Pictures of You

1 - Open

This is silly and she needs to keep telling herself that. That she's making a big deal out of nothing again and all of these feelings would go away if she just took her fucking meds and didn't mix them with so much alcohol.

Although today it's different and this doesn't really count. She doesn't need them today anyway, curling up under the covers in her hotel room and drawing her knees up to her chest, the phone warm in her hand and then he apologizes for the second time - and it's getting old because it's not his fault anyway.

"I'm so fucking sorry for what they've been saying about you. And to you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"No. Obviously it's not. But at this point, I don't really care what they have to say."

"Of course you don't." And of course she does and of course she's going to assure him that it's all easily trickling off her.

"A few more months of hiding, I think," Bradley speculates wildly, "can we do that? Then this insane attention and focus on us will all have blown over. What if I came with you next time you're in Europe?"

"Shh. Don't give me ideas or you'll end up having to hide in my closet again."

"Stef, love, you don't even have a closet there."

"That's even worse; there's no way you're going to fit under the bed."

It would be cute if she hadn't been working with a downright terrifying focus for the past months while he's been allowing himself a break. Something that he's seen labeled as going off the radar by some, and taking time for his family by others. And in reality it's been neither.

"When are you leaving?" he asks, completely aware of the answer.

"The flight is at 6am, so-"

"-so you should get some sleep."

"Not yet."

"You sound sleepy. Your voice is sleepy. I'll come see you as soon as you're in New York, okay? I love you."

"That's a whole week away," she pouts and if he's honest, he'd like to join right in with that pout.

"I know. But do me a favor and get some rest?"

"I am. Love you, too."

—

The sensation isn't exactly unpleasant, just a hazy fog of colors she seems to be swimming in. A bit pink, but with waves of purple and gold and she's going to be sick if they don't stop moving. They're turning, or she is, when someone gently nudges her shoulder and her head tilts to the side, a soft pillow catching it.

There's a dream that was chasing her through this and when she opens her eyes, the first thing that comes into view is a concerned face and blue eyes that she hasn't seen before. It's exhausting to keep hers open and she nods right off again, into a warmer and more comfortable sleep.

The same blue eyes are still there when she opens hers for the second time and the pain is a long string sprouting from her brow over her temple and growing into her spine. "Fuck," escapes her dry mouth.

"Stef?"

The voice is pleasant and smooth and goes with a face that's also handsome enough but not familiar in the right way. More like someone she may have fleetingly met before, maybe at an event or a party. Someone else's security guard?

It doesn't help when there's suddenly his large hand cupping her face and it smells like disinfectant, just like the rest of this aggressively unpleasant place and it's already way too hot in this room.