Wait, what? Me and Eminem?! (An Eminem Fan-Fiction) *Completed*

Chapter Thirty Eight

Hey everyone, and welcome to another installment in our fan fiction(; I'm going to be short so you can get reading, but this chapter does pick up where the last one left off and check out the author's note, please! The song on the side is a brill one that goes reaaally well with this chapter, and a wonderful dedication for my lovely editor(:

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Marshall was cautious enough to handle me with the utmost sincerity he could manage, and he clung onto me for sometime, the life in his body offering consolation for me. Seconds passed, minutes passed, hours passed and he easily and wordlessly held me. He didn't have to say anything for most of the time; there was no need. Numerous times he did fish his phone out of his pocket and hastily check it, but otherwise his attention was directed undividely at me.

After a few hours had dragged by, we were laid out on my worn old couch, his body pressed up against mine from the back, his head propped up by his hand and elbow as he curled himself around me and contracted gently when he spoke clearly.

"It's dinner time, don't you think?" he whispered.

"Are you hungry?"

"No. Aren't you?"

"I'm okay. You should eat though." Sounding identical to Luna who had spoken nearly the same words a few hours before, he paused and awaited me to respond. When I didn't, he softly jostled me.

"Baby?"

"Mmm?"

"You should eat. What do you want for dinner?"

"Nothing."

"Oh c'mon. You gotta eat. I'll even make it for you."

"But I'm not hungry, Marshall," I protested.

His figure unwrapped itself from mine and his arms shifted me slightly to the side so he could scoot out from behind me and sit on the edge of the furniture, feet dangling over.

"Oh yes you are," he teased, standing and stretching out his back and limbs. "I'm making you something anyway. You like pasta? That's about all I know off the top of my head." Making his way to the kitchen, he threw open a cupboard and peered inside, searching for cooking utensils. I watched him quietly struggle to arrange all the items he needed to make a small, hastily put together dinner, but once he had everything spread out on the counter, I rose.

"At least let me help you," I volunteered, out-stretching my hands.

"No," he brushed off. "You sit and relax and turn on music, or something that makes you feel relaxed."

Playfully exasperated, I stood there with a small yet undeniable smile raising my lips until he flashed me another look, and I moved to dim the lights and turn on the stereo.

"What do you want to listen to?" I questioned.

"I'm okay with whatever," he assured, mincing vegetables clumsily in the kitchen, eyes fixed on the blade of the knife, his tongue poking out of the corner of his lips as he concentrated adorably. "Play anything you want."

Silently, I adjusted the dials of the stereo appropriately so a beloved song of mine came on, loud enough for the music to echo through the kitchen and living room. He halted his chopping motions, dropped the ready vegetables in the proper pot, and then dried his hands on a nearby rag, rolling up his sleeves as he leaned on the closest counter.

"Hey, do you remember that one time when we went to that classical concert?" His eyes were cloudy with fondness as he spoke.

"How could I forget? It was one of the best time of my life."