the in-between places, part II
Characters/Pairings: Cook-centric, slightly Cook/Effy and Cook/OC. Lots of Cook/Freddie as well as Cook/Naomi friendship.
Rating: M
Spoilers: Season four
Disclaimer: Skins does not belong to me.
Summary: "CookandFreddie. Nothing like each other but forever linked together. Always. Best mates for life.
But ‘always’ crumbled like a burning photograph and life stopped and everything changed."
***
Part One
***
It starts out like any other night since he got back out; with a party. Even though it’s the last thing he feels like doing, it’s the only thing that feels vaguely normal. The routine is simple and well-practiced. All it takes is downing a couple of lagers, popping a few pills and ignoring the disapproving looks from Naomi and Emily as he heads out.
The club is packed. A few more shots and another bunch of pills handed to him by a guy who looks somewhat familiar and Cook’s gone. Comfortably, dizzyingly numb enough not to think. Remember. Feel.
It’s fucking perfect. He loses himself in the moment. In the beat of the music and the flickering, disorienting lights and the push and sway of sweaty bodies moving around him. He feels good, almost at peace, like nothing matters. But then something happens, the colors become too intense, the music too loud, heart hammering too hard in his chest and he needs to get out. He stumbles through the crowd, pushing weakly at the bodies blocking his path when he sees him. Foster. Right there, a few steps ahead, looking at him with dead eyes. It’s nothing more than a flicker of a memory, but it’s enough to send his brain reeling, breath catching in his throat as an idea hits him like a fist.
He’s going to die.
Foster is going to kill him, like he killed Freddie and almost Effy too and Cook has to get out but his legs won’t move fast enough and he’s so very fucked.
He runs, stumbles on trembling legs and somehow makes it outside but doesn’t stop, only runs faster. When he finally comes to a stop it’s only because he’s too out of breath to run any further; leaning back against a brick wall and desperately trying to pull enough air back into his lungs. Skin crawling with the feeling of being watched, followed, it doesn’t take long before he’s walking again.
Two hours later, as the trip is finally beginning to wear off, he’s still walking.
***
“Get up.” A splash of cold water hits him right in the face, causing him to splutter and sit up to keep from choking.
“What the fuck?” He coughs, wiping water off his face and blinking at Naomi through wet eyelashes.
“Sober up, get your ass off my couch…shower, and…fucking do something!” Naomi snaps, sending another dose of icy water splashing on his face.
“Girl, what the-“
“It’s been forever, Cook.” Naomi goes on, “You can’t keep doing this.”
Can’t keep doing this, whatever ‘this’ is. Cook shivers - his t-shirt soaked in places - rubs the back of his neck. He can’t explain it. It’s so different from the grief and the anger; this feeling that glues him to the spot, paralyzed, thinking ‘now what?’ (nowwhatnowwhatnowwhat)
“Naomi-“
“Am I gonna have to go get more water?” She interrupts his weary plea with a hint of humor in her voice, empty glass still clutched in her hand.
“Naomi,” he shakes his head tiredly, feeling like it’s an alien part of him that could fall off at any second, “I can’t,” he trails off, still not able to find the right words.
“Of course you can,” Naomi’s voice softens in an instant. The glass makes a clinking sound as she puts it down on the coffee table and sits down next to him. The couch dips, forcing their thighs together. “You’re Cook.”
“Nah.” Another shake of his head. He’s pretty sure he’s not really ‘Cook’ anymore, no matter what they all call him. ‘Cook’ was a force of his own. He splashed about and never looked back. ‘Cook’ was Freddie’s best mate and Freddie’s gone. Perhaps Freddie took ‘Cook’ with him when he left, and that’s why he feels like he’s constantly in risk of drowning now?
“Freddie wouldn’t want this,” she murmurs, and the name alone is enough to send him crashing back into reality.
“Don’t,” he snaps, startled by the sudden anger in his voice.
Naomi starts, opens her mouth and then closes it again. “Okay,” she finally agrees quietly, carefully nudging his shoulder with hers. “But you know I’m right.”
Cook swallows, keeps his arm pressed against hers, feels the warmth of her skin against his. Of course she’s right, he already knew that. He really wishes that it made any difference.
***
He shouldn’t have come here, to this park and this bench. The memories attached to this particular spot are chafing at his insides, but maybe that’s the reason he’s here. Some kind of messed up self-torture . Either way, it’s a perfect place to hide now that Naomi won’t put up with him spending most of his time sprawled out on her couch. So he sits on this fucking bench instead, staring at the stupid ducks a few feet away.
He bloody hates ducks. Clueless, pointless creatures.
“Fuck off you…fuckers,” He emphasizes his last word with a kick of his foot, sending gravel flying and grinning wickedly as the birds scatter, clucking wildly.
“Wow, that’s awfully eloquent, James.”
Cook jumps, nearly losing hold of his glowing cigarette. There’s Becks, standing next to the bench looking barely recognizable in her t-shirt and jeans.
“Becks?”
“In the flesh,” she nods, smiling at him warmly though he can see the worry quite clearly in the shape of her brow. “Mind if I sit?”
She doesn’t wait for his reply; the indifferent shrug of his shoulder as he puts the cigarette to his lips. Silence falls, and he steals a look at her through the corner of his eye. She’s looking out over the pond, seeming oddly at peace with the situation whereas he is uncomfortable as fuck. Suddenly self conscious. As if she’s sensed him looking, she turns to face him and it’s just….weird. Seeing her there; on the outside. “How’ve you been?” She asks; then backtracks, “I mean, you don’t have to… I’m not-”
He shoots her a wry look and she stops. Smiles.
“Ace,” he lies even though he knows it will get him nowhere. She’s too wicked smart for her own good.
“Really?”
There it is, the eyebrow lift he’d been dreading that tells him she doesn’t believe a word he’s saying.
“What are you doing here?” He replies , flicking the still glowing cigarette’s butt to the ground and watching it fall. The change of subject is obvious, and he knows she recognizes it for what it is.
“Just passing through,” Becks shrugs, her attention once more back on the ducks swimming in the murky water, and Cook breathes a sigh of relief. “on my way to the pub to watch the game” she elaborates. That’s when he notices the scarf around her shoulders, smirks.
“Not a word,” she quips, standing up and looking back down at him expectantly. “Come on then,”
“Sorry?” He’s confused, shivers as a chill runs down his back. The air is damp and unpleasantly cold, leaves already covering the ground.
“I’m buying you a pint,” she explains with a teasing eye roll, as if it’s something that happens on a regular basis.
“You are?”
“That’s what I said, innit?” She smirks, “Or were you and the ducks having a bit of a moment?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
This time the smile almost reaches his eyes, and he gets to his feet.
***
The pub’s fancier than any of the places he would usually set foot in, and Cook is on edge as they walk through the door. The feeling only intensifies at the “there’s my girl.” from a bald-headed man making his way around the bar and wrapping Becks up in a bear hug.
“Uncle Richard,” Becks laughs, pecking him on the cheek, her colorful scarf standing out against the myriad of faded tattoos on the man’s lower arms. “You’re looking well. This is James, a…friend, of mine.”
Cook braces himself for something, not entirely sure what. Though nothing close to the “Good to meet ya, lad”, firm handshake and friendly smile that he gets. Before Uncle Richard turns his attention back to Becks. “Couple of pints, yeah?”
***
“Your uncle works here?”
“Nah,” Becks shakes her head absentmindedly, fully concentrated on the game, “He owns it.”
***
Uncle Richard walks up to them while Becks is still basking in her team’s triumph, sitting down with a coffee mug in his hands. His grey eyes lock on Cook, evaluating him casually, and Cook fights the urge to shift in his seat.
“So, junior,” Richard starts, and Cook looks up from his pint; “Rebecca tells me you might be looking for a job?”
***
They give him a room in the apartment upstairs. It’s tiny, not much more than three small bedrooms and a bigger living room/kitchen area. There are clothes scattered all over the place, the old threadbare couch is filled with mismatched cushions and there’s a Playboy poster on the fridge. His new bedroom is not much more than a closet but it’s his and far away from his mum’s house. He hasn’t had his own space, without a huge fucking bolted door, in forever and it feels too good to be real. Like he doesn’t deserve this kind of luck.
***
He cleans dishes, wipes tables and mops the floors. Skins what feels like at least half of his index finger peeling potatoes and gains a whole new level of respect for waitresses carrying around trays laden with pint glasses like it’s nothing. The bloody things are heavy and he’s becoming much too adapt at sweeping up broken glass. Even Sheila, Richard’s pint-sized wife darts past him one Saturday evening, carrying a tray loaded with more glasses than what should be physically possible. It’s not bloody right.
Exhaustion, a heavy kind of tired so different from the past year’s weariness, becomes his constant companion. When he sleeps it’s dreamless and deep and during the day he’s too busy trying to keep up to think, remember. His first day off he sleeps ‘til three in the afternoon and spends the rest of the day on the lumpy couch in the living room; staring blankly at re-runs of Eastenders playing on the TV screen.
But he grinds his teeth together, refusing to quit; to give in like he has done so many times before. Maybe he wants to prove a point, to whom he’s not quite sure. Maybe it all comes down to gratitude.
Maybe, just maybe, he simply kind of likes it.
***
Most days the food at the pub is cooked by a guy named Paolo. He’s tall, lanky and can go on about his glorious, native Italy for hours, even though he was born in Scotland and has never been off the island. He inhabits one of the bigger bedrooms upstairs, leaves dirty kitchen towels scattered all over the place and never does anything stronger than spliff because ‘chemicals mess up your taste buds”.
***
The third inhabitant of the upstairs apartment is Owen.
Owen is a twat.
***
Stumbling through the back door, Cook shivers in the cool night air and reaches for his cigarettes as he sits down next to Sarah on the small bench outside. His feet feel like they’re about to come off, and he’s pretty sure that his shoulders are about to splinter in half too. “’s proper chaos in there.”
Sarah, wrapped in Owen’s huge parkas, doesn’t reply but smiles and fishes a lighter out of one of the front pockets. Her chestnut colored bangs look bright red in the light from the small flame as she lights the cigarette for him. Cook lets out a long breath, smoke dancing in the air, for once finding himself enjoying the quiet.
***
Weeks fly by, turning into months. There’s a new rhythm to follow now; work and days off and nights out. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it happens but one day he wakes up, staring into the now familiar walls, and it no longer feels like he’s constantly in risk of drowning, no longer breathing under water.
***
”That look right to you, mate?”
Cook twists his arm, inspecting the sketched roman numbers carefully.
MCMXCII-V-X
He nods, having memorized the right combination a long time ago, then speaks up. “’s all good.”
The tattoo artist gets to work, positioning Cook’s arm the way he wants it on top of the work bench, then finishes setting up his tools.
“So, what does it mean?” The guy asks once the first few lines are there, permanently etched into Cook’s lower right arm. “Please tell me it’s not your girl’s birthday or something, mate. No offense.”
Cook gives a jerky shake of his head, watching the next letter take form. “My best mate’s, actually.”
“Yeah?” The guy sounds mildly surprised, focusing on the curved back of the C. “What’s he gonna say?”
Cook swallows and lets the memories wash over him for a second, feeling it all.
“He died. Freddie’s dead.”
***
It’s December, the streets covered in sleet, feathery snowflakes stubbornly falling through the air. Cook is hurrying down the street, newly bought packet of cigarettes safe in his pocket, refusing to be late for his lunch shift when it happens. He runs into Mr. Mclair.
Heart stuttering, Cook stares at the older man who’s still reeling a little from the collision. Leo looks old. Really fucking old. Cook shifts his weight, trying to shake off the panic and say something, fucking anything. But he hasn’t seen Freddie’s dad since the funeral and doing it now leaves him numb, head buzzing. The older man is rambling, and Cook can feel his heart drop further in his chest as realization dawns on him. Drunk. Leo is drunk, on a Friday afternoon. Not at work, not at home. At the pub.
Mr. Mclair is rattling on, but Cook doesn’t hear a word he is saying. It can’t be much more than a minute before Karen’s there, throwing a coat over her dad’s shoulders, not meeting Cook’s eyes, but it feels like a small eternity.
“Karen,” his voice is hoarse when he manages to speak up, and then she finally looks at him, arm still hooked protectively around her father’s waist.
“It’s not-“ she stutters, looking nothing like the Karen he used to know and too much like the one telling him to find her brother. “He’s not…He just gets a little…overwhelmed, sometimes.”
Cook can only nod, voice gone again. Watches the two of them make their way down the street and disappear from sight with the older man’s garbled words ringing in his hears. “…you were his favorite, Cook. You and that girl. Ruined him, she did.”
The buzzing in his head grows louder, turns into a blaring white noise, and without thinking twice about it he walks into the pub that Leo just exited.
***
Someone is calling his name but Cook ignores it, all his energy focused on the steps leading up to the apartment. The fuckers are moving and he’s tired. Pissed off. The second time he nearly loses his footing he gives in to gravity and slumps down on the wet concrete, eyes falling closed.
There are shadows lurking behind his eyelids, taunting him with memories he’s tried to forget. He’d almost forgotten how it felt. Drowning. Breathing under water.
“What the Hell, mate?” Paolo’s voice cuts through the darkness and a hand wraps around his bicep. Cook starts, shrugging forcefully out of the hold, resting his head on one arm folded on top of the stairs.
“Fuck off.” He grinds out, teeth clattering violently and making it hard to speak. He can hear voices; Paolo speaking to someone whose voice Cook can’t make out, and then he’s being hoisted to his feet. He struggles against the hold, but his arms are heavy and he has no energy left to fight.
***
The room is bright, and he’s not sure where he is at first but then recognizes his own bed. Moving slowly on to his back, he is forced to hold his breath as he waits for his stomach to settle. Brief flashes of memory are still on an endless repeat through his mind, and he feels like shit and Freddie’s dead and it’s not bloody fair that it still hurts this much.
The alarm clock informs him that it is morning but he’s not sure of what day, and nothing changes the fact that he has fucked up. Dragging himself out of bed he makes his way out into the living room - wondering if he should crawl downstairs first, or start packing his shit immediately - when an unsuspected sight stops him in mid-step.
Sheila. In their far-from-tidy kitchen.
She’s cooking, her back to him, the smell of eggs frying both appealing and a little nauseating. Cook shuffles in the doorway; clears his throat and fights against the urge to look away as Sheila turns, spatula in hand.
“Good,” she greets him casually, “I was two minutes away from calling Paolo up here again to drag you out of bed.”
Cook stares, scratches his neck, not sure what to do. Unknowing, or feigning ignorance, Sheila helps him out.
“Sit,” she nods in direction of their rickety kitchen table, “there’s coffee, and eggs if you think you can stomach it.”
Confused, Cook does as he’s told, sinking down onto an empty chair. There’s coffee, as promised, in a mug on the table. He doesn’t understand it; Sheila being nice to him, not sure anyone’s cooked him breakfast since he got old enough to do it himself. Doesn’t deserve this.
His mumbled “Thanks” is met with a quick smile as Sheila busies herself with rinsing out the frying pan. The even more quiet “I’m sorry,” as a plate is put down in front of him on the table, rewarded with a hand briefly resting on his neck.
“Have some breakfast, James.”
***
He ends up downstairs not an hour later, paying Owen back for covering his ass the night before; Sheila’s orders. The shift is nothing short of Hell-ish. Saturdays mean football all day long with complementary loud cheering and cursing from the pub’s patrons. His head is pounding - feeling like his brain is about to leak out through his ears - and so much as looking at a pint makes him gag but he gets through it on pure will. He gets a sympathetic grimace from Paolo when he first walks through the kitchen door, pale and shaky, and when he returns from having seen his breakfast for a second time there’s a glass of water waiting for him courtesy of Sheila. But other than that no one mentions the way he screwed up the night before.
***
There is a framed photograph on the wall behind the bar, the picture showing a smiling kid in Paddy’s age sitting on a bike. It looks old and a little faded, and Cook finds himself drawn to it whenever he’s sitting at the bar, wondering.
Richard catches him looking one night and reaches out to pick it off the shelf, wiping the glass with the towel hanging from his belt. “That’s William,” he explains solemnly, putting the frame back in its place, “Mine and Sheila’s boy.”
“Yeah?” Cook has never heard William mentioned before and finds it odd.
“We lost him almost fifteen years ago,” Richard explains, filling two mugs of with what is left in the coffee pot. “Drunk driver,” he walks around the bar, sitting down next to Cook and handing him one of the mugs. “He would’ve been 26 next month.”
Cook hesitates, feeling caught somehow, his image of the couple twisting and reshaping in his mind. They seem so fine, happy, far away from where he’s at and it makes no sense.
“This is when I use my old-man prerogative, and share what I’ve learned without you asking me to.” Richard stops to have a mouthful of coffee. “It sounds like a bloody cliché, but life goes on. But so does death, though no one ever bothers mentioning that. Death - loss - is permanent in a way that life isn’t. Losing your child, someone you love, it stays with you. There’s no getting over that. Only thing left is learning how to live with it.”
One fingertip tracing the rim of the mug, Cook listens, tries to come to grip with what the older man is saying. Thinks of the hours when he almost forgets that Freddie’s not around anymore. Forgetting enough to pick up the phone ready to call him. How much it still hurts the second he realizes that Freddie’s gone, won’t pick up the phone. Never again.
“But you already knew that, didn’t ya, lad?” Richard asks, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Cook feel like the older man knows; briefly wonders if Becks has told her uncle something but quickly dismisses the idea. She wouldn’t.
He sits up straighter, manages a nod, not quite trusting his voice.
***
The part he likes best about working at the pub are the days when he’s in the kitchen; helping Paolo out with more than just the morning preparations. More than once Cook finds himself staring at the other guy, transfixed, taking in the difference between the laid-back Paolo who sprawls out on the couch upstairs and happily shares his spliff, and the self-assured, serious Paolo who rules the kitchen.
“Bollocks, give that pan a stir mate, will ya?” Paolo curses, motioning vaguely in direction of the stove where at least three different pots and pans are placed; busy maneuvering something that looks a little like road kill onto a chopping board himself. “Yeah, the small silver one. The milkpan. Quickly, before it burns.”
Cook obeys, about to get back to his own tasks when Paolo speaks up again. “Bloody he-…salt, mate, on the counter. A pinch or two, in the pan.”
“How-“ Cook stutters, staring at the pot of sea salt next to the stove. “Paolo, man?”
No answer. There’s only the sound of furious chopping and mumbled curses, before the Scot disappears out back in search of something, leaving Cook staring at the bubbling gravy.
“Paolo, you git, how much is a bloody ‘pinch’?!”
***
Naomi and Emily break up. Cook’s not sure about the what’s and the why’s - Naomi flat out refuses to tell him anything. All he gets is her showing up on their doorstep and nearly knocking him off his feet as he opens the door, crashing into him, shivering from the effort of holding herself together.
***
He’s got the night off and they end up on opposite ends of the couch, stretched out lazily, bottle of Tequila travelling back and forth between the two of them and the television playing on mute in the background. Naomi doesn’t say much, uncharacteristically silent and Cook gets it; the loss for words big enough to encapsulate it all. Doesn’t mean he will play along though, and let her mope in peace.
“Hogging the good stuff, Naomikins.” he points out, nudging her in the ribs with a sock-clad foot.
Naomi snaps out of her thoughts, squirming away from the touch and taking another swig from the bottle in her hand. “You kind of forget, don’t you?” she says, passing him the bottle, and Cook raises an eyebrow in question.
She is silent for a moment; head tilting at the side and staring blankly at the television. “How much it hurts. Having your heart broken. It’s like your brain blocks out the memory the very moment you’re happy again.” She elaborates, chokes on an attempted laugh. “And it really fucking hurts.”
Cook grimaces, takes another mouthful of tequila. “Yeah.”
***
He’s almost asleep when a sound coming from the door brings him back to wakefulness. The room is momentarily flooded in soft light from the lamppost out on the street as Naomi tiptoes through the door, closing it behind her. Cook sits up, rubbing a hand across his face tiredly. “Naomi?”
“I can’t sleep.” She replies, padding across the floor. The air is cool against his skin as the covers are lifted and she slips into his bed. Dumbfounded, Cook falls back against the pillows, arm reflexively wrapping itself around her.
“Hey, what-“
“Can I stay here?” The question is breathed against his neck, her voice small, and he understands. Gets it.
“Please,” he chuckles, forcing some humor into his voice. “Like I’d ever throw you out of my bed.”
The attempted joke is met with silence and Cook startles when suddenly there are soft lips pressing against the pulse point on his neck. The kiss sends tingles down his spine, but only causes his confusion to grow. Another kiss is pressed against his jaw line, one hand moving across his chest. Naomi shifts, easing closer and the leg that’s almost on top of his rubs against his thigh, sending a fresh wave of electricity thrumming in his veins. His lack of protest seems to spur her on and she picks up her pace, hand moving further down, dangerously low.
“Whoa-” He catches her hand and pulls it away in a vain attempt to stop whatever it is that she’s doing, but only ends up with Naomi nearly straddling him. “What the fuck?”
“That’s the general idea,” Naomi quips, all signs of the broken girl from before replaced with stern resolution, and this time kisses him on the mouth. Cook bites back a moan as she rubs against him. Momentarily lost in the sensation of the warmth of her against him, the tightening in his stomach, he kisses her back; tongue and teeth and roaming hands. It’s like throwing oil on a burning fire; things growing more heated, frenzied. His hand slips inside the t-shirt she’s wearing, soft skin under the pads of his fingers. But when she sighs into the kiss Cook stops cold because yeah, it feels great and he hasn’t gotten laid in a really long time and he’s already fucking hard, but it’s Naomi.
“Hey,” he breaks off the kiss, twisting his face away as she pays him no heed. “Naomi, hey, stop.”
“What?” She sounds impatient, simply moving her attention to his neck until he takes her head between his hands and forces her head back, looking her in the eyes.
“Stop,” he says again, quietly, willing her to understand. To recognize that there’s no way he can do this and not screw something, them, up in the process and it’s not an option. “shit ain’t right.”
“You’ve gone on and on about fucking me since the day we met,” Naomi points out, still straddling his thighs, “don’t tell me you don’t want it anymore,” she adds, with a pointed look down at the part of him that hasn’t quite realized how messed up the situation is.
“That’s not the point,” Cook objects, glaring at her as she writhes against him and forces him to bite back a frustrated groan. At last he ends up grabbing her by the hips and nearly throwing her off of him.
“Then what’s your fucking problem!?” she sounds close to tears and quickly turns as she lands on the mattress, facing away from him, shoulders squared.
He lets out a sigh, equal parts relief and worry, leaning on one arm and looking over her tense shoulder. “For a smart girl you’re being really daft.”
She’s crying, there are actual tears running down her cheeks and fuck. He fucking hates this, being unable to fix things. Powerless. “You love someone, remember?”
“What if I don’t want to anymore?”
“It’s not that easy now, is it?” He feels more than sees her shake her head, her hair tickling his skin as she breathes out a shaky sigh. Cook lies back down; still keeping a hand on her arm and feeling it tremble as she struggles to pull herself together, then, “Truce? Come on, Naomikins, show me some love.”
“I already tried that, you twat.” Naomi retorts and he can’t stop the relieved laugh that comes spilling out.
“The non willy-waggle kind.” He adds as she turns around to face him again. Attempting an easy-going smile and breathing a sigh of relief as she shifts closer, wrapping herself around him. But not without poking him in the ribs first. Hard.
“Ow,” He points out good-humoredly, but moves his arm to make room for her head.
“Shut up,” Naomi mumbles, burying her face against the crock of his neck and wrapping an arm around his torso. Cook closes his eyes too, much more comfortable now that things are back to a level he can handle. He can feel Naomi beginning to relax next to him, her breath evening out. Thinking she’s asleep he startles when she speaks up after a few minutes silence.
“You’re a good person, Cook.”
He swallows, chest tightening, “I’m fucked up.” He admits quietly, “I’m a bloody mess.”
There’s a moment when nothing is heard but their breathing. “You’re sad,” Naomi finally replies, pressing her lips briefly against his naked shoulder, “it’s not the same thing.”
This time it doesn’t take long before she’s asleep next to him, but Cook stays awake for a long time after that, her words echoing in his mind.
***
Their laughter is drowned out in the loud thumping of the base, the flickering lights disorienting the crowd. It’s a good night, all of them out together. Even JJ made an appearance but left a while back and now it’s just the three of them left; woozy with alcohol and enjoying the moment. Cook grins, watching Naomi spin around under his arm. Naomi stumbles, reaching out to take Sarah by the hand and pull her into the dance.
That’s when he sees her. Effy. A few feet away, arms hooked around the neck of some random guy, looking straight at him. Cook freezes in his step, breath catching in his throat, and nearly falls over as Naomi and Sarah tumble into him. When he regains his balance Effy’s still looking at him, her expression unreadable, and this time as the room sways around him he can’t blame the alcohol. It’s been so long since he last saw her; sitting in a corner of her bedroom wrapped up in Freddie’s old cardigan.
The moment stretches, but is suddenly gone as someone pulls at his arm; Naomi, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. As he looks back up Effy’s no longer looking at him; her eyes closed as she dances, ‘random guy’s hands greedily cupping her ass.
Suddenly Cook doesn’t feel like dancing anymore.
***
“Naomi, get the door!” Pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants hurriedly Cook reaches for the towel and scrubs it over his wet hair. Leaving the bathroom he’s silently praying it won’t be Richard or Paolo, telling him he needs to grab an extra shift down at the pub. He only got back upstairs twenty minutes ago and this far the only plan he has for the night includes the couch, beer and watching some crappy TV with Naomi.
“Who’s it?” Walking out into the living room, towel slung over his shoulders, he comes to an abrupt stop, heart stuttering, when he spots the guest standing just outside the front door.
Effy looks over Naomi’s shoulder, arms crossed defensively over her chest, barely looking him in the eye before she turns and walks away without another word.
“Effy?” For a second Cook’s frozen, staring blankly at the empty spot in the doorway which Effy occupied mere heartbeats ago, but then he’s moving quickly. “What the bloody hell happened?” He throws the question at Naomi as he hurries by, but there’s no time for her to reply before he’s out the door.
He rushes down the stairs, the metal freezing cold against his bare feet, catching a glimpse of black leather as Effy disappears behind the corner of the building. “Effy!”
Cook runs, heart stuck somewhere in his throat; needing to get to her. Catch her before she disappears. Again. As always. She’s always running from him and suddenly it pisses him off. Catching up with her he closes a hand around her arm, spinning her around. “What the fuck, Eff?”
Her eyes are cold as they meet his, jaw tight in anger even as she shivers in her customary tights and leather jacket.
“You surely don’t waste any time, do you Cook?” The question catches him off guard, gives her enough time to continue uninterrupted. “Going for the whole gang, is that it? Another cross off your list?”
At a loss for words, still not sure what she’s going on about, Cook can only stare at her in stunned confusion.
“I suppose Katie might not be too hard to convince; she’s on outs with the boyfriend again. And we all know Emily has tried cock once, I’m sure she’ll do a repeat performance if you get her drunk enough. Maybe you could make it a threesome and kill two birds with one stone?”
“Girl, what are you on about? I’m not fucking-”
“Whatever.” She turns her back on him, walking away.
No. No way. There’s no fucking way she’s getting away this easily. “Where are you going, Eff?” He throws the question at her back. She keeps doing this, reeling him back in whenever he tries to get away. As often as there are moments when he barely knows who she is, there are moments like this too. Moments when he just knows. “What are you so fucking scared of?”
That catches her attention and the infuriated, “I’m not scared!” is so achingly familiar, forever etched into his mind, that for a second he’s back there, standing at the side of the road. Powerless. Always so fucking helpless around her. It has always come down to this, to Effy running away and him following; chasing after her or being pulled along.
“Right. Don’t tell me. Run away. ’s what you always do, innit? Hide behind your ‘mystery girl’ shit and your perfect arse and your fucking happy pills. Grow up! You know what? I’m done. I’m bloody done chasing after you, trying to save you. Freddie tried and lot of good it did him.”
He barely has time to react before she spins around and slaps him. Hard. The palm of her hand leaving a burning imprint on his cheek and effectively cutting off his rant. They’re both breathing hard, chests heaving, as their eyes meet. He watches the emotion fade from her features, the mask slipping back into place.
“Fuck you, Cook.”
As she walks away this time, he doesn’t even stick around to watch her leave.
***
Naomi is still standing in the doorway when he walks back up the stairs. Shivering both from the cold and something else entirely, he brushes past her, ignoring her worried ‘Cook, what-“ and cutting off any further questions by slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.
Breath escaping him in constricted huffs, he leans back against the door for a moment before the reality of it all becomes too much and he’s pacing. Hands locked behind his neck to keep from punching something he walks back and forth, every nerve ending on fire, waiting for the red haze of anger dulling his mind to clear.
He’s not sure how long it takes before he dares venture outside the bedroom, but when he does Naomi’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, waiting. She watches him closely from the corner of her eye as he sits down, doesn’t speak just yet but leans her head against his shoulder.
“There’s a hand print on your cheek.”
His hand comes up to rub over the sore skin, grimacing at the obvious swelling, but then shrugs.
Losing Effy somehow hurts less than he remembers.
***
The date sneaks up on him. He’s busy with work and more work and mastering and hanging out with Naomi and living, and before he knows it, it has been two years. Two fucking years ago today he was still blissfully unaware of how his life had already changed beyond return.
The grass is like a plush green carpet under his feet as he walks across the lawn, feeling unsure and out of place. He’s never been here before, hasn’t had neither the guts, nor felt the need to before today. Sitting down cross-legged opposite the grey slate headstone, he pulls absentmindedly at straws of grass, twirling them between his fingers. There are fresh flowers in one of those plastic vase things, and he knows it’s all Karen’s doing.
“Hey, Freds.”
***
If Paolo thinks that he doesn’t notice what’s going on, he’s sorely mistaken. There are casual requests of assistance thrown over a shoulder, his share of kitchen prep-shifts growing in numbers. Neither does he fail to notice the shared looks between the Scot and Richard, telling him they will be talking about him later, but he doesn’t comment.
Truth is; he likes it, working in the kitchen. It’s fun. There’s a pattern to it all; a predictable chain of events that he finds comforting. There are no unexpected twists and turns if he gets it right. Power and control.
***
He makes a fucking gateau - Black Forest, all by himself - finds the recipe in one of Sheila’s old books. He throws the whole thing away not five minutes after he’s finished.
It feels a little like a ‘fuck you right back’.
***
“Happy Birthday,” Sarah grins, doing a feeble attempt at putting a garish, red party hat on his head and Cook frowns, ducks away.
“Who told you?”
“I have my ways,” she replies airily, giving up on the party hat ambush with a shrug, then adds; “We’re going out tonight, all of us, no excuses.”
***
“Happy Birthday,”
“You’ve already told me that,” He grins, attempting to swallow his last chip down with a mouthful of lager but finding the can empty. Technically it’s no longer his birthday - the clock on the kitchen wall is past three am - but they’ve had a good time and he’s comfortably buzzed and he doesn’t care about technicalities. Sarah’s drinking deeply from her own can, legs dangling leisurely as she sits on the counter top. Paolo would throw a fit if he saw her sitting there, and it only adds to the feeling of childish glee from having sneaked into the pub’s kitchen in the first place.
“Oh, I know.” She smirks, and holds her drink out for him with a tilt of her head. “But I never gave you your present.”
There’s a shift in the air, something changing despite her deliberately cheesy line, and Cook goes with it. Walks slowly on slightly unsteady feet, eyes never leaving hers. When he stops he’s standing between her legs, hands coming to rest on her thighs after a brief moment’s hesitation. Her skin is warm under his palms.
She doesn’t give him ‘the eye’, but plain out kisses him, slipping a hand behind his neck and pressing soft lips against his. She tastes of cigarettes and beer. Cook kisses her back eagerly, one hand moving up her thigh as the other arm wraps around her; letting out a frustrated groan as she pulls back too soon.
“Easy there, junior,” she winks, grinding slowly against him and making him go fucking cross-eyed with undiluted want. “Let’s take this nice and slow, yeah?”
And they do. Twice. What Paolo doesn’t know won’t kill him.
***
“You’ve been avoiding me.” She corners him in the pantry a few days later and Cook doesn’t bother lying. He has been avoiding her but only because he actually likes her. Doesn’t want to mess her up which he’s bound to do, he’s still all kinds of fucked up. He’s got nothing to offer her.
“I’m not expecting-“ she makes a pause, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Look. I’m not about to profess my wild and undying love for you, so chill, yeah?”
Cook blinks, wondering if he really should feel a little insulted, when she continues. “I like you.” She says with a shrug of her shoulder, walking into his personal space and Cook has to force himself not to back away. She looks good today, he notices idly, dark hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head and her white shirt buttoned just low enough to make things interesting.
“So why don’t you…stop thinking so much, and kiss me?”
***
“You’d like Sarah, man, she’s ace. I think JJ’s a little scared of her, but that’s him, yeah? Has no cool around the ladies. We’re not, like, a thing, yeah? Nothing serious, you know me. She’s not-”
Effy. She’s not Effy. The name catches in his throat, scorching his insides. Sarah’s not Effy and that’s a good thing. Easy. But he can’t think about that now, about her, he shouldn’t. Not here.
He takes a long, deep drag from the joint, forcing himself to change the subject. “Saw your dad the other day, by the way, he looks good. Better. Karen too. She’s huge, man, proper whale sized these days, almost asked her if she’s having twins or somethin’. Figured I’d get my ass kicked if I did, tho. She on the other hand is down-right terrifying. Bloody hormones.”
He stubs the joint out in the yellowing grass, looking around the empty cemetery. The sky is darkening fast, and he should probably get going before he’s late but still lingers, soaking up the peace and quiet. Silence doesn’t terrify him the way it used to.
“I miss you, man.”
Part Three