grunting triumphantly in response.  As his joints pop and crack, he almost feels like a stranger in his own body.  His muscles are so tight that he can barely move, and he can feel the exhaustion settling itself into every fiber of his being.  No, this isn’t strange. This is normal.  He glances back at the intrusion of light and winces, his eyes squinting in response.

I really need to fix that fucking curtain.  

He mumbles to himself as he forces his bare feet to pad across the heavily worn wooden floor, maneuvering his way through the mess of beer cans and randomly strewn piles of clothes to the bathroom.   He was on a mission--the mission to drown his pain with aspirin and to survey the damage the sun had done.  He hastily opens the medicine cabinet, grabbing the pill bottle and opening it in a single, swift motion, probably one of the few things he was still swift at these days.  He watches silently as he pours the contents into his sweaty palm, lazily counting four pills before re-capping the bottle, replacing it, and throwing the pills down his throat in a hurried fashion.  He doesn’t even need the water anymore.  He slowly closes the cabinet door, noticing his face in the dull mirror for the first time in days.

He ran a single, trembling hand over his facial features painstakingly slow, his deep cerulean eyes searching aimlessly for something he could recognize.  Instead, he’s met face to face with the stranger that he has become.  His eyes are much darker than they used to be, complete with slight bags beneath them, indicative of the lack of sleep he has been getting.  It has been nearly two weeks since he had shaved his beard or his head, and even then, he only did it so he didn’t get arrested at the airport for looking like a vagrant.  That had happened to him a year ago in Vegas, and he vowed never to fly without shaving again, no matter how shitty his life was.

He chuckled.  A fucking vagrant.  The irony.

He rolls his eyes and abruptly turns, sick of seeing his reflection.  He has to piss, anyway.  He lightly scratches his balls with his nimble fingers as he walks to the toilet, adjusting his shaft as he pulls it through the hole in his boxer shorts.  The seat was already up and waiting for him.  He loves living by himself, even though he knew Grammy would be pissed if she saw him treat her bathroom this way.  But right now, he doesn’t care.

He grips the base of his penis and holds it firmly as he starts to piss, standing languidly over the toilet bowl.  He thinks back to all the times his wife had yelled at him for leaving the toilet seat up, or how often she would get pissed because there would be a slight pool of urine at the base of the toilet.  He cringes.

“Justin fucking Timberlake.  What the fuck is this?” she yelled.  “Do you hear me?”  Her voice was getting closer. He could feel the panic rising in his throat.  What had he done this time? 

“I almost fell into the toilet, again!  How many times do I have to tell you to put the toilet seat down.  You act like you’re five.  It’s common courtesy, as a man, to put the toilet seat down when you’re done.  Why is this so difficult for you to comprehend?  Are you stupid, or just heartless.  I mean, thank God we have a maid to clean up after your ass as it is, but seriously--she’s not going to follow your ass around to put the seat down behind you...”

He had zoned out, the verbal reaming, as he so affectionately called them, slowly dissipating in his memory.  He rolls his eyes at himself, hating when he does that.  He doesn’t want to remember her.  He doesn’t want to think about her.  He certainly doesn’t want to allow himself to get yelled at by her memory.  

Fuck me.  He sighs.  

He finishes his business, shaking himself twice before tucking “Little J” back into his hole.  As he reaches down to push on the handle for the toilet, the rumbling in his stomach becomes apparent.  He can’t remember the last time he ate, not that it matters anyway.  He briefly walks to the sink, turning the cold water on, and ran his hands under the faucet, disregarding the normal need for soap.  Personal hygiene wasn’t high on his to-do list these days.  Water would suffice.  At least he attempted.

After wiping his hands carelessly on his boxers, he languidly made his way through the mess of his room and to the stairs, allowing his knees to strangely buckle beneath him as he makes it to the first floor and meanders his way to the kitchen.  He opens the fridge, and to his chagrin, there is nothing in it.  He isn’t sure what he was expecting.  He had finished all the beer, and the rest of the time he was here, it was a strictly pizza diet.  

No more pizza.  Another slice and I’ll vomit.

He sighs.  The inevitable has come.  It was time to venture to the Shelby Market.  He had been avoiding it like the plague, not wanting to venture into public at any cost.  He had faced enough shame in the media over his divorce and his ruin, and he really doesn’t need to be laughed at by Joe Schmoe, the neighborhood plumber, who probably has a higher net worth than he does at the moment.

He grumbles to himself, reaching into the secret cabinet in the dining room, moving a few things around before pulling out the stash of money Grammy had always hidden.  She told him where it was once, just in case.  Even though he was offended at the time, he was thankful she told him, and even more thankful that she hadn’t told anyone else, even his mother.  He grabs some of the money out of the mayonnaise jar before tucking it back into its rueful hiding spot, and he takes a breath.  This would do.

He looks around, realizing he needs some clothes before he can leave the house.  He finds a stale pair of jeans and slides them easily over his narrow hips, jumping and wiggling appropriately as he buttoned them.  He then finds a crumpled t-shirt next to where the jeans had been lying, briefly inspecting the material haphazardly for stains before he replaces the white undershirt he had been wearing.  After affixing his new wardrobe, he slides the money from his sweaty palm into the back pocket of his jeans.  There was no need for a wallet--everyone recognizes him anyway.  

The failure.

As he's walking towards the front door, he finds a bottle of Gramps’ cologne, sitting next to his keys.  He sprays it liberally around his tall frame, hoping to replace the shower that he really should have taken, hoping to make himself at least mildly presentable to the potential public he could run into.  He grabs a piece of gum, and left the house, the screen door screeching shut with a light bang behind him.

Jesus.

It’s bright out, and the sun is shining down happily on the land that makes up Millington, TN--his hometown, where he was born and raised.  It’s so bright out today that he has to put his forearm up to shield his eyes, allowing him to see just a little further than a foot in front of him.  He used to have sunglasses, but he wasn’t sure where he had placed them.  Not that it matters, he doesn’t plan on being out long.

Car, Justin.  Find the keys.  Let’s get this over with.

Yes, the car was necessary.  Shelby Market is too far to walk to, especially in this hot Memphis summer heat.  He fumbles with the key ring in his hand and finally discovers what he suspects is the key to the old ford pickup that is sitting in the driveway.  He hopes it still runs.  He walks over, hand fondling the door handle before opening it easily.  It wasn’t even locked, not that you need to lock your doors around here.

He slowly climbs in, effortlessly sliding the key into the ignition, flicking his wrist to turn it over.  The truck shutters slightly before making a blank whining noise.  It was not going to run.

Fuck me.

He sighs, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his palm, the anger getting the best of him, and in his fleeting moment of weakness, he can’t control it.  He’s hungry, he hasn’t eaten in days, it is so fucking hot out, and all he wants in the world is to be able to go somewhere--anywhere but here.  He grumbles audibly as he kicks the door open and jumps out before the inside of the car can strangle him more with the humidity.  Once he frees himself from the metal confines, he pulls his shirt up, revealing what is left of his toned abs, replaced instead with a growing outline of his ribs, the obvious evidence of his lack of appetite. He slowly dabs at the perspiration bubbling on his forehead with his t-shirt before letting the thin material fall back to his waist.

“Fuck, it’s hot,” he mumbles, instantly wishing he had shaved the animal that was growing on his face, involuntarily raising his internal body temperature by at least ten degrees.

But there is no time to waste.  It is getting hotter by the second, and he can feel his breath strangling in his throat from the intense heat.  He pops his head back into the truck, searching unsuccessfully for the little lever thing that is supposed to pop the hood.  He knows it’s there--somewhere. After ten minutes of grunts and expletives, he finally finds it, pulling it roughly with a triumphant sigh.

Take that, you piece of shit.

He stands up, walking around to the front of the truck, attempting to lift the hood--but it isn’t budging.  As he’s trying to pry the metal open, he is unaware of the lever just below his fingers that needs to be pulled to release the latch. The more time he spends trying to move the metal, the angrier he gets, fueled faster by the heat that is suffocating his body.  He finally gets angry enough to slam his fist heavily onto the center of the hood, releasing the latch just enough to allow the hood pop up in a flash, barely missing his face as he reels backwards just in the nick of time.

He stops for a moment, looking around sheepishly, fearful that some paparazzi may have caught this moment on tape.  That’s just what he needs on TMZ.  Not.  He is already the laughing stock of the industry, he doesn’t need this kind of exposure.  He shakes his head to rid his thoughts and get back to the task at hand, but it’s then that he realizes that he has absolutely no clue what the fuck he’s doing. He just stares blankly at the engine compartment.  

Now what?

He moves his body closer to the truck, his hips resting easily on the front grill as he lowers his body closer to the specimen that he is supposed to be reviewing.  He has never once touched a car, other than to drive it, let alone try to actually fix one.  He doesn’t have a clue what’s wrong with it, so he isn’t exactly sure what he was hoping to gain by getting this far.  But hell, why stop now, right?  He reaches in, gently touching a few belts and items that look important, hoping that if he touches something, it will magically give him the answer.

It does not.

And then he hears something in distance.  His head bolts up, knocking the back of his skull into the latch that had given him so many problems earlier, letting out an audible “fuck” as he reels backwards, hand immediately going to the wounded area in hopes of quenching the pain.  So much for that aspirin. The pain is so unbearable that he forgets what had caused his head to snap in the first place, until he catches a glimpse of a yellow sundress in between the trees separating Grammy’s yard from the neighbors.

Shit.  

The dress was moving this way, slowly revealing more of itself as it got closer, differentiating itself from the neighboring trees.  It was a girl, and she was walking towards him.

Shit, shit, shit.  She saw me.  Fuck.

He has no idea who she is, and by the look on her face, she doesn’t know who is either.  As she approaches, he can see the bat that she is carrying when the sun glints off its shimmery metal composition.  The gravity of her intentions hits him as she starts to raise the bat higher in the sky the closer she gets.  Finally, he hears her trembling voice.

“Who are you!” she yells, much louder than she needed to considering she was only about 100 yards away from him.  He’s a little shocked that a sound that loud can come from a body that small.  “What are you doing in Sadie’s house.  What are you doing with her truck!?” 

Who the hell is she?  

And why the hell does she care?  Was he really supposed to be frightened by her?  He can’t help but chuckle a little as she just stands there, shaking the bat at him as a warning.

As the awkward silence ensues, his chuckle slowly releases itself from the confines of throat, and he opens his mouth.  Soon, his chuckle is reverberating off of the neighboring houses and getting lost in the trees, letting it fade easily in the air.  He watches the confusion as it paints itself on the young woman’s candid features.  She has no idea who he is, or was. This is a first.  

Thank God.  It's been a long time since he laughed like that.

Finally, his brain removes itself from his own reverie when he sees her inching closer, bat still perched in the air warningly .  “Relax!” he calls out, gently putting his hands up in a defeated manner.  “I’m not stealing anything or squatting.  I’m Sadie’s Grandson, Justin.”

“Oh.”  He watches as her lips purse in confusion and she slowly lowers her bat hesitantly as she slowly walks a little closer.  “Then what are you doing?”  He hears the curiousness in her voice as her thin frame motions irreverently at the pickup truck he was still standing in front of.

“I, uh...I’m staying here for a while,” he answers simply.  He doesn’t need to answer to her.  She’s not his mother.  He just needs to convince her not to beat him senseless with the metal bat she’s holding.  “I needed to go to the grocery store, but when I came out here to get in the truck--it wouldn’t start,” he finishes sheepishly, his right hand still holding the back of his head where the blood was starting to trickle down his fingers from his head wound. 

He saw her smile, and he realizes that it’s the first time anyone has smiled at him in a really long time.  Most people just look at him with disgust or pity, but never a smile.  

And she has a beautiful one.

“Oh...well...of course it won’t run,” she laughs, her wary edge relaxing as she finally made it to where he is standing and she looks up at him, eyes squinting slightly as the afternoon sun invades her light green eyes.   

“It hasn’t run in years.  If you need to go to the store...” she trails off, but then he saw a face full of concern replace her gentle features.  “You’re bleeding,” she offers simply, her hand moving slowly to reach for him, but he pulls away.

He felt a blush creeping slowly up his neck, his tongue snaking out uncomfortably to lick his upper lip, catching a few droplets of salty perspiration from his skin.  “Oh, right.  Yeah....” he laughs nervously.  “I um...hit my head. Silly me...” he finishes, trying to shake it off and pretend that it isn’t that big of a deal.

“Seriously, you’re bleeding pretty badly.  Come on...we’re just starting lunch, and you should really get that cleaned up.  Are you here by yourself?” she asked cautiously.

He nods simply at her, and his eyes reveal how truly pathetic he is, not that the sight of his appearance didn’t already lend to the observation.  “Yeah, I am,” but he didn’t have time to finish.  Her small hand had already clasped around his free wrist to begin gently dragging him up the expanse of grass that she had just emerged from.

Run away. 

“Where are we going?” he asks easily.  He wasn’t sure what had come over him.  In any other situation, he would have told her to fuck off, ripped his hand away from hers, and grumbled his way back into the house, settling on pizza just to spite himself and her. And here he was, stumbling behind this short little blonde that he didn't even know, without even putting up a fight.

Run away, now--before it's too late.

“I’m going to take care of you,” she replied gently.  “It’s pretty obvious you need a little help,” she finishes with a snide chuckle, glancing back at him slightly over her shoulder.  He has nothing to say in response.  He can’t deny it, and he desperately needs food and drugs.  If she can provide that, there was no way he is going to protest, even though his mind was screaming at him to run.

Besides, it was about time someone cared enough to even notice him.  This will be interesting.

"I don't even know your name," he starts as they near the neighboring house that she was apparently a visitor or resident of.  Her status has yet to be deciphered.

"Victoria," she finishes, without a second glance..  That didn't sound familiar.  Had it really been that long since he had been to Grammy's house?  Did she have new neighbors?  When did they move in?  He didn't even know.

"Nice to meet you, I guess..." he responds, the slight confusion evident in his voice.  Before he knew it, their bodies had disappeared into the house next door. 

“Owww,” he hissed.  “That fucking hurts.”

He felt a familiar pang sting the back of his head, his hand immediately reaching up to swat away the invasion, his assailant yelping in response.  He grunted, armed and ready to swat anything that came near him again.  Pain was not something he dealt with willingly, preferring to avoid it at all costs.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.  So glad you could join us today,” she replied.

Her voice was serene, yet somehow it managed to ooze the sweetest hint of sarcasm that he had ever heard.  The sound was quickly muffled by the rattling of items just beyond his peripheral view, assuming she was arming herself with more weapons from the first aid kit.  He’s glad that he can’t see what she’s doing, or he’d probably pass out.

When did I become such a pussy?

“Hey...you try sitting here while the same stranger that just assaulted you with a baseball bat tries to ‘nurse your wounds,’” he finished snidely.  If she could be sarcastic, then so could he.  He definitely had the practice.

She’s just trying to help you...

She had been attempting to nurse his bleeding head wound from the earlier truck fiasco for about twenty five minutes now, and he wasn’t even trying to comply with her valiant efforts.  Unfortunately, it was becoming more apparent to him that she wasn’t the quitting type, immediately making him regret the decision not to run when he first met her.

“If you’d prefer me to get the baseball bat and knock you unconscious first, I’m more than happy to do that,” she replied sweetly, a hand resting on her hip, right eyebrow raised in a challenging fashion.

I definitely should have run.

But he hadn’t, and here he was--sitting backwards on the ridiculously small toilet, in probably the ugliest bathroom he has ever laid eyes on.  If the dude from Queer Eye came in here, he probably would have vomited at the mismatched decor.  He glanced up at the extremely dated floral wallpaper that was curling slightly at the joints from wear, slightly revealing the ugly wood colored paneling beneath it.  In disgust, his eyes shift further down, catching the hand-made tissue-box holder that was laying dormant on top of the toilet bowl. His fingertips gently touched the yarn absent-mindedly as he impatiently awaits her next move.

“Look...Justin, was it?” she asked, obviously hoping she remembered his name correctly.  “I don’t have to do this, but it’s a nasty cut.  If you don’t treat it, it could get infected, and you wouldn’t even know it.”  

She giggled slightly before deciding to attempt a joke, obviously trying to relieve some of the tension in the room. “I mean, unless you have eyes in the back of your head.”

He rolls his eyes. Classic. 

He’s busy trying to come up with a spicy retort when her slight giggle is abruptly interrupted by a strange, strangled noise.  His head snaps to look at her, brow furrowing, as he tries to discern if the noisy intrusion was merely a figment of his imagination.  Taking in her long frame, he doubted that something as small and petite as her could possibly...snort?

After a few moments had passed, he sees the recognition register on her face, her petite hands moving to cover her mouth, obviously in embarrassment. 

She snorted!

He laughs.  Again.  

“Okay, okay.  If you snort again, I’ll let you fix me up without any problems...but you have to promise me that I’ll hear that snort again before the day is out.” His eyes lightened a little with an amused smirk, his skin crinkling slightly from his smile, creating a subtle hint of crows feet on the corners of his eyes.  No one in his well-to do circle would even dare to let such a demeaning sound pass their perfectly painted lips, so the urge to hear it again was even more pressing for him.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” she replied.  His face fell at the effortless dismissal.

“...but trust me--it’s not hard to get the snort reaction,” she adds, obviously still slightly embarrassed, despite her humorous self-deprecation.  

He eyes her carefully, watching her close the distance between them and wait, silently seeking his approval to finish fixing his wound.  After contemplating the situation that just occurred, his body secedes and an obvious comfort slides over his features.  He nods to her, consenting to her silent request to touch him. 

He winces again as the pang returns with her touch, patiently letting her finish with the peroxide before dressing the wound with gauze.  After she finished completely, he felt her hand move to his shoulder, rubbing it in a comforting way in attempt to signal her completion. 

A smile crept to his face when he realizes how long it had been since someone had touched him, closing his eyes and remembering the way his wife used to lightly scratch her nails along his shoulder while they were at dinner or watching a movie.  And then his brain remembers everything else that he hated about his wife, and a pained expression paints his features, standing abruptly.

I need to get out of here.

“That’s it.  We’re done,” she smiles, clapping her hands triumphantly, not even noticing his strange behavior.  She had already starting to put items back into the first aid kit, her attention diverted from him now that her task was complete. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?  You totally made that like 812 times harder than it needed to be.” 

He watches her for a moment, her random choice for a number forcing him to abandon his previous thoughts. 

 “Really?  812?  That’s....a random number,” he offers.  He watches a small blush creep up her cheeks, seeing her rearrange the first aid kit in an obsessive-compulsive fashion.

“It’s my favorite number,” she offers, a slight smile replacing the blush she had previously.  A slightly awkwardness surrounds them.  He didn’t even have a sarcastic response to counter with.

Now’s a good time to leave, jackass.  

“So?” her face gently turned back up to him, her soft green eyes catching his in the muted glow of the bathroom light.  “You up for lunch?  You mentioned you were going to the Market for food...figured I could at least feed you before I leave you to your own devices.  We know how well that went last time.”  Her smirk was evident on her features.

She must want something.

“Really,” his voice started, trying to reason with her.  “You don’t have to feed me, or take me to the market.  I’m sure I can just get a cab or something.  I don’t want to inconvenience you.” He looks down, but he is interrupted by the loud rumble of his stomach.  By the look on her face, he knew she heard it.

Shit. 

“Don’t be silly,” she responds. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days, and I just heard your stomach growl, even though you’re four feet away from me. C’mon, MeeMaw started lunch about thirty minutes ago--we should have perfect timing.”

Perfect timing?  Yeah, right.

“Uh, yeah.  Perfect,” he laughs timidly, his right hand moving up to scratch at the back of his head, just above his bandaged cut.  “How can I say no to that?”

“You can’t.  No one says no to me,” she smirks playfully.  “That’s why I have a baseball bat.”  

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her candor.  He wanted to protest, but he knew there was no point, especially after she had spent thirty minutes patching up his head. “Thank you, very much, Victoria.  You know, for everything.  I...uh...”

“Don’t mention it,” she interrupts. “No need for thanks here. C’mon. I’m starving.”

He just stood there for a second, watching her smooth down the creases of her yellow sundress as she peers in the mirror.  She pauses before lifting her hand effortlessly in a wave, motioning for him to follow her.  Every ounce of his being was screaming at him to take the detour to the front door, but his stomach had long since ceased listening to his brain.  

Lunch, it is.