Clean Slate » a.i. au

Four

        The front door opens after what seems like years – when it's only been a few hours in reality – and I immediately feel like someone's punched me in the stomach; I can only hope that I don't say, or do, something as stupid as burning myself like I had this morning.

        "Hey," I look away from Jamie Oliver on the TV, to greet Ashton as he walks into the living room. But he doesn't say anything; he's just slowly taking off his beanie and jacket, while looking around with a frown. I should be getting used to him doing that, but it doesn't mean I like it. And I don't like it one bit.

        "Was anyone here?" He asks, as if on cue, in a voice that's way too casual for me to not think he's suspicious about something. I sigh internally as he looks behind the counter, bookcases and basically every flat surface, as if expecting to find a corpse behind them.

        "No," I say slowly, not wanting to sound mocking or sarcastic, but it's like he doesn't hear me; now he's checking the other rooms in the apartment. "Was someone supposed to come?"

        "Uh... no." Ashton walks in the living room again, looking at me foe the first time. I'd say that's a good thing, but the frown on his face is making me keep quiet. "Did you go anywhere?"

        Seriously? I need half a day to walk to the bathroom with the tree-sized cast on my leg, and he's asking me if I'd gone somewhere? "No," I repeat in the same light tone, "Been here all day."

        He barely gives me a nod at that, still looking around but with more assurance. A minute pasts before I hear a sigh from him, as he drags himself to the armchair on my left. I turn the volume on the TV down when he slumps down, putting both his arms on the armrest and his feet up on the coffee table, not saying anything.

        "Um..." I begin, the sight of his somewhat wet combat boots on the wooden table that I've wiped just yesterday, making me a little anxious. Now the old Lucy would have already chopped his feet off for it. "Do you want something to drink? Eat?"

        Ashton runs his hand through his hair, sighing again as he stated at the TV for a few seconds. I don't know why he does this, I ask him something and then he takes an ice age to answer my question. It's annoying because I know that he will eventually answer, but it's like he likes to keep me waiting to the point where I forget what I'd asked him.

        "Are there any pancakes left?" He asks, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen. I press my lips together when he doesn't move at all after that, his back against the soft material of the chair, and his feet still up on the table; I decide not to tell him anything for it, I'll just mop around when he goes to play a video game in the guest room. I still don't understand why he sleeps on the couch, and not the guest room.

        "Hm? Oh, yeah." He only nods at my reply, obviously not even thinking about getting up and getting the pancakes himself. I stay in my spot for another few seconds, just to see if he'd do anything – and eventually he turns his head to me, slowly, his eyebrows furrowed.

        "I'll get them for you," I say, a bit louder than intended, when he opens his mouth to say something too. He only blinks a few times as I stand up, a bit clumsily while reaching for my crutches. Okay, he's a really sweet and caring guy per se, but when he's not in the best of moods, he becomes a complete control freak. Everything has to be done his way, but he won't move a finger for anything. And I don't even want to start about what happens if I dare to make a mistake of any kind.

        "Syrup?" I ask while getting a clean plate from a cupboard, and the one with pancakes from the oven.

        "Chocolate."