Turtleneck

She's making a lot of ruckus for a woman in a library. Sloan is sure to point it out, startling her as she breaks from the note to inhale. 

"Not that I'm complaining," he adds, watching as her cheeks tinge to match the paint in the can before her. It also matches the almost imperceptible line that juts from Pooh's shirt now.

It's perceptible to her. As is the blush, she imagines, wishing to bury her face in the neck of her sweater. It's a v-neck, and she wonders why she put that turtle neck back this morning. Out of the few she owns, it is her go to. But someone, not to point fingers in her coworker's direction, mainly because they've already left for home, told her to show a little skin to get the computer desk boy's attention. It hadn't worked.

Apparently he was much more keen on hearing her sing to herself after hours. What she thought was herself.

"Hi," she says, because she realizes that people are supposed to acknowledge people that talk to them, instead of staring like a bewildered puppy. "I thought everyone had gone home for the night."

"I did. Except when I reached in my pocket to take my keys out, they weren't there."

She reaches for a clean portion of rag to clean that pesky line. She wants to get to it before it dries. Otherwise Pooh is going to have an unraveling shirt string, because it's very, very perceptible.

Just like that lingering burn in her cheeks.

"You think they fell out here?" She concentrates on the wall. The mark erases easily, but she forces herself to keep at it. If she doesn't look at him, the feelings won't rise up.

His footsteps grow louder as he comes up behind her. He takes a minute to study her work, noting all the pencil outlines of characters yet to be painted. 

"Well, I retraced my steps, and nothing. Walked the exact same route back here." It's a three mile walk, which he usually doesn't mind. It keeps him in shape, and gives him time to listen to the audio books he rents. She pictures him spending an hour hunched over, waddling through traffic to find something that separates him from his bed, and his ravenous cat waiting behind that door. It's not her idea of a good time. 

Setting the rag down, she frowns. She still hasn't forgotten that he caught her. She had broken the cardinal rule of the library: indoor voices only. That definitely was not her indoor voice. In her defense, she lives in an apartment complex, with paper thin walls. Ones where the sweet, elderly woman across the hall can hear her sneeze and bless her. She's not going to torture her with her ditties.

"Good luck," she tells him. They're probably on his desk. She's sure he can find them on his own, and be on his merry way, hopefully forgetting all about this moment, unlike her, who will have it playing on repeat as she sinks into her futon bed tonight.

He nods his thanks and heads to the computer center. There's banging and cursing, at non-library levels. Chiding words on the tip of her tongue, a playful revenge, but when he returns, his hand touches her shoulder. Her focus leaves her.

Maybe it'd be best to put the paintbrush down until after he leaves the library.

"Wren, they're not at my desk. Help me look, please?" He removes his hand. She turns to see it still hovering, offering help rising off of the stool she's been using. It feels great to stretch.

It feels greater knowing he hasn't let go yet.

He drags her over to the computers, and they get down on their knees to see if there is anything on the ground. She has to be careful. This sweater rides up in the back, and she can't let him see the permanent stamp on her lower back.

"Is this the only part of the library you were in today?" she asks, crawling back out. He seems distracted, and pulls his eyes away from her. There's a breeze on her back.

She tugs it down, but it only makes her remember the v-neck, and how she much she wishes she had worn that darn turtleneck.

"Sorry, are those music notes on your back?" His fingers are at the hemline of her shirt. The electricity shoots through her, making her jump. His fingers slide. It tickles.

"Yes," she answers through a fit of nervous giggles.

He studies them for a minute, hums to himself. She tugs her shirt back down. It doesn't matter, because he is still humming that same line, as if it will click.

"It sounds so familiar," he says, walking towards the bathrooms. He had gone earlier, though she doubts that the keys are sitting by the urinal. She stays outside the door. He's still humming, and she's singing under her breath, because she knows the words.

Everything isn't meant to be okay.

"You're a Green Day fan." He's caught her. 

She nods. "No luck?"

"With the keys, no. With figuring out what song you have tattooed on your back, yes. Kinda opens a bigger mystery though." He closes the bathroom door behind him. They're off to the kitchenette, her inked mantra echoing in her head.

"Before you ask, I was not one of those screaming fangirls that had his face plastered on my wall. The song just means a lot to me." The smell of stale coffee hits her nose, and she pours the last forgotten bit of it into a mug. She's hoping that it'll keep her from spilling more than she wants to.

He rummages through the cupboards. She sets her mug on the counter to duck under the table. 

"That album got me through my first year of high school," he confesses, slumping back into the counter. "The guyliner may have been a mistake though."

"I dunno. Teenage me thought it was pretty hot. On other guys. Not specifically you. I didn't know you. Not that it didn't look good on you. I don't know." She grabs her mug to put an end to her babbling. They'd been doing alright, and now her anxious side is coming out.

"Nor will you." He sets her empty mug in the sink. There's nothing to hide behind now, and with his hand slipping into hers, there is a lot to hide.

He walks with her to the poetry section. 

"You were over here?" she asks. He doesn't seem the type to read poetry. It's possible that he was helping a reader, but honestly, she's never seen anyone at these shelves. Considering they're a clear view from her desk, she would know.

"I was." Then again, maybe not.

Maybe her powers of perception aren't as great as she thinks they are. She looks over to her desk. It's right there. She had to have noticed, unless it was when Mrs. Greene stopped by to compliment her on the mural. There was a curtain up in front of it, but she had peeked behind it, being nosy. She always was nosy about Wren. Compliments aside, she had asked if there was any progress with that techy boy.

Good thing she had asked the question before he lost his keys.

"You're positive you left them here?" She decides to walk the aisles. She doubts some hooligan has hidden them amongst the stacks, yet for the sake of his sanity, and getting back to her mural, she searches high and low.

There's a toy car abandoned in the children's section, and she trips on it. Her tumble knocks him over too. It's odd, but she hears the faint tinkling of, no, it couldn't be.

There are his keys, next to their sprawled bodies.

"So why American Idiot?" he asks, her back flashing him again. Her frustrations flit between his keys and her lack of turtleneck. The turtleneck always covered her back. 

She feels like an idiot.

"It was my ninth grade talent show. I was supposed to sing the song and ended up barfing in a fit of nerves. Got laughed off stage by my classmates. My grandmother had been helping me prepare, and she said 'darling, it's just like the song says. Everything isn't meant to be okay.' Whenever something would go wrong, she'd always remind me of that one line. When she died, I got it as a tribute to her." She doesn't know why she's told him. It may have something to do with focusing her concentration on anything other than the fact that their bodies are still flushed against each other.

He doesn't seem to mind.

"It's a shame. They really missed out on something special." 

Pooh is looking at them expectantly, and she pushes herself off of him. He's found his keys and now she can go back to her mural. It's getting late. The sun has already set, and there is a light snow coming down. It's going to be a long three miles.

"Do you need a ride?" 

"Could you drive me to the diner? I'll treat you." He grabs his housekeys off the floor. "Half a cup of cold coffee is not dinner, and I doubt you want to demolish the leftover cookies from today's read along."

She looks at Pooh's half finished body. It can hide behind the curtain for another day.

He gives her time to clean up, hanging the curtain back in place as she rinses her brushes. Then they're passing the poetry section back to her desk. She collects her coat and courage.

"You read poetry?"

"Not in the slightest." He ties his scarf around her neck. It's getting cold out there. She needs to stay warm, without that turtleneck of hers. 

The wind nips at his cheeks as she locks up the library with her key. He fiddles with his own, chuckling to himself. It's amazing how deep a man's pocket can be, what it can hide.

Everything isn't meant to be okay, he hums.

But for right now, it's pretty alright.