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sendthembackThe Lake. Natural beauty. Cab ride. Puke alert.
Words required: 21,671
Words achieved: 23,976
Words of today: 1,940
They walk to the Lake, through the Mall and across Bethesda Terrace, mostly quiet, just taking in the park in the fall. They keep walking until they find an open bench near the water and finally sit down. The Boathouse is closed for the season, and so the Lake is empty except for the occasional cluster of birds. Rachel looks out over the water at the yellowing trees and the too-blue sky while Keith shifts around on the cold bench and unrolls the newspaper.
"Are you done with the front page?" Keith asks, flipping it open.
Rachel nods and turns her head toward him. "Yeah. For now, anyway."
"Here then," he says, handing her the rest of the paper. She takes it from him, folding it into her lap, and then looks back out over the water. Keith wants to watch her watching, but he distracts himself with the paper instead, letting her have her long, quiet moment alone. She stares forward, looking at the ripples in the water and the leaves that have fallen and are waiting to fall, until she makes out a family of ducks in the middle of the lake. She smiles, tapping Keith's shoulder to point them out. He grins back and she finally picks up what he's left her of the paper and starts wandering through it.
They sit reading until the sun hits the perfect point on the horizon to beat right into their eyes. Rachel drops her head into her palm and then looks up, squinting at Keith until he notices that she's looking at him. She's conspicuously pale and the crease that cuts in her brow when she frowns seems even stronger than usual.
"You okay?" he asks.
Rachel shakes her head. "I think it's the sun, or maybe the hangover. I feel like shit." Then, she half-smiles at him. "How's your headache?"
"Fine," he says, folding his newspaper and reaching for the sections that are still in Rachel's lap. "I feel..." He looks up at her, noticing the way she's straining to pay attention to him. "Hey, you wanna head back? You could take a nap. You probably should get some more rest before braving an extended one-on-one session with Stephen T. Colbert."
"That might be a good idea," Rachel answers. She shakes her head, trying to shake the hangover out, but only making herself fell dizzy. "Ugh. I must be getting old. I didn't used to feel like this after a night of drinking."
"Welcome to the Geriatrics Club," Keith says. He stands up, offering her a hand to hoist her off of the bench. "It only gets worse."
They take a cab back to Keith's apartment. It's not something Rachel would usually do; she likes to walk, but she feels just bad enough to let Keith corral her into the back of the taxi. She leans against the window during the ride, her eyes half closed. Keith looks at the way her cheek presses against the glass. He doesn't stroke her hair, but he does reach out for her hand, squeezing her fingers in his.
When they get out of the elevator and down the hall, Keith opens the door as quickly as he can, stepping aside to let her in first. Rachel makes a stumbling rush toward the couch, but Keith calls after her.
"Hey, go get in my bed. It's quieter back there... and closer to the bathroom."
Rachel is just foggy-headed enough just to nod and do what she's been told, and so, she drags her feet past the living room and through his bedroom door.
Keith hears the door swing shut and then bounce back open. Rachel doesn't try to shut it again, so he moves into the kitchen, filling a glass with ice and water for her. Then, he walks down the little hallway and slowly pushes the bedroom door open. Rachel's lying on her stomach on top of the sheets, with her sneakered feet hanging off of the bed, looking like she just sort of collapsed. Keith puts the glass down on the nightstand and then sits down next to her, stooping over to yank the shoes off of her feet.
"I'm gonna grab you some Pepto-Bismol, okay?" Keith murmurs. He stands up and starts to make his way toward the bathroom medicine cabinet.
Rachel grunts, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You don't have to baby me. It's my fault, and don't tell me you like babying me, because I'm already feeling a little nauseated."
"And that's why I'm getting you the medicine," Keith snorts. He slips into the bathroom.
Keith has way too many pills, including what is probably a full baker's dozen bottles of expired medicine, alone. He makes a horrible racket pawing through them all, knocking a couple of bottles into the sink, snatching awkwardly at everything until he finally finds the big pink bottle in the back. He pours out a hefty dose and then carries it back to her.
Rachel has rolled over onto her back and pulled a sheet up to her chest, but her arms are splayed out weirdly over her head and her brow is still creased. Keith sits down carefully next to her. "Hey. Can you sit up for a second?"
"Yeah, okay," Rachel mumbles. She doesn't move at first, but Keith doesn't push her. Another 30 seconds pass and she finally pulls herself up, leaning lightly on Keith's shoulder. He starts to raise the little plastic shot up to her lips, then stops, slipping it into her fingers instead.
"I always kind of psyche myself out with this stuff," she says, looking at the plastic cup with one eye. "Something about shots. It seems like you're forcing it."
Keith nods. "Take your time."
"Thanks," Rachel spits, and Keith is pretty sure she'd be giving him a dirty look if she actually had enough will to look over at him. She takes a breath.
Rachel knocks the pink stuff back with a grunt, shrugging when it's nowhere near as bad as she expected it to be. She tries to smile triumphantly at him but ends up falling down onto her knees.
"Oh, do I not want to throw up right now."
"Lie down for a while," Keith says, "and maybe you won't."
She drops slowly back onto her side and Keith pulls the sheet back up to her chin. He sits quietly next to her until she slowly rolls herself over from one side to another, turning her back to him.
"You should get some work done or something," she says.
Keith nods. "All right."
Keith could do some work, either finish reading the paper or check his e-mail or even put on a damn football game. Instead, he sits down on his couch and stares at his blank TV screen. It's somewhere between noon and one, but it somehow feels both earlier and later. He's tired. His headache is gone and he's feeling better all around, but he's still tired.
He kicks off his shoes and leans back against the cushions, closing his eyes, wondering if maybe he should take a nap himself. His couch is just long enough to be almost comfortable--he made sure of it when he bought it, stretching out across the sofa right there in the furniture store--and it's a Saturday, the one day he can really get away with laziness. He raises his hands over his heads with a yawn. Then, he stands up.
More water, first. His throat is dry enough to be uncomfortable and he can hardly think through the scratchiness, let alone sleep.
G.
Rachel dreams that there's something growing in her chest. It's stretching down into her stomach and up into her throat, something deep and black and strangely thick. Her eyes are closed as tight as she can keep them and she doesn't know if she wants to open them. She doesn't want to see what's happening to her body.
Her chest starts to burn and she finally opens her eyes, but all she sees is her t-shirt, a simple stretch of green, as normal as it's ever been. She puts her hand on her chest, and then she feels it, right through the cloth, whatever it is, pushing out from inside of her. She runs her other hand down her stomach and starts to work her t-shirt up over her skin, barely breathing.
XVIII.
Keith pauses by the door of his bedroom, listening, just wanting to hear Rachel breathe. Instead, he hears her murmuring and whispering, and it scares him, probably more than it should, but... He turns the knob and pushes open the door as gently as he can, sticking his head in first, his water glass still in his hand.
"Rachel?" he whispers, though he's sure she can't hear him.
She's rolled onto her back, but she's still asleep, her eyes clinched shut, the rest of her face weirdly relaxed. Keith drops his glass down on the nearest flat surface--his dresser--and steps closer.
"Rachel, wake up," he says, even as he's still walking toward the bed. "Rach..."
He sits down, running his fingers through her hair, and leans in a little. "Rachel."
"Hmm?" Her eyes flutter open. He looks her over and realizes she's kicked off the sheets. Her hand is under her shirt, pressing down on her stomach.
"Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm gonna throw up," she says, her voice amazingly even.
Keith slips to his feet, carefully pulling her up by her shoulders. "That's okay, we'll just get you to the--"
Rachel lurches into him and it's already too late. Her vomit is remarkably warm as it seeps into the front of his shirt.
"Shit," Rachel moans. "I... Shit..."
"It's okay," Keith whispers, trying not to breathe. "You just lie down again and I'll be right back." He stumbles onto his feet.
Keith pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it into the bathtub, grabbing a handful of clean wash cloths from underneath the sink. He scrubs his chest and stomach with soap and water, even though nothing has really gotten through. Then, he wets another washcloth and soaps it up. He looks at himself in the mirror, his face completely blank. He takes one last breath and returns to his bedroom.
"Hands up," he whispers as he reaches down to pull Rachel up, breathing slowly as she leans into him.
She does what he says, even as she mumbles, "I'm better now." She lets him strip off her t-shirt, even lets him press the washcloth to her chest, though she takes it from him after a few seconds, running it up over her neck and jaw.
"Do you want to brush your teeth?" he asks when she's done drying herself with another cloth.
Rachel shakes her head. "Not right now, if that's okay."
"That's fine."
Rachel suddenly laughs, her grin not matching her dark, wet eyes. "My headache's gone."
"That's good." He doesn't even bother to check back with himself about how stupid of a thing that was to say.
"Yeah," Rachel answers. She's already falling back onto the bed again, rubbing her eyes with her fists. "Time for another nap, I think."
"Okay," Keith says. He hesitates, cursing himself for how obvious it is.
Rachel laughs again. "Trying to make it more awkward, Olbermann?"
He stares down at her.
She continues, "It isn't going to work. I've already cornered the market."
He frowns at her and she laughs yet again.
"Just get under the covers already."
Words required: 21,671
Words achieved: 23,976
Words of today: 1,940
They walk to the Lake, through the Mall and across Bethesda Terrace, mostly quiet, just taking in the park in the fall. They keep walking until they find an open bench near the water and finally sit down. The Boathouse is closed for the season, and so the Lake is empty except for the occasional cluster of birds. Rachel looks out over the water at the yellowing trees and the too-blue sky while Keith shifts around on the cold bench and unrolls the newspaper.
"Are you done with the front page?" Keith asks, flipping it open.
Rachel nods and turns her head toward him. "Yeah. For now, anyway."
"Here then," he says, handing her the rest of the paper. She takes it from him, folding it into her lap, and then looks back out over the water. Keith wants to watch her watching, but he distracts himself with the paper instead, letting her have her long, quiet moment alone. She stares forward, looking at the ripples in the water and the leaves that have fallen and are waiting to fall, until she makes out a family of ducks in the middle of the lake. She smiles, tapping Keith's shoulder to point them out. He grins back and she finally picks up what he's left her of the paper and starts wandering through it.
They sit reading until the sun hits the perfect point on the horizon to beat right into their eyes. Rachel drops her head into her palm and then looks up, squinting at Keith until he notices that she's looking at him. She's conspicuously pale and the crease that cuts in her brow when she frowns seems even stronger than usual.
"You okay?" he asks.
Rachel shakes her head. "I think it's the sun, or maybe the hangover. I feel like shit." Then, she half-smiles at him. "How's your headache?"
"Fine," he says, folding his newspaper and reaching for the sections that are still in Rachel's lap. "I feel..." He looks up at her, noticing the way she's straining to pay attention to him. "Hey, you wanna head back? You could take a nap. You probably should get some more rest before braving an extended one-on-one session with Stephen T. Colbert."
"That might be a good idea," Rachel answers. She shakes her head, trying to shake the hangover out, but only making herself fell dizzy. "Ugh. I must be getting old. I didn't used to feel like this after a night of drinking."
"Welcome to the Geriatrics Club," Keith says. He stands up, offering her a hand to hoist her off of the bench. "It only gets worse."
They take a cab back to Keith's apartment. It's not something Rachel would usually do; she likes to walk, but she feels just bad enough to let Keith corral her into the back of the taxi. She leans against the window during the ride, her eyes half closed. Keith looks at the way her cheek presses against the glass. He doesn't stroke her hair, but he does reach out for her hand, squeezing her fingers in his.
When they get out of the elevator and down the hall, Keith opens the door as quickly as he can, stepping aside to let her in first. Rachel makes a stumbling rush toward the couch, but Keith calls after her.
"Hey, go get in my bed. It's quieter back there... and closer to the bathroom."
Rachel is just foggy-headed enough just to nod and do what she's been told, and so, she drags her feet past the living room and through his bedroom door.
Keith hears the door swing shut and then bounce back open. Rachel doesn't try to shut it again, so he moves into the kitchen, filling a glass with ice and water for her. Then, he walks down the little hallway and slowly pushes the bedroom door open. Rachel's lying on her stomach on top of the sheets, with her sneakered feet hanging off of the bed, looking like she just sort of collapsed. Keith puts the glass down on the nightstand and then sits down next to her, stooping over to yank the shoes off of her feet.
"I'm gonna grab you some Pepto-Bismol, okay?" Keith murmurs. He stands up and starts to make his way toward the bathroom medicine cabinet.
Rachel grunts, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You don't have to baby me. It's my fault, and don't tell me you like babying me, because I'm already feeling a little nauseated."
"And that's why I'm getting you the medicine," Keith snorts. He slips into the bathroom.
Keith has way too many pills, including what is probably a full baker's dozen bottles of expired medicine, alone. He makes a horrible racket pawing through them all, knocking a couple of bottles into the sink, snatching awkwardly at everything until he finally finds the big pink bottle in the back. He pours out a hefty dose and then carries it back to her.
Rachel has rolled over onto her back and pulled a sheet up to her chest, but her arms are splayed out weirdly over her head and her brow is still creased. Keith sits down carefully next to her. "Hey. Can you sit up for a second?"
"Yeah, okay," Rachel mumbles. She doesn't move at first, but Keith doesn't push her. Another 30 seconds pass and she finally pulls herself up, leaning lightly on Keith's shoulder. He starts to raise the little plastic shot up to her lips, then stops, slipping it into her fingers instead.
"I always kind of psyche myself out with this stuff," she says, looking at the plastic cup with one eye. "Something about shots. It seems like you're forcing it."
Keith nods. "Take your time."
"Thanks," Rachel spits, and Keith is pretty sure she'd be giving him a dirty look if she actually had enough will to look over at him. She takes a breath.
Rachel knocks the pink stuff back with a grunt, shrugging when it's nowhere near as bad as she expected it to be. She tries to smile triumphantly at him but ends up falling down onto her knees.
"Oh, do I not want to throw up right now."
"Lie down for a while," Keith says, "and maybe you won't."
She drops slowly back onto her side and Keith pulls the sheet back up to her chin. He sits quietly next to her until she slowly rolls herself over from one side to another, turning her back to him.
"You should get some work done or something," she says.
Keith nods. "All right."
Keith could do some work, either finish reading the paper or check his e-mail or even put on a damn football game. Instead, he sits down on his couch and stares at his blank TV screen. It's somewhere between noon and one, but it somehow feels both earlier and later. He's tired. His headache is gone and he's feeling better all around, but he's still tired.
He kicks off his shoes and leans back against the cushions, closing his eyes, wondering if maybe he should take a nap himself. His couch is just long enough to be almost comfortable--he made sure of it when he bought it, stretching out across the sofa right there in the furniture store--and it's a Saturday, the one day he can really get away with laziness. He raises his hands over his heads with a yawn. Then, he stands up.
More water, first. His throat is dry enough to be uncomfortable and he can hardly think through the scratchiness, let alone sleep.
G.
Rachel dreams that there's something growing in her chest. It's stretching down into her stomach and up into her throat, something deep and black and strangely thick. Her eyes are closed as tight as she can keep them and she doesn't know if she wants to open them. She doesn't want to see what's happening to her body.
Her chest starts to burn and she finally opens her eyes, but all she sees is her t-shirt, a simple stretch of green, as normal as it's ever been. She puts her hand on her chest, and then she feels it, right through the cloth, whatever it is, pushing out from inside of her. She runs her other hand down her stomach and starts to work her t-shirt up over her skin, barely breathing.
XVIII.
Keith pauses by the door of his bedroom, listening, just wanting to hear Rachel breathe. Instead, he hears her murmuring and whispering, and it scares him, probably more than it should, but... He turns the knob and pushes open the door as gently as he can, sticking his head in first, his water glass still in his hand.
"Rachel?" he whispers, though he's sure she can't hear him.
She's rolled onto her back, but she's still asleep, her eyes clinched shut, the rest of her face weirdly relaxed. Keith drops his glass down on the nearest flat surface--his dresser--and steps closer.
"Rachel, wake up," he says, even as he's still walking toward the bed. "Rach..."
He sits down, running his fingers through her hair, and leans in a little. "Rachel."
"Hmm?" Her eyes flutter open. He looks her over and realizes she's kicked off the sheets. Her hand is under her shirt, pressing down on her stomach.
"Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm gonna throw up," she says, her voice amazingly even.
Keith slips to his feet, carefully pulling her up by her shoulders. "That's okay, we'll just get you to the--"
Rachel lurches into him and it's already too late. Her vomit is remarkably warm as it seeps into the front of his shirt.
"Shit," Rachel moans. "I... Shit..."
"It's okay," Keith whispers, trying not to breathe. "You just lie down again and I'll be right back." He stumbles onto his feet.
Keith pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it into the bathtub, grabbing a handful of clean wash cloths from underneath the sink. He scrubs his chest and stomach with soap and water, even though nothing has really gotten through. Then, he wets another washcloth and soaps it up. He looks at himself in the mirror, his face completely blank. He takes one last breath and returns to his bedroom.
"Hands up," he whispers as he reaches down to pull Rachel up, breathing slowly as she leans into him.
She does what he says, even as she mumbles, "I'm better now." She lets him strip off her t-shirt, even lets him press the washcloth to her chest, though she takes it from him after a few seconds, running it up over her neck and jaw.
"Do you want to brush your teeth?" he asks when she's done drying herself with another cloth.
Rachel shakes her head. "Not right now, if that's okay."
"That's fine."
Rachel suddenly laughs, her grin not matching her dark, wet eyes. "My headache's gone."
"That's good." He doesn't even bother to check back with himself about how stupid of a thing that was to say.
"Yeah," Rachel answers. She's already falling back onto the bed again, rubbing her eyes with her fists. "Time for another nap, I think."
"Okay," Keith says. He hesitates, cursing himself for how obvious it is.
Rachel laughs again. "Trying to make it more awkward, Olbermann?"
He stares down at her.
She continues, "It isn't going to work. I've already cornered the market."
He frowns at her and she laughs yet again.
"Just get under the covers already."
no subject
Date: 2009-11-14 08:09 am (UTC)It happened to a friend of mine. Funny thing about the morning after pill, it's ability to work is actually based on keeping it down.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-14 08:58 am (UTC)Though my muse tells me very little, I can pretty much guarantee that Rachel is not pregnant.
Whether Keith realizes this or not is a completely different story.
I have a similar friend-related experience, but it is not really for DW comment discussion.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-14 09:09 am (UTC)Also Keith, you're an idiot.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-15 07:47 am (UTC)Hee. I love this line on so, so many levels.
Also, because I can say this to you and have you get it: yay, vomit!
no subject
Date: 2009-11-15 07:56 am (UTC)Hooray, vomit!
no subject
Date: 2009-11-15 08:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-15 08:03 am (UTC)