Chapter Text
He’s infuriating.
Well, he’s infuriating every day, but today he’s remarkably persistent. She shoves her car keys in her pocket; even if she’d taken her car he’d still managed to track her down. She should have lost him the moment she slammed the car door.
It’s a Sunday, for gods’ sake, where is divine interference when she needs it?
“Emma,” he whines from behind her, and she rolls her eyes and ignores him.
In all honesty, she should be used to it. They’ve been together since they were kids, though “together” is a very, very loose term. They’d grown up in the same town, and had gone to the same kindergarten, grade school, high school, and college. It sounds horrible, and it is. He’s been following her around for years now, never seeming to tire, even after that one time she actually managed to file a restraining order against him, just for kicks.
“Emma-ma-ma,” he tries, again, trying vainly to be adorable in his delivery.
She turns to him abruptly. “Would you quit it? You follow me to Church, you follow me to the supermarket, and the one time I actually break away from my schedule to get away from you, you’re still following me!”
“Only because I want an answer,” he responds, nonplussed. He holds up his hands in a peace sign, and in that moment he looks so devastatingly immature. “So? What do you say?”
She throws her hands up in the air with a groan. “No, obviously! But do you listen?”
“Huh?”
“Of course not.” She lets out a long suffering sigh and stomps her foot, waving her index finger in front of his face. “Quit it, or else I’ll file another restraining order.”
“Oh, come on!” That’s meant to sound depressed but it ends up sounding arrogant. “You know those restraining orders won’t last. Besides, where am I supposed to live? Would you really kick me out of my own home?”
“Yes,” she answers, plainly, “Now shoo.”
“Darling,” he says, placing a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”
“Great.” She turns around, decisively, and continues on her stroll. After a moment of peaceful quiet, her concentration is once again broken by nonchalant whistling irritating the back of her ears.
“I said quit it!”
“Oh? You didn’t say that about whistling.”
“Jesus Christ—”
“Ah, ah, ah, Emma,” he tuts, “You shouldn’t say the Lord’s name in vain.”
“I’ll show you who’s vain you blasted son of a—”
He manages to produce a small bouquet of flowers from seemingly nowhere just in time to stop her from causing him some bodily harm. Which she could have, by the way, her hands are spread out like she’s ready to strangle him.
“Go on a date with me?”
“I said no.”
“Aw, come on, princess. Just one date?” He smiles beguilingly, bats his long white eyelashes. “You can wear a gorgeous ballgown, I’ll wear a suit, maybe we’ll raid a Church while we’re at it, it’s Sunday after all—”
She slaps the bouquet from his hands, the flowers landing lightly on the ground between them. “That’s not a date, you muttonhead! That’s a wedding—”
“It’s not a wedding if it’s just the two of us—”
“Still!”
His smile grows even wider. “Hey, so I didn’t hear a no...”
“You didn’t hear a yes, either!”
“I was thinking you’d get to it after complaining about the Church idea...”
“No.” She runs her fingers through her hair, glares at him slightly. “Gods, Norman. It’s been a literal lifetime. How long would it take for you to give up?”
His gaze intensifies at her words, and without warning he takes a step forward, his hands grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. She gasps, caught off-guard, and he takes the opportunity to whisper, sultrily, though surprisingly sincerely: “I’m never gonna give you up~”
Her eyes widen at his remark, and her hand instinctively reaches out to push herself away from his hold. He anticipates her reaction this time, though, and he catches her fingers before they can do anything hurtful, and he grins, widely, dancing backwards.
“I’m never gonna let you down~” he sings, like a continuation, “Never gonna run around and desert you~!”
“Ugh!” She pulls away from him, slightly disgusted, and he spins around, striking a pose. Distinctly, she can hear stars popping in the background. “You are deplorable—”
“Don’t you mean dashing, my love?” he corrects, wrongly, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Admit it. You’re moved by my seductive dance moves.”
“What dance moves? All you did was spin and stick your hands in the air like an idiot.”
“Well,” Norman shrugs, leaning forward, “Like any seductive dance, one needs a partner to do it along with them—”
“You’re better off solving a rubix cube, honey,” Emma says, sweetly, her finger pushing him back by his forehead.
“I think my fingers can do something better than that—”
“And this is the part where I leave,” she announces suddenly, turning on her heel and marching forward. “Don’t even think about following me, Norman.”
“All right,” he says, strolling forward, right after her, “I’ll just do it—”
She stops long enough to smack his shoulder harshly.
—*—
Gilda’s humming some Lady Gaga song as she sews up the hem of a blouse. Her first-ever big-time project is due in about a week, and while she’s got most of her line figured out, she still needs to make adjustments, and Emma has always been her go-to model for projects like these. Speaking of whom, the young fashionista glances up from her work to look inquiringly at her sister, who’s been sitting by the window ever since she’d arrived.
“Emma, stop looking out the window.”
Emma sighs, taking one last look at Norman, who’s sitting quietly on the driveway, tracing doodles into the concrete with a rock he’d found somewhere.
“I can’t help it, okay, Norman’s out there doing god-knows-what.”
“So what if he’s out there? We both know he’s harmless.”
“He breaks into my underwear drawer, Gilda,” Emma deadpans, loudly drawing the curtains closed.
“That happened when you were like, eleven.” Gilda runs her scissors through some cloth. “And leave the curtains, will you? I need as much sunlight as possible, you know that.”
Emma pouts, pulling the curtains back open. “If he did that when we were eleven, who knows what else he’s capable of? He could break into my apartment while I’m sleeping, you know he knows how to pick locks—”
Gilda rolls her eyes. “Emma, if you were actually worried about that then you would’ve done something permanent about it a long time ago. But you’ve never done anything. He bought an apartment right next to yours, all you did was whine. He applied to the same company as you, and all you did was spill your coffee on him the first day. Norman’s a little bonkers, but he’s harmless, and you know that.”
Emma huffs, plopping down on the couch. She draws her legs up and slouches into the pillows. “I know he’s harmless, he’s just... he makes me so... so... angry.”
Gilda snorts, holding up a piece of fabric for examination. “He’s always made you angry. No one can upset you like he does. It’s kinda cute.”
“Cute?” Emma echoes incredulously. “You think that’s cute?”
“Hey, the guy took all your physical abuse with a smile and he still likes you. That’s cute.”
“Or creepy.” Emma shivers.
“Whatever you say.” Gilda lifts up some cloth with a flourish. “Now come over here, will you? I need to see how well these match together.”
“Why don’t we let Norman in while you’re at it,” Emma grumbles, standing up to walk towards Gilda. “He’d probably have an opinion.”
Gilda’s face lights up. “Hey, great idea! Norman’s always been fashionable—”
Emma’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head vehemently. “No, no! That was a joke! Don’t let him in, please, God knows I need a break from all his singing—”
“Singing?” Gilda tilts her head curiously.
“You don’t wanna know.”
“All right then. Can you turn around? I’m thinking I’ll need to make adjustments here, you’ve grown a bit...”
Emma bites her lip and turns around so Gilda can wrap the measuring tape around her torso. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to calm herself, but when she looks up she can see a familiar grin through the window. Her heart beats a little quicker, and her mouth straightens into a frown.
“32C!” he seems to say, his voice coming in muffled through the glass. At his comment, Emma feels tremendous amounts of heat rushing up her face, ready to cook her alive.
“Wait, what?” Gilda looks up, peeks at the window from behind Emma’s shoulder. She adjusts her glasses and peers at the measuring tape. She whistles lowly. “Damn, Emma. Are you sure you guys aren’t sleeping together by this point?”
“Sleeping together!” Emma splutters, pulling away from Gilda. She can hear Norman’s muffled laugh from the window, and she looks up and glares at him. He sends her a cheeky grin, lifts his hands up in a peace sign. Then he slithers away.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean!”
“I mean, he got your size down perfectly—”
“He what!” Emma stomps her foot indignantly, making a beeline for the door. “I told you he’s still going through my damn underwear—”
“Whoa, whoa—” Gilda pulls on Emma’s arm softly, and at her sister’s touch Emma twists her head around quizzically. “Emma, I needed to get measurements cause you’re always wearing sports bras. They have different size indicators, so he couldn’t have guessed your size just by looking through your drawers.”
“Wait, so—?” Emma blushes fiercely, crossing her arms over her chest. Gilda arches her brow suggestively, and at the implication Emma grows a little more distressed. “Don’t tell me he figured it out just by looking—?”
Gilda shrugs. “You tell me. But hey, if you two are actually getting frisky I have the perfect pair for you—”
“Gilda!”
—*—
“How the hell did you know?”
He glances up at her, and she still sees the same cheeky grin plastered all over his goddamn face. “Know what?” he asks, trying to look innocent.
“Don’t play dumb with me,” she grouses, crossing her arms. “Talk.”
He shrugs. “You’d be surprised at all the things I know.”
“Let me guess. You managed to guess my waist size, too?”
He chuckles, throwing the rock in his hands away. He dusts himself off and stands. She hates how she has to look up at him now.
“That,” he admits, smirking, “And our future, too.”
“Yes,” she goes along with it, putting a hand on her chin in mockery of one of his habits, “And our future looks very much like a renewed restraining order.”
“Darling, you have to let that idea go.” He grins, devilishly. “You know I have my ways around that.”
She frowns, glaring up at him. “Is that a challenge, Norman?”
“Not a challenge,” he says, simply. “I’m just saying: you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that.”
“Yeah.” He sidesteps, his shoe grinding intentionally against the pavement, and when she looks down at the source of the sound she sees her initials on the street, along with his. “We’ll see.”
E + N = Forever, he’d written on the ground. Inside a heart. Like a preschooler.
She tears her gaze away from the drawing and shoves past him. “Don’t even think about following me this time, you idiot.”
“I live in the same building as you!” he calls from behind her. She pretends she doesn’t hear.
—*—
The next morning—or, more accurately, dawn—finds Gilda banging excitedly on Emma’s apartment door.
“Oi, sleepyhead! Open the door! I’ve just finished it—”
“Finished what?” Emma pulls her door open, bleary-eyed and out of sorts. “Did you even sleep?”
“Sleep is for the unfashionable,” Gilda points out, grabbing Emma’s hand and pulling her inside. “Now, this might be a little out of your style, but I think it’ll suit you just right. I’m pretty sure I’ve got all the adjustments down...”
“What are you talking about?” Emma kicks the door closed with her heel. “Elaborate.”
“Look!” Gilda plops a big brown bag down on Emma’s couch and pulls a bundle of cloth from it. “I’m not exactly sure which one I want you to wear, but I’ve got an idea, and I’ve asked Norman to observe the reactions for me—”
“Wait, what?”
“...And Emma, dear, I think I have the perfect top for your bust size, I can’t believe I never knew you were a 32C, my ignorance was an absolutely atrocious—”
“Whoa, Gilda, I’m still at the Norman part—”
“Of course you are.” Gilda waves her off and shoves a yellow thing into her arms. “Now take your clothes off and put this on. I want to see!”
—*—
“Emma, will you come out already!”
“No thanks!”
“I worked hard on that outfit, you know!”
“Go find another model!”
Gilda hears a thump from the other side of the bedroom door and panics a little. “But I made these with you in mind! You have to wear it!”
“Listen, I’ll just take these off, and pull on some sweats, because it’s a Monday, if you haven’t realized, and I’m late to work!”
“Who cares about work if you can work it!”
“That doesn’t even make sense!”
Gilda’s trained ears pick up the sound of rustling fabric. “Don’t you dare take those clothes off, Emma Valley, or I will chew your head off.”
“That’s cannibalism!”
“Just get out already, will you! If you don’t, I’m going down to get Norman.”
Emma screeches. “Goddammit, Gilda, you bring him up here and I’ll never come out!”
“That’s a weak threat and you know it!” Gilda knocks impatiently on the door. “Will you just please come out so I can see?”
“Work starts in 20 minutes, do you think I have time to model for you?”
“Yes! You’re modelling this outfit all day, didn’t I tell you?”
A long pause. And then another round of screeching. “Gilda! When you said you needed my help for your project I didn’t think you meant it like this! You even gave me lingerie to match! Lingerie! What, you think I’m a harlot or something?”
“Great clothes need great underwear!” Gilda counters. “Besides, you might need it!”
“Need it for what!”
“Who knows? Now come out or you’re really going to be late for work!”
Reluctantly, the bedroom door swings open, and Emma steps out. Gilda examines her critically, then says, “Back straight. Stomach in.”
Emma grumbles. “You sound exactly like Mama.”
“Someone has to.” Gilda gives her a cursory once-over. The piece compliments Emma well, as she had thought it would. It’s a simple outfit: a halter top beneath a classy vest, with cut shoulders and gold buttons without buttonholes to pair them with. A pencil skirt, black, outlining the curve of her waist. Simplicity with shape is often the key to dressing Emma up, and Gilda thinks satisfactorily to herself that she has outdone herself this time.
And then her gaze lands on it: a major atrocity.
“Emma,” Gilda says slowly, “What’s that on your feet?”
Emma looks down, smirks, and looking her sister in the eye, she enunciates: “Wedges.”
Suffice it to say Emma is chased out of her own apartment.
—*—
She’s ten minutes late, and she’s not sure if she can even call her tardiness fashionable.
It isn’t the first time she’s gotten late. She always wakes up to her alarm, but even that doesn’t guarantee perfect attendance. Today is different, though. Normally, people won’t mind. The workplace is lax enough to not notice something as trivial as tardiness, but today Emma’s not only late but she’s fashionably late, in the most uncharacteristic sense of the term.
As she walks through the office, she can feel the stares. Changes in physical appearance are always regarded like so.
When she reaches her cubicle and bends down to shove her bag beneath her desk, she hears a low, appreciative whistle come from behind her. She furrows her brows and turns to chew off whoever it was, but then Norman’s striding down the aisle, looking quite pleased at her appearance for the day.
“Guess Gilda really took your size into account this time, huh?” Norman comments, lowly, so only she can hear him.
She glowers at him. “What is it with you two and my size? It’s not like it’s anything special—”
“Oh, Emma, my darling,” he sighs dramatically, “You are devastatingly gorgeous, and it’s not just your size, too—”
“Not willing to hear it.” Emma plops down on her desk chair. “Now, don’t you have work to do?”
—*—
Someone asks her to fetch a file, just for fun.
She’s heard some whispers, but Norman’s been the most vocal about her change in outfit. She remembers that Gilda had mentioned something about him this morning, and she wonders what exactly the girl has set him up to do, but for the most part she’s ignored everyone else.
So she doesn’t know what to expect when it happens.
He comes up to her after lunch break. She recognizes him as Luce, one of the sports writers.
He leans disgustingly against the wall of her cubicle. “Hey. Think you can get last week’s issue for me?”
She arches a brow. “What do you need it for?”
He licks his lips. “Reviewing purposes.”
Emma frowns. He’s a little on the short side, so it makes sense, and she’s helpful, so she agrees to get it for him. She follows him down the office, where shelves of their issues are piled up. The issue he’s looking for is on the highest shelf, so when she attempts to grab it, the top rides up, exposing her stomach.
The guy sort of stares, because there’s a mildly hideous, faded old scar marring the side of her belly, and while it’s not obviously clear, it’s a brown mark that protrudes, and so he stares. Emma blushes embarrassingly when she notices his gaze, and she tries to pull her shirt down, but she’s still holding on to that issue he’s asked her to get.
A hand obscures it from Luce’s vision, and Emma turns, yelping, Norman having come up so suddenly. His touch is like electricity, and as a natural reaction she jumps back, though she doesn’t get too far.
His hand is still on her skin, a shocking source of warmth, and being naturally taller, Norman swipes the papers she’d been trying to get from the shelf with ease.
“What the hell are you doing?” she seethes, pushing his hands off her.
Norman ignores her and hands the guy his file harshly. With a glare, he says, “Next time, you ask someone else. Someone appropriate.”
His glare is so severe that it makes Luce shudder in fear. He takes the files away from Norman with a squeak, and he scurries away like a mouse, Norman’s eyes following him all the while.
Whatever insults she’s ready to fling at him dies on her lips, and shoving her top down once more just for security, she finds that in the wake of what he’s just done, none of her words seem to matter anymore.
—*—
When she finishes work for the day, it’s raining outside. Most everyone has already gone off home, but she had something to finish and had stayed behind.
She doesn’t realize it until she’s closing her laptop, but the silence of the office is deafening. Normally, Norman would be pestering her, or helping, even just a little bit. He likes to hang around when she’s getting off late, but today he’s nowhere to be found.
Strange.
Since she’s the last to go, she’s the one who has to lock the office. The front doors will be locked, even though a guard will still be there, so she has to take the longer route out the building.
When she steps out the back of the building and into the parking lot, she can see a familiar shock of white, drenched thoroughly in the rain. He’s sitting all by himself on the sidewalk, his entire body soaked through to the bone, and when she looks closer she can see that he’s shivering, though he doesn’t seem to realize it.
Her first thought is, “What an idiot”.
She takes a step forward in the opposite direction, drawing out her umbrella from her bag, but when she turns back he looks so pitiful sitting there that she stops in her stride.
He’s always been an idiot. It’s on the list right next to infuriating. She should know: they grew up together—and at one point they were even friends—but over the years he had grown increasingly psychotic. But Gilda had been right. She hasn’t actually done anything about it. She’s always just reacted—he’s always just been there. But now, he isn’t being infuriating, though he most definitely is being an idiot, and suddenly she has an opportunity, right there in front of her.
She shouldn’t be doing it. She shouldn’t even be considering it. But she feels a long repressed tug on her heartstrings, like an old song learning to play itself again, and she finds that everything within her seems to reject the idea of being apart from him more than she’d care to admit.
Unwilling to try and sort out her feelings even more, she decides to open up her umbrella, and shelter him from the cold.
—*—
(She doesn’t realize it then, but she’d left her bag on the pavement, going after him. It gets stolen.)
—*—
“Hey.”
Norman is startled, and the wide, pale look on his face is enough to amuse her, just a little. He brushes his bangs from his face, which have grown limp and straw-like in the rain, and he beams up at her, his face brightening instantly.
“Hey,” he responds.
“That was quite the stunt you pulled earlier,” Emma remarks, a little shyly. She shifts from foot to foot, then, as though she’s never said the words before, and she says, “Thank you for that, by the way. You kinda saved my butt.”
“I didn’t save anything,” Norman replies. “Luce was just being stupid.”
“Still.” She thinks of the scar: the remnants of a faded memory. He had been with her, even back then. She remembers him yelling at the doctors in the ER to “make sure she’s okay! Please!”
It had been an accident. She’s forgotten most of it, but she thinks that she had shoved him out the path of a car. The driver had been drunk. She’d been out for days, but when she’d woken up, he’d been by her bedside, and he’d promised her that it would never happen again. He swore it.
“You finished that article?” His voice jars her out of her memories.
“Not yet.” She shakes her head. “You’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, huh?” He turns away from her, and looks back at whatever he was looking at before. She wonders what it is that he’s so fascinated by. “Your editor does not approve of your persistent tardiness today.”
She rolls her eyes. “And your friend does not approve of your persistent inanity today.”
“My friend?” he repeats, arching his brow. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”
At the observation, Emma feels oddly convicted. “What’re you talking about? Of course I have.”
“No, you haven’t,” he insists. “You’ve called me... hmm, let’s see.” He counts on his fingers. “A pervert, an idiot, a muttonhead, an unreasonable sour patch kid, a blubbering mess of a man—”
“All right, all right,” Emma interrupts, “I get it. But it’s not like you haven’t earned any of those names.”
“Ah, princess. You bestow upon me the most wonderous of titles.”
She nudges his side with her foot. “You’re proving to be an idiot right now, you know, sitting in the rain like this.”
“I like the rain.” He closes his eyes. “It helps me think.”
“It’ll make you sick, too.”
“If I get sick,” Norman says, slowly, and somehow this doesn’t sound like the prelude to some horrible joke, “Would you take care of me?”
“Depends,” Emma answers, considering. “If you mean giving you your medicine, sure. But if this is one convoluted attempt to lie in my lap again, I swear...”
“Aw,” Norman pouts, “But that’s the fun part.”
“Oh, grow up, Norman,” Emma says, firmly. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“You’re right,” Norman answers. “We’re not. Which is why I think I can do a little more than just lie on your lap~”
She kicks him. “Perv.”
“You know you love it.”
“I think you’re deluding yourself.” She tugs on his shoulder. “Get up, now, will you? You’re going to get pneumonia.”
“No, I’m not.” His eyes are shining with mirth. “I’ll only get it through bacteria.”
“Well, the rain is full of bacteria.”
“Touché, but the worst I’ll get is the flu.”
She cocks a hand on her hip. “You wanna bet?”
“Sure,” he says, standing up. “Winner gets a kiss on the mouth?”
“Winner pays for dinner,” Emma counters. “For a week.”
“Oh? Is this the makings of a week-long date, I hear?”
She scoffs. “In your dreams. You’re just going to pay for my groceries.”
Norman shakes his head. “Using me for my money. How typical.”
“Wanting me for my looks. How superficial.”
“Ah. But it’s not just your looks.”
“And it’s not just your money,” she blurts out, glibly yet with a stark honesty that surprises even herself.
At her response, he steps closer to her, his white hair all over his forehead, his polo so wet she can see through it, and he smiles, then he says, “Guess you like talking to me, huh?”
Well, she completely denies that. There’s no way she actually likes talking with him, she was just doing him a favor, that’s all...!
But as she’s heated up, trying to prove him wrong, his hand grasps her waist, his cold palm stretched over the place where it had been, earlier, and he presses a long kiss to her cheek.
She attempts to slap him but he’s already dancing away.
“Miss me, miss me, now you gotta kiss me!” he sing-songs, impishly, and then he’s out of the umbrella and dashing off, laughter in his wake. He disappears into the parking lot, his joy ringing in her ears.
She stands, dumbly, her hand coming to rest on her cheek in spite of herself. She hadn’t even gotten to offer him a ride.