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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 20, 2010 19:44:54 GMT -5
Having her blood drawn was a less than pleasant experience, but not an excruciating one. It didn’t hurt, that was the only good thing she could think of. But watching the blood being sucked into the glass tube as he pulled the plunger up caused her stomach to churn slightly. The only reason why Anya wasn’t afraid of needles was because she never had much exposure to them. She didn’t mind them, yes, but she wasn’t going to be all gung-ho and sign up to have her blood donated, like she heard Americans do all the time. That was a strange practice. She didn’t know why someone would sign up to have their blood removed, when it made your head dizzy and your stomach feel like it’s been abused by the sea all day. Her psychiatrist said something about principles, kindness to humanity, but it only seemed like a masochistic practice to her.
Anya actually knew a few guys that were masochists, once…
The air flowing through the mask that Peter had provided her was nice. It gave her the chance to speak more, if she chose to do so. It was if the tank was doing it for her, which she enjoyed very much. Her body was tired from focusing so hard on breathing. She deserved a break. Anya coughed again, but kept her mouth closed as tightly as she could, so she could avoid getting her blood on the mask. It would be rude to make it dirty, she decided.
Anya looked at Peter. He seemed so anxious, and fidgeted around more than he had been before. She almost thought that maybe, if they ever did become friends, she would call him “Krolik,” which meant rabbit in Russian. But perhaps not. She didn’t know how he would react to that. Perhaps not as well as she would hope he would. She smiled at him again, attempting to seem kind as she reassured him: “It is alright, Petr,” she said carefully. “I have fear of fish, more than I do of bears. I would rather be mauled by bear than to be chased by fish.” She giggled softly, which only caused her to cough more, which only caused her to giggle more, and so on.
“You can’t tell,” she informed him, barely looking serious after she finished her bought of giggle coughing. “It is darkest secret.” It was a lie, but it was a nice lie nonetheless.
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Post by Qamar Dashti on Dec 20, 2010 21:34:55 GMT -5
Cam carried the needle over to a drawer behind Anya, taking out a test-tube like, glass container with a plastic lid, sticking the needle into the plastic and transferring the blood to the container. Putting a cap on the needle he tossed it in a bio-hazard bin, writing on a label with a pen, then leaving again. He just came and went, there wasn’t anything binding him that said to announce when he was going to leave. But as soon as he was gone, Peter relaxed, closing his eyes and completely forgetting about the needle, or about Anya. He was perfectly happy sitting there and being a good boy, not touching anything... Until he decided it would be cool to resume his former seat in the spinning doctors chair, standing up slowly, stretching, then going to sit next to Anya. “You’re not really afraid of fish, are you?” he asked casually, smirking at her. He didn’t believe a word of that for a minute, she didn’t strike him as the type of person to actually be afraid of a fish, or to admit it in front of a stranger. He was alright with being nauseated by needles,
Cam returned a few minutes later, some paper, two bottles of medication, and an inhaler. Wrapping one prescription around the first one, he tossed it at Anya. “Pain killers. They’re testing you’re blood for a variety of lung infections,” he informed her. Wrapping the other prescription around the other orange bottle, he tossed it and the inhaler at Peter, who caught it and opened it up like it was candy. “Pain killers, because you’re a pussy. Bronchilidators because I know you ran out.” Taking up a chair on the other side of the room, he rubbed his eyes, yawning. “Long day, I hate the clinic,” he mused, fixing the collar on his jacket out of habit.
Peter shoved the inhaler in his pocket, frowning slightly at how his friend could tell these things. He never mentioned being out of medicine, but then again that was one of the only reasons he came around the hospital, other than sheer companionship. He ignored Cam, looking over at Anya and smiling lightly. “Better?” he asked, watching her struggle a bit under the mask. “Take it off when you have to cough,” he suggested with a shoulder shrug. Spinning around in the chair once, he fingered the bottle of medication for a moment, then shoved it in his other pocket. Glancing over at the clock, he returned his gaze to Anya, smirking to himself. “You feeling better?” he questioned, glancing over at Cam. Boring. When were the tests going to come back?
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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 20, 2010 22:13:32 GMT -5
The doctor remained sporadic on how long he stayed with them in the room and left every so often to do whatever it was he had to do. Doctors were important people, so thusly he must have been off doing important things. Anya attempted to relax, watching Peter to better facilitate ignoring of the searing pain her lungs. He was very restless, like her. She wondered if this was what people saw when they watched her, too. Eventually he made his way to her side again, and her eyes brightened with delight. Peter could have left at any time, but he didn’t. Perhaps he really did like her.
Cam came back with a few bottles in his hand, throwing one at her, which she fumbled in her hands for a few seconds before getting a firm grip on it, and two things at Peter. Peter tucked the inhaler in his pocket, and she stared at the lump in the fabric for a little bit before opening the bottle. She read the prescription, below the disinteresting stuff she couldn’t understand, it read, “Take one a day for a week.” She didn’t know if she really would have to take one for the whole week, or even if her English was right, perhaps she had read it wrong. She could be certain, however, that she did need to at least take one for the drug to work, because if she never took any at all, there was no way it would have the chance to. Logic could be simple and fun like that.
Anya lowered her oxygen mask to her neck and took a pill into her mouth, swallowing it dry. She was used to doing that. Even though she had access to water, she didn’t really want to ask for it. There didn’t seem to be a point when she was clearly capable of doing without. Anya coughed slightly as soon as it went down, and for a moment she thought she choked, until she realized she could breathe perfectly fine and there was no reason for her to be paranoid at all. She needed to get over that. Anya replaced the mask on her face and looked at Peter again. “I am having fear of fish,” she said firmly as a small smirk played on her lips, “It is just not darkest secret. I do not know you enough to give you darkest secret.” Her hair fell off her right shoulder and hung to her left as she tilted her head at him.
“It takes time, Petr,” she said sweetly, pushing her hands together. “I do not have IV device that pushes needle and drug straight into my vein. It work instantly then, wouldn’t it, Doctor?” She looked toward Cam and flashed a sweet smile to him also. She loved sharing it amongst people she felt comfortable and sociable with. “But, I do trust pain in chest will be gone soon.” Anya lifted her hand slightly and reached forward before retracting her hand. She regained the urge to touch him again. She had to keep herself under control. Anya pulled her hands tightly in her lap and stared at them to make sure they would behave before she looked at Peter again. “I am very glad for your staying with me. It makes things less lonely when you have someone you can have talk with.” That was her way of showing gratitude without having to tell him thank you directly.
“I’ve seen device the doctor has given you before,” she said, allowing her hands to gesture toward his pocket before settling back in her lap again. “It was given to boy named Alexei, he had weak lungs, like me. Do you have weak lungs also, Petr?”
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Post by Peter Knight on Dec 21, 2010 20:12:01 GMT -5
Peter couldn't help but noticed how she was always watching him, if she wasn't doubled over coughing, and it was a strange thing. He wasn't used to being examined, which made him even jumpier, his foot bouncing rapidly, glancing around the room in sheer boredom. He was a piano player. He was a musician that couldn't get the beat out of his body. Yeah, that was his excuse for being a little bit hyper, it was probably the coffee he had that morning. Caffeine was just one of his many vices. “Ah... so,” he mused, trying to think of something to say. Maybe she would think about something to say, she always seemed to have something on the tip of her tongue anyway.
He watched her examining the bottle, perking up slightly as Cam's pager went off, and he was gone. Alright. That's cool. I can deal, he thought, frowning slightly. He wasn't sure how long they were allowed to stay in here, blood tests usually took awhile. Who was he sleeping with to get the results quickly? The very thought of Cam using someone like that was beyond him, though, that was something that seemed beyond the older man's capabilities. Glancing down at his own bottle, he knew the dosage by heart, but watching her read his made him somewhat curious. Two a day for a week, inhaler when needed. Yep. No surprise there. “Uh, do you understand it?” he asked sheepishly. He wasn't sure of her English, he would hate to have her go without medication, it would eat at his conscious. For some reason. Maybe he should've just let it be in the waiting room. Hm.
Peter smirked when she mentioned the fish, “Sure, sure you're afraid of fish,” he played it off, stretching. Darkest secret? So there was something worse than a fish phobia? He thought, if not in an effort to comfort himself that she wasn't a crazie. He was starting to become attached to this girl, and if she was a mental case then he might just have a heart attack. His mother was schizophrenic, and that was enough for Peter. “You don't strike me as the type to be afraid of fish,” he said lightly, looking over at her, then stuffing his hand in his pocket. For some reason he felt like he should be holding her hand or something, if she was nervous, but she seemed fine. Other than the obvious pain and oxygen mask, that is...
And so Cam returned, just in time to receive a beautiful smile from Peter's newest acquaintance. “Oh, IV, yes,” he said simply, glancing down at the pager, then clipping it to his belt. “Even then it would have to make it's way to the source of the pain, but it wouldn't take as long as a pill.”
Dammit, Cam, Peter thought. I like it more when you're not here. “Oh, it's no problem,” he shrugged it off, smiling at her. Ignoring Cam. Yes. “I uh. Want to make sure you get better.” It was sweet, the way he fidgeted and avoided eye contact when talking to her, then looking back up and smiling. But weak lungs? He had never heard it described like that. He was still coming to terms with the idea of having something chronic and incurable, but the more he talked about it, the better he felt. That was how it's supposed to go, right?
“Yeah, you could say that.”
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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 21, 2010 20:40:05 GMT -5
The pain killers were kicking in. The pain in her chest had dulled to something she could stand, and with that came the ability to breathe without assistance. So when she was sure, Anya removed the oxygen mask and set it gently beside her. If she had known how, Anya would have turned off the tank herself; but, as he had been earlier, she knew that Peter would do it himself. He’d been helpful like that this whole time. The urge to cough had lessened some, and only small bursts came out every so often, but it was something she could keep under control. She used the crook of her elbow, since she had lost track of her handkerchief, to make sure that her hands were free of germs.
Anya still wanted to touch him, though. But she kept her hands at a distance.
By sheer compulsion, however, her legs found their own way. She was idly swinging them back and forth, with no over exaggerated motions, and every so often her right leg would slowly slink past and scrape the front of his legs. Eventually she noticed this, but she didn’t stop. To Anya, there was no reason to, and if the action bugged him, he would either move his legs on his own, or tell her to stop. So she thought she would enjoy this luxury. Perhaps, by some chance, he would too.
While doing this, her eyes left him. Anya couldn’t be sure if this would make the action seem less purposeful or not, but either way she only spared him passing glances when she spoke to him. She didn’t watch him like before. It would be too strong to do those two things at once. She laughed quietly at him. “I truly do have fear of fish,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t believe her. “It is not… how you would say in English… phobium? Phobia? It is not that. Just an afraidness, like that of spiders.”
Anya stopped with the leg thing and looked at him. “Do you have this kindness for other strangers, Petr?” she asked him. She truly did wish to know. It was a strange thing for him to be so worried and care about her well being just from some silly talk in the waiting room. Then again, there were always empathetic people like that out in the world. They were a rare phenomenon, but they existed. Anya crossed her calves and kept them stationary.
Anya felt her eyes get heavy. The pain killers were at full affect now. Anya had never really be ‘high’ before, so the experience was strange. She was overwhelmed by a sense of tiredness, not one that wanted to put you to sleep, but one that just nagged at you like a hungry cat. “I know it is not how you would say in English,” she began, making sure every word was delivered with care. “But that is how I learned how to describe it. Weak lungs. Mother said I had strong heart, but weak lungs.”
Anya didn’t really know what she was saying now, but talking kept her from wondering what the test was going to come back as. She wasn’t exactly afraid, doctors in America were miracle workers by her experience, but she didn’t necessarily want anything to be wrong with her, especially if it was something they couldn’t treat. So, her best course of action was just to pretend that it wasn’t happening at all until she was forced to deal with it. [/center]
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Post by Peter Knight on Dec 21, 2010 21:17:34 GMT -5
Her legs. Against his, for a split second, like clockwork. And it was somewhat euphorious, but he just smirked, tilting his head downward. Did she like it? A connection with a human? She had to know, but why would she continue to do so? It had to be the medication, he wrote it off quickly, deciding that she was high and didn't know what she was doing. He didn't feel any emotion behind it, but then again he was the emotionless dick that couldn't see a broken heart if it was bleeding on his shirt. Glancing up briefly, he watched her take the mask off, frowning slightly, although he stood. He had become familiar enough with the tanks to know how to turn it off, it wasn't rocket science, but he was always wary, afraid that it was going to explode. Reaching over to turn it off, he glanced over at Anya, smirking, then returning to his seat.
“Phobia, yeh,” Peter said quietly, coughing hard into his elbow, then returning his smile in her direction. “Are you afraid of fish, or do you not like fish? 'Cuz I don't like fish, but I'm not afraid of them,” he humored her lightly, knowing very well she was trying to comfort him. Or just play around, he wasn't sure anymore, but it was nice. A little humor never hurt anyone, right? But she had stopped analyzing him, which in turn made him relax slightly. He wasn't usually jumpy like this, it was a tiring, odd sensation.
“Not usually, no,” he murmured, part of him not wanting her to hear. He didn't want her to think that he had a fondness for her of any kind, that he was just another nice guy roaming around town, not lost, but not looking for anything in particular – a vagabond. Yeah... sure. Peter didn't want to be the creepy old guy following her around – because after a certain age, you stop being a player and you start being a creeper or pedophile. She seemed tired now, a feeling he was took familiar with. Coming down. Going up. Cravings.
It was all a cycle, a routine he had found himself doing over and over again until a few years ago. Only there was no real medical reason for him, just the high.
“Weak lungs makes sense, it's a bit odd to my ears, but it makes perfect sense,” he said absently, shrugging his shoulder. There were a million different ways to describe fucked up lungs. Bad lungs. Weak lungs. The disease itself. Whatever tickles your fancy. Strong heart and weak lungs, eh? Interesting. Was she a smoker? She didn't look like one, was she just born that way? That must suck, he did this to himself, Peter could've easily avoided his fate and add twenty years to his lifespan, but she seemed to be sucked into it without any choice.
But he was tired and growing distant from the conversation, at least until she spoke again. He found himself more interested in what she had to say than hearing himself speak, a phenomenon which rarely occurred. It was probably the accent, he had a thing for accents. Oh well. Tilting his head back, Peter breathed slowly, finally relaxing since he woke up that morning. It'd been an interesting day, to say the least, and he found himself more and more caught up in this acquaintanceship.
But Cam was still here. He just didn't talk much. Instead, Peter glanced over to see him reading a file, smirking. Even when he was taking a “break” he was working.
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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 21, 2010 21:59:49 GMT -5
He never moved his legs. He just watched her, smirking. He always was smirking. Just as she always kept her eyes in his, he was always smirking. So, Anya dared. It was a stupid idea, but she was high as a kite, and she would have done it anyway. If he didn’t mind, why should she? So, her right leg just settled itself right up against his left leg. Nothing special, just a touch. It never moved, or motioned toward anything. It was just there, simple fact, like night and day. Anya shrugged her shoulders.
“So, why do I get special treatment?” she asked. “Is strange,” she informed him, before giving a quick cough into her elbow, “that I am exception to rule.” Even if it was, she didn’t care. It most likely meant she had a new friend, and there was nothing wrong with that, was there? He was a friend she could touch her leg with, because that’s what friends did, right? Anything to rationalize the action. Anything.
Anya’s eyes briefly went to Cam, who was smirking also. They both loved to smirk. Her eyes returned to Peter, who seemed to be tired like her, also, and raised an eyebrow. “You always have smirk on face,” she said, with no particular rhyme or reason, just to say it. She meant no malice to it, and it came out with her same smile, which she hoped would lighten the blow if it offended him. She lost all modicum of politeness, and forgot herself when it came to her manners. Is that what happened when you got high?
She decided to drop the subject about the fishes. He didn’t seem to believer her, and Anya couldn’t blame him. It was a comment out of nowhere, and it was just to comfort him. But, she truly was afraid of them. Not in the sense that they plagued her dreams, but they did creep her out. They made her squirm. It was hard to look at the wretched things. She remembered when she was young, she and her mother would go to the fish market, and the dead carcasses of fish would lay about on display. They always looked so unnatural, with their glassy, blank eyes and their pried open mouths, unmoving and suffocated. It was a horrific sight.
Anya could hear the clock on the wall ticking away. She tried to ignore it. She knew that if she started thinking about time, she’d start thinking about the test, and then about being ill. She didn’t want to deal with that, no. That was too scary to think about. It’s like when you woke up in the middle of the night and you thought about your own death. After that, you had to force yourself to get off the subject. She used Peter’s eyes to try to ignore it, but it was hard to ignore the obnoxious ticking.
Tick Tick Tick Tick…
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Post by Peter Knight on Dec 21, 2010 22:29:56 GMT -5
“Oh, I don't know,” Peter shrugged off her questions, unsure if he should be answering them or not. He didn't know why she was the exception, he just decided that she needed help, they were in similar situations, and that he was having a nice day. There was no reasoning behind most of the things that he did, despite how much one might look into it. His brain worked in strange ways, his blood bumped backwards, he smoked crack for fifteen years – what do you expect? “I guess you were just interesting,” he crooned, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to crack his back. He decided to ignore further questioning, watching Cam flip through some papers, the replace the file. The man stood up, waved briefly, and left, with a glint in his eye that suggested his shift at the clinic was over and he was going back to get lab results, or to his actual patients. The guy was so quiet sometimes, Peter wasn't sure if he was judging him right, he never really understood him.
“I smirk because I'm arrogant, and because it's the only facial expression I can wear with confidence,” Peter said simply. “I don't want people to think I'm emotionless, a smirk is just a lazy smile.” He shrugged, he had never put much thought into his facial expressions, he was surprised she was that observant. But then again, when you had nothing else to do or say, it seemed like something appropriate, and after awhile you were bound to notice repetitive behavior, right?
Peter rubbed his eyes, turning away with his cheek in his palm. He wanted to go home, but he wanted to stay, and he wanted to eat something, but he felt like he would vomit if he did. She seemed to be having some interesting side effects from her medication as well, although he had become used to his. Had she ever been high before? It didn't seem like so, which was interesting, he had never met someone that hadn't. Even Cam could hit it up with the best, ten years ago that is.
“What brought you to America?” he asked suddenly, turning to facing her. She seemed bored, as was he, and he wanted to make a conversation. Hopefully the subject wasn't too delicate, by her previous talking it seemed like so. “I'm sorry, never mind,” he said afterward, deciding that it probably was too personal. He had lost social boundaries in the places he had been, he needed to learn something about personal space soon. And limits. Boundaries. All things that people nowadays seemed to value heavily – they never stopped valuing them.
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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 21, 2010 22:58:27 GMT -5
Anya was trying to keep herself awake at this point. Every so often she would close her eyes, but then reopen them again with a soft sigh. She didn’t want to sleep. Well, she did, but she didn’t really want to either, if that made sense. Sometimes when you went to sleep, you didn’t know where you were going to wake up. That was an odd paranoia that Anya had about sleeping. She didn’t always know if she would wake up in the same spot that she had fallen asleep in. One thing she could be certain of was that if she did fall asleep, when she opened her eyes, Peter wouldn’t be there. Peter would be long gone, and there was good chance she’d never see him again. For some reason, Anya didn’t want that. Especially when he thought she was interesting. Going to sleep never made you interesting.
She couldn’t help but laugh when he called himself arrogant. “You are not arrogant,” she said. “I knew arrogant people. Petr is not arrogant.” And, to her, he really wasn’t. She could attribute to her judgment of his character to her highness, because she didn’t really know him. For all she really knew, he could have been the biggest jerk imaginable. But, he hadn’t been so far, and that was important to her. If he was arrogant, then why hadn’t he been arrogant to her? “I don’t know where you get idea,” she said offhandedly, not even knowing what she was saying.
Cam had left. She ignored that too. That made he probably was going to come back with the tests. She didn’t want that. Well, she did, but she didn’t at the same time, if it was terribly bad news. She clenched one of her fists out of nervousness before unclenching it again.
Anya was rather surprised with his question about her arrival to America. She felt a different sort of tightness in her chest, one that signaled panic, before she forced herself to calm down. Whenever she thought about home, she always got a little scared. Her psychiatrist said that it was fine to talk about, it was better if she did, and that she was safe here in America now. Nothing could touch her. Nothing could harm her here. But she couldn’t be sure. Eight years being a prostitute taught you that you could never really trust promises other people made you.
Anya lifted her right hand, the one she mentally made sure never to put near her face, and brushed some invisible thing on his shoulder as she smiled at him kindly. “It is nothing to apologize for, Petr,” she told him, retracting her hand hesitantly back to her lap. “Is just another conversation… for other day.” And, for the first time, Anya looked sad. Her stomach was heavy, hell, her mind was heavy. It was a heavy subject. It wasn’t just something you talked about in conversation. Hi, how are you? I’m fine. Did you get the groceries? Yeah, I did. Oh, by the way, did you know that I was forced against my will to have sex with strangers for money?
It just didn’t work.
She could have sworn that tears were coming to her eyes, but she rubbed them to make sure. Nope. No wetness. Anya forced the biggest smile she could, as to not worry her companion. [/center]
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Post by Peter Knight on Dec 22, 2010 15:54:03 GMT -5
“If you need to sleep, go ahead,” Peter said gently, watching her nod off every so often. Medication was a bitch, although his never made him tired, it was more his natural cycle of caffeine that caused him to be unusually tired or unusually awake at certain times. If she did fall asleep, what was he going to do? Probably go home and nap, or head over to the on-call room and cause chaos. He’d have Cam call him when she woke up, he wanted to talk to her more, for some reason. But she would probably be creeped out by that. People tended to act that way.
“Oh, trust me, I’m arrogant,” he insisted, nodding his head as if to confirm this statement. Not to her, of course, he was trying to be good, and he tried not to appear as such to others, but he was always comparing himself to others, seeing how he’s right, they’re wrong. How they can’t possibly be legit and he was the only one that really made sense. It was a horrible practice that he needed to end soon, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop stroking his ego at every possible occasion. It was like masturbating, it just felt too good. Not that he masturbated.
Peter lowered his head slightly, obviously treading on delicate waters - and he wasn’t Jesus, so something was bound to happen and drag him under. He wanted to apologize, again, but she wasn’t saying anything, her breathing quickened, and he felt his chest tighten just watching it. Her heart was racing, his heart was racing, he couldn’t help but become a bit anxious, hoping this didn’t end badly. Sigh. No, fuck, because Peter’s stupid. Fuck. It was an adjective, a verb, a noun...
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, standing up slowly. Walking over to her, he pulled the chair up closer, slowly taking her hand as she lowered it from her eyes. Tears, but no tears, aw. Now he felt like a dick, she had to be checking to make sure she wasn’t crying. Peter, Peter, Peter. “Yeah, it is, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” he said gently, smiling at her. He now hoped she didn’t think he was hitting on her, because he was a very touchy-feely person, even with his friends. He was a hugger. A hand-holder. A hugs and hands and kisses can make you feel better rather than words.
Taking your hand when upset was something he just did. It was kind of weird, but that was alright, except when people thought you were gay or hitting on them. Fuck. He retracted his hand, smile fading slightly. “Er..."
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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 22, 2010 16:30:08 GMT -5
So, it happened. Anya acted like a baby and Peter felt like a dick for it. But, she wasn’t giving herself credit, really. She wasn’t acting like a baby, perse, but just being an emotional fuckwit with someone she didn’t even know. She wasn’t usually like this. She was very good about keeping stone faced most of the time; but, something about Peter made her feel safe enough to look a little sad if she needed to. Her stomach was still churning every which way and her heart was still racing as he got even closer and took her hand in his. Anya watched his larger hand envelope her delicate ones for just a split second, and then closed her eyes.
To be honest, Anya didn’t know how she felt about the touch.
That wasn’t to say that he was far from anything attractive or desirable, because he was both. But, at that moment, with her heart racing, and her lungs tightening from panic, she didn’t know if she was going through some sort of anxiety attack. Her psychiatrists said she had some weird disorder, post traumatic something or other. In the long and short of it, in certain situations, there were triggers that would bring up things that made her feel like she was in danger again, and bring up crap she didn’t want to be thinking about. And during those times, as sporadic as they were, Anya didn’t want to be touched. Even the smallest tap on the shoulder would cause her panic attacks. And at the very moment his hand was on hers, she couldn’t help but flinch. It wasn’t a small one, either. It was the type of reflex that battered women showed when they saw a hand raised. Which was stupid. Peter was obviously no threat and was trying to comfort her.
Nice job, Anya.
But, at the same time, while the touch shocked her and made her feel nervous, it somehow also made her feel a bit safer. It was weird, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted his hand to stay or not. His hands were warm. They were really warm, which was nice, since Anya’s hands were almost always a bit cold to the touch. While she was trying to decide if she wanted to keep his hand there or not, he decided for her, and retracted with a few blurbs of hesitation.
“Is no reason to be sorry,” Anya told him quietly. “Like… I said, another conversation for other day.” And without any hesitation, she reached forward with her hand and retook his. Something about the way his skin felt made her forget how frightened she was of everything. It made her feel less of a coward. She didn’t exactly take his hand like he had for her, but rather opened it to her, face up, with her fingers delicately taking hold on the back of his hand and wrist. She looked up at him for a second and flashed a smile, and then brought her eyes down to examine his palm.
She made sure not to touch his hand with the one she had near her mouth. She still thought that would be rude. “They say,” she began, tilting her head, “that hands of person says lot of person’s life.” She turned his palm over and allowed her fingers to intertwine in between his. “Sometimes I wonder if that is lie…” She trailed off after that, and kept her eyes on their intertwining fingers.
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Post by Peter Knight on Dec 25, 2010 22:17:58 GMT -5
Anya seemed to be having conflicting feelings, Peter wasn't sure if he should just get up and leave or stay. He felt like leaving, just going, forgetting about this whole thing, not being one to really communicate his emotions or show any emotions really... or have any, he didn't usually get attached to anyone on any sort of basis, so the feeling was strange. Alien. He didn't like it, either, caring, or whatever you could call it. He wanted to go home, whatever that was. She tensed, he tensed, she looked panic, he somehow staid calm. A flinch. He frowned, recoiling faster.
He fucked up, that's exactly what happened, that's how he would always recall this moment. She was a woman from Russia. Who knew what happened to her? He didn't, even standing could set off some sort of reaction. He didn't understand it very well, but he knew what sort of thing it was. Peter had known a man once, he was abused as a child, raped, but was an amazing coroner. Had a beautiful husband, a beautiful life, but suffered from horrible post traumatic stress syndrome, nervous, bashful sort of person, never really got over it. Ended up getting himself shot one night, after closing a case, by a bunch of thugs, and Peter had never seen so many people at a funeral. It was times like that that really made him think, now more about not knowing what was going on. I mean, if Peter hadn't known about this and grabbed the man's wrist to get his attention, or even touched him in a trigger area, well he could've caused a panic attack.
Which also made him think of a nice Michael Jackson tune - You Are Not Alone. A very soothing piece. And Should I Stay Or Should I Go.
When she retook his hand, Peter furrowed his brow in a bout of confusion. Why? She had just flinched away, and now she was lurching forward for the touch. He was baffled. “Another day, yeah,” he mumbled, forcing a smile. She was so confusing. He was starting to doubt his love for the female race. So confusing. So full of these gestures that he didn't understand, he never understood them, and if there was one thing he didn't like, it was not understanding something. Peter would sit in front of something and pour over it, going over every detail, reading it however many times it took until he figured it out, but he always cracked the code. If he didn't, he would find someone that could. Girls, female hormones, it was unknown to him.
Say a lot about a person? “Then what do mine say?” he asked softly, looking down at his own palms. Lines, some scratches, calluses on the fingers, although not as noticeable. Long, slender fingers, fluid and graceful as they intertwined with hers out of instinct. Scars on his wrists from the younger days, and cats. He had a lot of cats, and a lot of cat scratches that hooked along his wrists, one long one going from the center of his palm, between his thumb and forefinger, then to about the center of his hand. Because he was a dumbass and had a bad habit of picking at scabs, and following claws instead of letting it fly off his hand.
Masochistic. Hm. Only sometimes.
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Post by Anya Petranova on Dec 25, 2010 22:55:24 GMT -5
Anya decided then and there that calming down was the best course of action, for both of their sakes. She could notice the tenseness in his posture, and the way he seemed to react to everything she was exhibiting emotionally. It wasn’t doing either of them any good. Anya sat there in silence for a long while, watching their hands as their fingers hooked together like little snakes wrapping their bodies as close as they could to each other. The sight was calming in a strange sort of way, and she felt her shoulders slump slightly in relaxation as her heart slowed. Every so often she’d squeeze his hand just to make sure she could still feel it. Eventually, she let out a calm exhale and tilted her head just slightly.
“Hands tell lies,” she said, finally breaking her silence. “They tell of life only involving them.” Anya hesitantly unhooked their fingers and looked over his scars, calluses and scratches. “For instance, you have hands of worker, or soldier,” she explained, tracing her fingers gently from the tip of his fingers, and down to the very top of his wrist. “They tell story of hardship and labor, since that is all they experience.” She very delicately tucked her hand into his, fitting almost like a glove. “But that may not be life you lead.” Anya gave a small smile as she chuckled. “You look not at hands for the life of a person.”
Anya looked up into his eyes and gazed at them for a long moment, her smile never wavering. “You look in eyes,” she told him. “Americans also have saying that the eyes are like a gateway to soul. That I do believe. Your eyes see everything you do, and experience your life as you experience it.” It was strange how she would say these things to him, but she didn’t know why. Anya felt like she could speak her mind, which was always full of these strange ideas, and that he would listen. Even if he didn’t care, he would pretend to, and that meant something. She gazed into his eyes searchingly, looking wholly consumed by this venture as if it were something she had never experienced before.
“They are tired,” she told him quietly, hushed by some force she couldn’t explain or describe. “Weary, like a person who has been running for so long. Eyes that have never seen rest.” She squeezed his hand and looked away. She wanted to get off the thing she was sitting on and lean on him, but she resisted the urge. She rubbed her thumb across the side of his hand as some lame attempt at appeasing the impulse. “I know those eyes,” she told him. She laughed softly and looked at him again.
“But I am no psychic, I am girl who likes to make guesses.” Anya bit her lip, grinning. “I suppose I have arrogance in that respect, to think that I have ability to read people.” At this point, she felt there really wasn’t a lot to say, but she kept being able to say things anyway. Her mind would come up with something and she would tell him, because there was that slight chance that he would find it just slightly profound, or interesting enough to respond to.
Maybe that was what a friend truly was. Someone you could say absolutely nothing to, and yet it would somehow mean everything.
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