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Title: "An Open Page"
Author: monimala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Rating/Classification: PG, V/I-ish, angst.
Summary: Shortly after "HTOHL", Valenti thinks about why he'll
always answer the phone late at night.
Disclaimer: People who aren't me own all characters and concepts within
this fic.
Dedication: To Fionna and Elizabeth. Date: February 20, 2001.
*Inside her there's longing
This girl's an open page
Book marking - she's so close now
This girl is half his age
Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me
Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me*
--The Police.
He
knows, when the phone rings late at night, that it's her.
It
can't be anyone else.
It's
not allowed to be.
Because
it's supposed to be her.
And
she needs him.
And
it's been so long since he's felt needed.
Kyle...Kyle
pretty much runs on his own. Worries about his dad like a good son, but
doesn't *need* anything. Doesn't depend on him for help, for support, for
advice. And Tess...Tess...well, he doesn't quite know how to raise an alien
girl and he's glad he doesn't have to.
They
leave him be. They keep their own hours and make their own meals. They
don't go out of their way to find trouble or to save the world. They never
go out of their way to involve him in their personal dramas. And they never
have to call.
He
likes to hear her whisper his name. It comes out in one long rush of breath,
like she wants to squeeze in every syllable as quickly as possible. Like
she wants to make sure she says it all because that's the only way he'll
agree to help her.
Little
does she know that he is much easier than that.
And he
likes the twenty-eight seconds of silence after she says it. He always
pictures her chewing the pale pink lipstick off her full lower lip as she
tries to figure out what words to use...how to explain the latest crisis in
a way that will keep him safe and still convince him to come.
Little
does she know that he is much easier than that.
When
she'd told him she would catch a ride with somebody to Tucson, he'd wanted
to reach through the phone lines and shake her. Grasp her shoulders and
rattle her until her pearly white teeth tingled from the pain. And he'd
tamped down the urge by telling himself that he didn't quite know how to
raise an alien girl...that he was glad he didn't have to.
But
he'd thought about her alone, standing in the rain, getting in some
stranger's car, anyway. He'd thought about the thousand dangers that could
befall a beautiful teenager on an American highway. He'd thought about
them...and cursed himself for picturing an attacker with blue eyes and
graying blond hair and a careworn face.
All
dirty old men don't look the same, he thinks.
He
hopes.
He'd
told Agent Duff they needed the plane to catch Sorenson.
He'd
told her to draw her gun as they entered the Dupree house because Laurie
might need their help.
But it
was another girl he'd looked for.
And
he'd breathed a sigh of relief when neither of the two fair heads and the
frightened faces were her. Or had it been disappointment?
And
later, much later, when Isabel had arrived safely, soaking wet from storm
and tears, he'd managed to keep drinking with the good agent. To keep
talking shop.
He'd
watched her bolt down to the cellar, grief and guilt in her big brown eyes.
And after fifteen minutes of idle chatter and one more shot of the Duprees
good bourbon, he'd gone looking. Citing the neutral concern of a good
Sheriff. Of someone who didn't quite know how to raise an alien girl and
was thankful he didn't have to.
He'd
rubbed her back, gently, as she cried, slumped next to Sorenson's still,
violated, body. He'd tried not to look at the blue crystals sprouting from
the man's chest--tried to ignore the warning any sensible human being would
take to heart--and let her whimper into his shoulder. She'd *sobbed*,
really. Murmured something about it being all her fault and he'd told her
it was nonsense. He'd almost touched her hair...almost...pulled back his
fingers at the last possible second...and said, "There, there. You
couldn't have known. You couldn't have known."
*You
couldn't have known that any man who meets you is a goner. That any man and
every man is slated to die the first time you say their name. That any man
and every man will always..._always_ answer your call.*
She'd
needed him.
She
needs him.
The
sharp wail of the telephone ringing cuts off his wandering thoughts.He
stares towards the general direction of the wall unit, in the dark, and
wonders if he should let the machine get it just this once. If he should
just, this once, let it wait till morning.
He's
much easier than that.
"Sheriff
Valenti?"
"Hello,
Isabel. What can I do for you?"
--end--
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