houseofcards_rp | Never his decision to make

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Never his decision to make

He's not liquored up, but Monty has downed a whiskey or two. Call it liquid courage, call it self-medication, but he's definitely at the Four Suits trying to figure out how the hell he got himself into this mess with Blythe when all he'd wanted to do from the beginning was spare her a broken heart. Strike that. He didn't break it, just tossed it on the ground and stomped all over it. Damned if he ain't three kinds of SOB. Blythe's a fine woman. She deserves a better man than him. And he's an arrogant SOB, too, 'cause that never was his decision to make. That choice belonged to Blythe.

His track record with women is lousy. He keeps it simple. He keeps it easy. No strings. No hard feelings. Fun and laughter and both happy to see each others back when it's time to go. Blythe isn't like that. Truth be told, once he'd realized Blythe was crushing on him he'd pulled back and friend zoned her quicker than a duck jumps on a June bug. His own attraction he'd wadded up and shoved aside 'cause no way, no how was he fixing to be Blythe's first broken heart. But 'pears that he just might have achieved that dubious honor. And wasn't that another choice he'd stolen away from her?

"Ah, hell," he mumbles and tosses back the last of his whiskey. "Ain't no way I'm leaving it like this." The walk to Heart Castle doesn't take long. Convincing Blythe to talk to him might take a bit longer.

[OOC: Blythe confessed feelings for Monty a few days ago, and he's finally decided to do something about it. This post is mainly for Blythe, but it's open to anyone who wants to catch him drinking or on his way to have things out with her.]

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It's alright. It's all alright. That's the mantra that's been keeping Blythe going for the past few days, after she- well, after she ran away from Monty. Ran away from him? Blythe Merrick, what sort of coward are you? Are you really that antisocial, that weak, that a simple no from a guy has to almost reduce you to tears?

But. It is alright. She can move on. Who really cares, after all, about this sort of shit? Relationships and boyfriends and everything; it just isn't worth the trouble. Nope, not at all. Of course, deep inside, she's still a little raw, still a little achey and breaky and oh god, is she really being this cliche?

But it's over. This whole thing is over and there's nothing she can do about it and maybe it's for the better. Maybe she just isn't girlfriend material. ~~Maybe she just isn't lovable.~~ And that's okay. That's who she is. So she's puts a tight cap on all those silly things like emotions and heartbreak and speculation and goes back to work.

And when she hears a knock at her door one night several days later, she isn't expecting anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it's someone dropping by to tell her they need something, or someone who wants to talk. Either way, she isn't expecting Monty to be there.

She almost slams the door in his face. Instead, she stares up at him, faintly wary, faintly confused, faintly hurt. But mostly shocked. "-Monty. ...Is there something you need?"

Monty leans against the door jamb, subtlely putting just enough of his frame against it that she can't easily shut him out. He hears the rawness in her voice, sees the shadows in her eyes.

"Ask me in, unless you want to have things out right here in front of god and all of Heart Castle."

"I... " She looks to be at a loss for word for a moment. Then, with a small voice- "Come in." She backs away from the door, opens it wider to wave him in and gesture vaguely at a sofa. "Take a seat. Um- would you like anything to- drink or eat or something?" She's looking down at her hand on the door knob, a faint crease still in her brow. She can't imagine what he'd want to say to her now - except maybe to make it very clear that he can't be more than a friend to her.

"Thanks. Only if you're having something." Monty settles gingerly on the couch, feeling too big for the room. There's something to be said for the old days. If he'd been sporting a hat he could doff it, dust off his jeans before sitting, maybe fiddle with the brim some as he gathered his words. Good props, hats. He eyes Blythe. She deserves more than props.

"Reckon we have a lot to talk about. Firstly, though, I owe you an apology. I treated you wrong, and I'm sorry. Just about any fellow you set your sights on would be a better choice than me. I reckoned you'd figure that out soon enough. Thought maybe you had.

"But I stole that decision from you, and I'm sorry. Should've had this out months ago. I was disrespectful not to, and I apologize."

She pours two glasses of water, just something to keep her hands busy for a few moments, before she returns to where he's sitting, handing a glass to him. And now. Where should she sit? Across the room in the other sofa is too far away, too impersonal for the sort of conversation he seems to be leading her into. But she doesn't feel comfortable sitting too close--

She finally decides to lean against the arm of the sofa, sipping at her drink without really realizing what she's doing. The least she can do is hear him out, after all, even though his words have her stomach rolling, her lips trembling slightly. Another defiant drink of water, and she sets her jaw stubbornly.

"Maybe it's better that you made that decision for me." The words are carefully numb, cautiously neutral, and she still doesn't make eye contact with him. She can feel his eyes on her, and that's too much already. Looking down at her stocking-clad feet is obviously the better option. "Obviously I'm not very good at making these sorts of decisions for myself."

He watches her choose her ground, far enough away, armored. Well, he deserves that, he thinks with a frown.

"That's not true. The only person who can make 'em is yourself. I ignored that." He stares into his glass. "See, thing is--thing is--I can tell myself all I want that I wanted to protect you--and a big chunk of that is true." He heaves a frustrated sigh. "And another big chunk was me wanting to protect myself.

"Most everything you think you know about me, Blythe, is a lie."

Another sip. A small huff as her fingers tap against the glass. Then- "I don't know what you think I was expecting. I am neither a little girl, nor new to the Deck. I mean, obviously, I didn't know you had lied to me, but... It's the Deck. People have secrets."

She shrugs a shoulder. "It's not something you need to apologize for. I've hardly told you everything about myself."

Edited 2012-06-03 15:18 (UTC)

"Oh, I don't know. Your parents pushed you and pushed you--probably wanted you to win that Olympic gold medal. You had a hard time in school. Reckon that's because you're an over achiever. Pair that with having to be whisked away to practice instead of socializing. Don't think you were one of the popular kids. And of course your folks hounded and hounded you 'til you started to think maybe they were right, that maybe you weren't good enough. And you brought that here. That's why your so fast, that's why you're not as confident as you ought to be considering your abilities. Reckon your folks regret disowning you, or will. I see nothing but high flying for you without them holding you back."

Monty settles back on the couch and eyes her from beneath beetled brows. "You were always open about who you were, Blythe, even if you didn't share everything. Me? I'm no good. Never wanted you to find that out."

She stays quiet, pursing her lips a little as he continues. Her fingers grow tighter around her glass as he keeps on talking -- over achiever, not popular, wasn't good enough -- until she sets the glass down, turns on him with a jerked movement. "Shut up!" she snaps, staring down at him. "Shut. Up. Stop-- trying, or thinking that you understand. You don't. You can't even begin to." Her hand gestures are sharp, stunted. "Everyone has secrets."

She crosses her arms, giving him a Look. "And you're not 'no good'. If nothing else, you managed to convince me that you were a good person. And... because of experience, I don't tend to assume that people like you are worth knowing, or-- liking."

Monty ignores the last. She's still seeing him through rose-colored glasses. For long moments, he says nothing. Finally, he stands and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt.

"You're right," he agrees as he begins to roll up a sleeve. "Reckon no one knows what it was like for someone else. We're all different."

The sleeve now up, Monty angles his arm so Blythe can see the inside. "But we're also all alike." His arm's all over white. A body'd be hard pressed to decide where one puckered scar ended and another began. Some along the edges are perfectly round, the shape and size of the end of a cigarette.

"My daddy, now, thought the message would sink in if he punctuated it some. There's more if you wanna see."

She's embarrassed that her first reaction to him rolling up his sleeve is to shy away, actually draw back a couple steps and raise her arms halfway in front of her. A blush blossoms over her cheeks as she realizes what he's trying to do; it's not the usual shy flush she's seen many times before, but a deep, ashamed red. She drops the defensive stance, approaches him again to peer at the scars, wince a little as she see's how many there are.

Blythe pauses a moment, then raises the hem of her own blouse a little, revealing a slip of the pale skin of her hip before it disappears under her skirt. A sharp, faintly pink line stands out from the rest of her skin, and she looks up at him. After a moment of silence, she says quietly "It wasn't my parents. They-- they didn't believe that the guys at school would... you know."

Her fear pains him more than any words she could hurl. Monty backed off all those months ago because he knew beyond doubt he'd hurt Blythe, but he'd never in a million years hurt her. Anger replaces his pain the moment she reveals that scar. The hell? How could her parents see that injury and not believe her?

Hesitantly, he reaches out to trace one finger along the scar. "They make you feel like you'd done something wrong? Like everything was your fault?"

She turns away from him when he asks that, biting her lip harshly so that she doesn't say something stupid. Those boys could never be like that -- you're the one who's antisocial -- how are you ever going to make friends if you never talk? -- don't try to blame your own problems on them. "... Yeah." Her voice is a little raspy as she speaks, thanks to the big lump in her throat. She swallows, looks back up to him... and nods.

"Yeah. Something... something like that." Her voice breaks a little on the last word, and she glances away again - this time, just for a moment. "Sorry."

If his eyes flash with anger, it's at her parents and never with her. Monty doesn't think, just wraps his arms around her from behind, left around her waist and right across her arms. Gently, carefully, he presses a kiss on her soft dark hair.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that, Little Bit. You know that's bullshit, right?"

Oh no. Oh no, why. She was going to be grown up about this. She trembles a little, her stomach churns, and she can't help but say shakily- "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Because she shouldn't be crying, not at a time like this. Not that she is crying. Just... sort of close to it.

Yeah. Some things a body just can't stand by and watch happen without helping some. Blythe near to crying? That's one of them things. With a wordless murmur, Monty turns her in his arms and pulls her close, arms loose for comfort but not tight.

"Shhh. Don't apologize. Look at me. Can you do that?"

Blythe takes a shuddering breath, her hands going up to rest lightly on his chest. After a couple of choked breaths, she looks up at him. "I..." But he told her to stop apologizing. She wipes at her eyes ineffectively, then blinks a little. "Yeah?"

"You don't have anything to apologize for." He shifts one arm to cradle her head, before slipping it to the side and brushing away some moisture with his thumb.

"Seem to be doing nothing but make you unhappy lately." Coming here had been a bad idea. He was only making things worse. Wait until she hears the kicker.

"You are an amazing woman. You deserve a fellow who appreciates that." He looks at her solemnly. "And not a murderer."

"It's..." She hiccups a little and shakes her head. "S'okay. I just-- I make things worse for myself too."

And then she freezes in his arms, looks up at him in shock for a moment. Surely she heard that wrong. What rhymed with murderer? --Nothing comprehensible, that was what.

"I... what did you say?"

He loosens his grip so she can step away if she wants. Now maybe she'd understand. Maybe now she'd find someone better.

"Four people are dead 'cause of me." And his father, but that one he didn't regret one bit.

"Uhm." She takes a little breath, wipes at her eyes again before giving him a searching look. "Are... Are they dead because of you?" She swallows a little nervously, but doesn't step away. "Or did you kill them?" Semantics, schemantics - but there is a difference.

"Does it really matter? I played the game. I placed the pieces. I set the stakes. And they're dead."

"Of course it matters. There's... there's wanting to kill someone, and then there's... messing up, I guess. It's only a problem- well, a big problem- you know." Her voice still breaks a litle as she speaks. "If you didn't mean to-- if you regret it... I think, you know- it says a lot more about you than... I mean, if it was an honest mistake..." She's rambling.

He gives his head a swift shake. "Regretting something don't make you any less responsible. It's a bad habit, thinking your smarter'n everybody else. Don't matter how big or how bad someone is so long as you can out think 'em. I forgot the first rule of the game. Might as well of signed their death warrants myself."

"... Fine." She bites her lip, then pulls away from him. "Fine. I hate you. I can never forgive you for this. In fact? You disgust me. Is that what you want to hear, Monty? Did you come here tonight so that you could convince me that you're a horrible person? That I deserve anyone but you? Because if that's the case, then I truly am sorry to disappoint." She crosses her arms after brushing away her tears, taking a moment to breathe.

"People come into the Deck every day with secrets and- it's like starting a new life, here. You know that. You have to know that. I- I would've never known about you. And if I had never known, and you had never been anything other than- than a gentleman towards me, I would've never guessed. Who are you friends with? Who are you loyal to in your Suit? Do you really know what or who they were before the Deck? You can't know with Outsiders, Monty, you can never know!" Her sigh is angry, and now she's making eye contact, her glare sharp.

"So are you expecting all of us- are you expecting me to go around and never- never try for relationships or anything like that for fear of what people might have been before? Who knows, Monty? Who knows what my brother had done for those four years before he came back to the Deck? Who knows what he'll do now that he's left for the summer festivals? No one knows. Just..." She pauses, then blurts out- "If I'm not going to be the bullied, broken girl anymore, why do you have to be the murderer?"

Monty's far too smart to say something stupid like, "You're cute when you're angry," but she is at that, damn cute. Now if she'd learn to turn all that fire on her folks.

"I know all that, Blythe. People come here, they start over--or don't. You gotta trust sometime, but that don't mean you should assume what you see at face value is who someone is. People lie all the time. I lie." He shoves his fingers through his hair, leaving tufts standing straight up and sideways. "Blythe, I'm a con artist. I played the game and I got my good friends killed. Difference between you and me is you couldn't help what your folks or those bastard boys did to you, but every mess I made since I left home has been of my own making." He holds up his hand. "Hell, you're smart as a whip and I didn't even graduate high school."

Look at her standing there, eyes flashing, giving him what for like he's a puppy who made a mess on her fine new carpets, calling him five kinds of idiot--which he is. He flashes suddenly on Molly, a little taller, a little darker, but never one to put up with his BS. In the end, he'd broken her heart. Hell, in the end, he'd killed her. She was the one who'd told him to run, to live and not throw his life away trying to exact a vengeance that was doomed to failure. And he'd come here, kept his head low, and still somehow managed to make friends, come to care about people.

Come to care about Blythe.

Grab life and hang on for all its worth, Drew. You gotta live or none of this was worthwhile. He swears under his breath and collapses on the couch, hands cradeling his head. Molly'd be chewing him out right now, that's for damned sure.

"Little Bit, I'm 'bout the worst sort of fellow you could take up with. I drink, I swear, I don't mean to but I play around. I don't do it on purpose, I try, but I'm weak. Always have been.

"I ain't a forever kind of guy. You sure you got your heart set on this?"

She doesn't speak, even when he finally asks her a question, even as he collapses back onto her couch. Slowly, she approaches him again, sits directly in front of him on the coffee table, their knees knocking against each other. With careful hands, she reaches out to smooth down his hair first, as she tries to organize her thoughts.

"Monty. I used to... I used to be afraid of people like you. Not- not to say that you're a bad person, but... I used to be afraid of the guys who were on track to drop out of school and... I don't know, start a motorcycle gang or something. Those are the people who I used to have nightmares about and things like that. And- I don't know if you realize it, but... you changed that. And that was a big thing for me."

She takes a little breath, pulls her hands away to clasp them loosely in her lap. "And... I'm not exactly the best woman either. I'm... I mean, I'm childish, I ramble, I'm... far too much of a romantic. I'm... trying to get over it, but I'm insecure." Her lips twist ruefully as she looks up at him.

"But... I think I'm pretty secure about this. So... if you'd like to... then I'd like to spend less than forever with you." She's still absolutely serious, but. There's a familiar shyness to the way she holds her hands out to him.

He reads conviction in her eyes and prays to god he never replaces that with regret. She has such tiny hands--his own when they take them nearly swallow hers--but they're strong and calloused still from years and years of gymnastics, just like she is: strong and capable and maybe a little knocked around. Monty carries her hands to his lips and brushes a kiss across the knuckles of each hand, before turning them over and pressing his lips against her palms.

"Less than forever, then, though I reckon you ought to have your head examined to even entertain that notion."

Monty grows silent, studying her solemnly. They're neither one of them the same people they were back in September. He knows she's spread her wings and started to soar. As for himself, well, he don't know about flying, but he surely hopes he's become a better person.

Finally, he tucks both her hands in his left hand. Slowly, like he'd gentle an unbroken filly, he cups the nape of her neck with his right, leans in and kisses her.

The flush only grows to a healthy glow as he presses his lips to her fingers, slips a hand around her neck. But when he leans in, she freezes - just for a moment. Her heart is thudding in her chest, reverberating through her body, and she's sure the loud beats can be felt vibrating in the floor, just slightly. He presses her lips to hers, and even though she can see it coming, the inhale before they connect is definitely one of surprise.

Maybe she should get her head examined.

But after that moment, she kisses back, leaning into him gently. She shifts her hands, though, and he can easily tell how nervous she is through how tightly she squeezes his left hand. And then, she pulls one of her hands up to rest on his cheek. This... this is how you do this, right?

If Monty hears her heart thump-thump-thumping away, he ain't about to embarrass her by mentioning it. 'Sides, it's mighty cute--another word he knows not to use in Blythe's hearing. But that all implies he's thinking when it'd be a lie. The moment his lips touch hers, thought stops and sensation takes over. You only ever kiss a woman for the first time once. He makes it a practice not to ruin the moment by overthinking it. The fact that he's kissing a woman he actually cares about is all the more reason to pay attention.

He lets her go but only so he can cup her face properly in both hands. His fingers twine into the soft silk of her hair to tilt her face up so he can kiss her properly, firm and soft and gentle. Then he draws back, but only to take first her top lip, then her bottom between his own, to kiss her cheeks and, last, her eyelids.

She tips her cheek into Monty's hand, his rough palm feeling soothing more than anything against her skin. Her fingers clutch timidly at his shirt, curling into the fabric. As he pulls his lips away from hers, her breathing seems to be the loudest thing in the room, her exhales shaky and her inhales trembling. She tries to stay as still as possible when she feels him pressing such gentle, sweet kisses to her cheeks, her eyes.

But she can't help leaning forward afterwards, slipping off the coffee table, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder. Less than forever isn't specific at all. As much as she hates to admit it, this could be over much sooner than expected. She's agree to that, she knows... but she can't help wanting to keep him as close as possible for as long as she can. It's clingy behavior, she knows - but surely he'll grant her a couple of moments of curling up in his lap, listening to his heartbeat,

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Never his decision to make

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