Work Text:
She really doesn’t know why she’s even letting him stay. Honest to goodness, she doesn’t: The lines are back up, according to the radio, and now she can phone the police and get him out of her apartment, out of her life.
The opportunity is right there in front of her, so why doesn’t she go for it?
Lizzie ponders that to herself as she listens to the dial tone (somewhat relieved to hear it, especially after the previous night), quietly drumming her fingernails against the wood of the table as she waits for someone to pick up. Not at the police station, but at the hospital.
As she talks with Shirley, the receptionist, feigning a sore throat and cough as she fibs about feeling unwell, her eyes wander back to the couch, where Jonathan sits, a thin cloud of smoke drifting from the cigarette nestled comfortably between his pale, thin fingers. They had a little argument about him even smoking in the apartment, her telling him that her landlord will have a fit, but in response, he merely flicked on his lighter and lit the cigarette, not once breaking eye contact with her when he did. This response unnerved her, and she ultimately decided not to press the topic.
Shirley buys her bald-faced lie and wishes her a speedy recovery, leaving Lizzie to give a low sigh of relief when she hangs up the receiver, before her mind asks herself: Why did I do that? She could’ve gotten out of the apartment and away from Jonathan if she went to work, and wasn’t that what she wanted? To get away from Jonathan Brewster? She decides the answer to her question is that she’s only staying to protect Valerie. She certainly made Jonathan furious last night, calling him ‘Boris Karloff’, and she really doesn’t want to find out that Jonathan’s little ‘joke’ about killing her and dumping her body in quicklime wasn’t a joke after all.
As soon as she sits back down, a spidery hand reaches out and grips her hair tight, causing her to gasp and freeze as Jonathan smirks, “Playing hooky from work, Lizzie? And here I thought you were such a good girl.”
Gritting her teeth and struggling not to blush, she replies, “I am not playing hooky, I just...don’t feel like going in tonight.” Yes, that was the very definition of playing hooky, but she wasn’t exactly focused on giving a good explanation right now, being more focused on Jonathan’s fingers locking themselves tightly in her blonde locks.
“Because you’d prefer to stay in, with me?”
“N-No! Because I’m tired, I already worked an evening shift last night, and then you came along and kept me up until morning!”
“I think we both know you also played a part in staying up so late, Lizzie,” he smiles wickedly at her, and she knows she walked right into that one, her face flushed bright red when she recalls just what the two of them got up to before she fell asleep last night. Her stomach flips, and she manages to pry his hand off her, immediately scooting away, lest her try to grab at her again. He merely smiles, and she hates it-he’s been trying to get a rise out of her all morning, like a petulant child looking to make trouble. She folds her arms and sinks in her seat, just annoyed with herself for falling for that stupid line just now.
As Lizzie sits silently, Jonathan keeps puffing away at his cigarette, seemingly staring blankly ahead as he moves the cigarette to and from his lips almost mechanically. He’s still musing a number of possibilities, one of which is going out to look for Einstein. He knows the good doctor well, he’s probably glued himself to a barstool after the Halloween ordeal, and if he finds him, he can force him to sober up long enough to give him a new face-preferably one that isn’t so recognizable. Unfortunately, going out means running the risk of being seen, and he’s not ready to give up his new hiding place just yet. It is quite literally the last place the police would think to look for him.
That, and there are...other benefits.
And therein lies the other quandary on his mind-what to do about Lizzie? On the one hand, it’s tempting to take her with, wherever he winds up going: She’s a nurse, and that’s very helpful when one is in his line of work, to have someone that can readily patch you up at a moment’s notice. She’s done a competent job in terms of stitching him up (he’ll give her that, he supposes), and she isn’t likely to say no if he asks her to do it again. He isn’t in the habit of getting shot, but mistakes can and do happen, and it would thus be beneficial to have her at his beck and call should she ever need to dig a slug out of him again.
But on the other hand, she’d likely pitch a fit if he tried to drag her off into the criminal underworld, and the last thing he needs is a whining Lizzie Lanchaster pounding her fists against his back should he try to throw her over his shoulder (which, given the height difference between them, he could very easily do). He also doesn’t need a weak spot someone could exploit-not to say that Lizzie is a weak spot for him (she isn’t, he reminds himself as he takes another drag from his cigarette), he just doesn’t want someone thinking they can get one over him by taking her and using her as bait or something. That’s a whole lot of trouble he’d rather avoid.
Although, admittedly, the idea of throttling some moron who tried to snatch is appealing...after all, he is the only one allowed to terrorize her, and no one else.
Snuffing out the cigarette, Jonathan’s eyes wander over to Lizzie, who sits clear on the opposite side of the couch now (though, given its size, that isn’t very much room between them), long legs drawn up to her chest as she rests chin on her fist, seemingly listening to the radio blather on about the weather, rain turning to snow turning to ice or something. The curtain is a little open, and a small ray of pale morning sunlight illuminates her blonde curls, somewhat matted where he gripped them. He gnashes his teeth together when he realizes how caught up he is in staring at her, and finds himself looking in the opposite direction, still pondering his options. Take her with or leave her behind? Kill her or let her live? Leave and forget about her or…
...stay?
No, he almost seems to make a face at the thought. No, no, no, he is not staying with her out of any sort of affection or attachment to her, no. Regardless of the previous night’s escapades, regardless of whatever sort of boyish feelings she stirred in him in their youth, he wasn’t staying with her for any reason other than necessity. Not out of love. She already asked him last night if he loved her, and he said no. And she said that was fine, because she didn’t love him either. End of discussion.
For a second, he almost toys with the notion of being with her, carving out some sort of existence with her, but he discards the thought as quickly as it comes. It would never work out. And that’s fine by him.
Lizzie, still sitting at the opposite end, briefly glances away from the radio to look at Jonathan, watching as he snuffs out his cigarette before leaning back in his seat, thinking about things she feels certain she doesn’t want to know about, but she doesn’t trouble herself with what he’s thinking of. Chewing nervously on her nails, stomach fraught with worry, she has plenty on her mind to keep her occupied-namely, the situation at hand.
Aside from her own questioning as to why she hasn’t done more to get Jonathan Brewster out of her apartment and out of her life, she wonders: What will Valerie think? She was probably already making assumptions, given the look she shot her roommate before she went to bed, and if she wakes up soon and finds Jonathan still in the apartment, oh, she’ll start getting ideas. And Valerie, bless her heart, is a very gossipy girl-she can’t keep a secret to save her life. The thought of Valerie whispering to her friends and coworkers about a strange new beau for her roommate makes Lizzie’s stomach tighten fiercely, and it leads her to wonder what else people may think, should they find out-they’ll think the worst of her, she’s sure. And what if someone hears about him, and realizes the police are looking for him? That’s the whole reason he’s hiding in her apartment, is because he’s waiting for the hunt to be called off, right? What if someone tells the police, and they come knocking on her door? She could imagine herself standing at the door, Jonathan behind it with a gun pointed at her head, just out of sight, hissing at her to not let the cops in...or perhaps he’d hide himself somewhere in her apartment while the police investigated every nook and cranny, searching for him, and she’d stand there, unable to decide whether to tell them where he is, or to remain quiet and let him slip through their fingers…
God, why can’t she just get rid of him? Last night didn’t mean a thing, clearly, and that was okay with her, wasn’t it? Yes, it was, his answer of ‘no’ was satisfactory. She was relieved that he said no, and glad she told him that she felt the same way before she rolled over and fell asleep. Those girlhood dreams, that childhood crush? That was long gone, and she knew it. Beyond what happened between them last night, there was nothing more. What was done was done, and now, all she wanted was for him to get out of her apartment and out of her life. It wasn’t like she wanted him to stay, absolutely not. She almost shudders at the thought, as she glances back to watch him sit there, so still, his bony cheeks accentuated by the clumsy stitching on them, that half-combed hairstyle sticking up in places, almost reminding him of his unruly hair when they were children.
She watches him for a moment, maybe a moment too long, she thinks, and looks away, before looking down at the sofa cushions.
Jonathan’s hand lays palm down on the cushion, perfectly still, almost like a predator lying in wait for some poor, stupid prey to come by, prey that will be snatched up and gripped tight. The comparison puts new anxiety in her stomach, and yet she can’t help but put her own hand down on the cushion, inching it closer and closer to his, until their pinkies are touching. Feeling adventurous, she puts her pinkie atop him, gauging a reaction.
He twitches, and tilts his head somewhat to glance at her, dark eyes freezing her in her place-if he grabs at her, she won’t have time to recoil before his hand is around her wrist.
But he does nothing, merely shooting her this look to unsettle her, given the faint smirk she catches on his lips as he turns his head away. She huffs-she should’ve known he’d try to scare her like that-and looks away as well, yet neither move their hands away from one another.
The radio announcer has ceased the usual rambling about weather, traffic predictions, and sponsorship endorsements, the chatter shifting to that of music, a love song. It dances through the room as rain falls against the window outside, and Jonathan Brewster and Elizabeth Lanchaster sit together, neither realizing that they are now holding each other’s hand.
"If I didn't care more than words can say
If I didn't care, would I feel this way?"