Busted Lips and Lust-Bruised Hips

Amaya stretched beneath the blankets, savouring the sunlight sifting through the window and the lazy feeling that claimed her body. Falling back heavily against the mattress again, she glanced through the window with slight unease at the Hollywood horizon which stretched itself around the house. Everything beyond the glass felt so calculated and polished that she felt isolated from all the lives crawling the pavements outside. Pulling the blankets under her chin as protection, she tucked herself into a nervous ball, wondering one more time if she had made the right decision to run away from her problems just to view them from a distance. Gradually pulling her eyes from the window, she glanced at the clock counting the hours away beside her. Shaking off her thoughts and determined not to lose the day, Amaya pushed off the blankets and braced herself against the sudden drop of temperature as she lay still until she had properly woken up. When her body had finally accustomed itself to the morning, she pushed herself up from the bed and grabbed her hoodie from the chair.

Padding through the house so as not to wake Pete, Amaya smiled at the silence around her; a sound she was almost unfamiliar with. As she stepped into the living area, her smile grew even more as she saw Hemingway sprawled ungracefully across his couch, sound asleep. She had no doubt that he had accompanied his owner's moonlight vigil the night before and only grazed a gentle hand over his head in greeting, allowing him to recover undisturbed. Passing him, she pulled back the balcony door and stepped out into the morning air, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself as she did. Trailing a hand along the railing, she made her way to the bed and slumped down on it, pushing her back forcefully against the wall and pulling her knees to her chest while she lost her thoughts over the rooftops of Hollywood. She had no idea how long she remained like that, or what thoughts passed before her eyes. She only rejoined reality when she heard a smatter of footsteps following her to the balcony. Raising her dream-dazed eyes, she smiled up at the dishevelled bassist stood in the doorway. "Morning, sunshine," she greeted.

Pete groaned to himself as he rubbed his eyes viciously. "I'm not sunshine," he replied groggily.

Amaya laughed. "No, you never are first thing in the morning," she teased, grinning as Pete adjusted to being awake. Stretching, he padded his way over to the bed and threw himself next to Amaya, his head lolling against the wall behind him. "Coffee?" Amaya asked, receiving a grumble in reponse, "I'll take that as a yes," she added, pushing herself from the bed and laughing as Pete immediately lay down in her absence. "You know I'm gonna wake you up if you fall asleep again."

"You dare," Pete grumbled, "I'll set Hemingway on you."

Stepping into the living area, Amaya looked down at the sleeping bulldog. "I'm sorry, honey," she called out, "He's flat out in here. You won't be getting any help from him." Amaya paused long enough to hear Pete's growl in response before heading into the kitchen. By the time she'd returned with two mugs of coffee, Pete had already wandered half-way back to sleep. Smirking, Amaya placed his coffee on the ground beneath him and turned to analyse the city. Turning serious, she slowly let her smile droop from her lips. "It all feels so fake here," she murmured.

"What you mean?" Pete asked as he scrambled for his coffee.

"Just look at it all," Amaya told him, "Even the way the sun falls looks so pre-planned. Like it's all from a set." She turned to face Pete, watching as he devoured a hit of coffee with appreciation. "Why did you move out here?" she asked, "Jokes of stardom aside."

Pete raised his eyes sleepily at Amaya, not surprised at the way she naturally contrasted with her backdrop. "I don't know," he replied, "I just spent so much time here it felt weird being away. And there's so many damaged personalities out here posing as perfect. It just reassured me that I'm not the only fuck-up in the world."

Amaya stepped across to the bassist, kneeling beside him as his eyes followed her. "Honey, you'd never be that - even if you feel like it most of the time," she reassured, "There's a million other fuck-ups in the world. Look at me," she added with a smile.

"You're not a fuck-up," Pete told her, "You're fucked with. There's a difference. You could mend yourself. I have no chance of that happening."

"Ever think you could?" Amaya asked, "Ever tried?"

"It never works," Pete dismissed.

"Even if you take it a day at a time?"

"Even if I take it a second at a time."

Amaya leant forward, risking running a hand across Pete's stubbled jaw. "I wish I could fix you," she said softly as she rested her hand against his cheek.

"Me too," Pete replied, opening his eyes again to look at Amaya. Taking her hand gently from his cheek, Pete pulled her onto the bed beside him, ignoring her protests that there wasn't enough space. As Pete settled against the warmth she brought with her, Amaya dragged her eyes over him. That close to the bassist, she could pinpoint each worryline that had claimed permanent residence in his skin and knew she could probably tell the tale behind every one. As she trailed a finger over one, she glanced into Pete's eyes as he watched her with sleepy intrigue. "When did you get so old?" she asked him.

Closing his eyes again, Pete let out a yawn. "Do you always use this kind of sweet-talk first thing in the morning or am I a one-off?" he retorted.

Amaya laughed. "I don't mean in appearance," she told him, "I mean mentally."

"Look at yourself," Pete said, "You talk way passed your age sometimes."

"I'm broken goods," Amaya explained, "It's a way to bridge the gap between the pieces."

Pete nodded in understanding, settling his head against the bed as Amaya watched the way he struggled against the last strains of sleep. Feeling her eyes on him, Pete shuffled under her gaze, grazing against her as he tried to get comfortable. "Stop watching me," he mumbled.

"Stop being so adorable," Amaya replied, smiling as a slow blush spread over Pete's cheeks. Shuffling down the bed slightly, she tucked her head against Pete's shoulder and, with her back to Hollywood and her eyes closed to reality, she allowed herself just that one inch of comfort. "You in the studio today?" she asked, her voice muffled against the bassist.

"Mmm hmm," Pete replied.

"What time you leaving?"

"When I can pull myself up from here."

"Want me to move?"

"Not yet?" Pete replied, lacing an arm around Amaya to keep her in place. Smiling against Pete's shirt, Amaya settled more comfortably against him, taking comfort in the steady rhythm of his breathing. "What are you gonna be doing today?" Pete asked.

"Probably just hanging out with Hemingway, thinking," Amaya replied.

"You can't just stay in the house," Pete told her, "Come meet me for lunch."

"I don't wanna impose," Amaya answered, "I feel bad enough as it is."

"What if I said I didn't mind?"

"I'd still decline. Imagine the rumours if you were seen with some mystery girl in some diner," Amaya explained, "Someone hardly Hollywood material. Anyway, I want to stay here. I need to think."

Pete glanced down at the top of Amaya's head with concern. "You sure?"

Amaya nodded. "Positive, but thanks for the offer, honey. I appreciate it."

"Well, let me know if you change your mind," Pete said.

"I will," Amaya replied as she sat up.

"Hey," Pete groaned in protest, "Where you going?"

Amaya smiled as she stood. "I'm not staying here just to be your human blanket," she told the bassist, "And, anyway, you're forgetting that I'm a fan as well as a friend. And I want that album finished. Now," she added, pulling at Pete's hand and laughing as he weakly fought back, "Get up and get to that damn studio. And don't come home until it's done."

Andy placed the comic down on his lap and watched Pete as he sat on the other side of the couch, tapping aimlessly at his Sidekick. "So Amaya's staying with you?" he asked.

"Uh huh," Pete replied levelly without raising his eyes.

"And Jeanae doesn't mind?"

"Well..." Pete glanced up at the drummer, who was regarding him with interest, and shrugged.

"She doesn't like the idea, does she?" Andy asked sympathetically.

"Not really," Pete confessed, watching as Patrick leant across the mixing board in front of them to make an adjustment, "She keeps telling me to be careful. Like Amaya is some kind of threat. It's ridiculous."

"Not to her it isn't," Andy said. Leaning back against Pete's sudden, sharp look, he raised his hands in protest. "I'm not saying I support her. I'm just saying maybe you need to see it from her perspective."

Pete frowned. "What other way is there to view it from?" he asked, "Me and Amaya are just friends. Nothing is gonna happen. Jeanae just doesn't trust her."

"You can't really blame her," Andy replied, "I mean, look at you and Amaya. You can't deny there's something between you and her. Nothing sexual, don't get me wrong. But there's just this bond, this understanding that Jeanae knows she'll never come close to and it scares her. In her mind, she draws short in offering something in comparison to that. All she has are memories of arguments and break-ups between the two of you. That's not much to share."

"But she knows I love her," Pete insisted.

"And she also knows that you care for Amaya - a lot. Just knowing you love her sometimes isn't enough and it's just got her shook at the moment. She'll get over it but you need to make her realise how much you care for her." Seeing Pete's disbelieving expression, Andy leant forward slightly to emphasise his point. "I know you think it's ridiculous but, to Jeanae, Amaya is a threat. Whether you'll admit it or not. And, now that Amaya's staying with you and she's miles away, it's just reinforcing that to her." Settling back against the couch once again, Andy hesitated before picking up his comic, watching instead as Pete absorbed what he had told him as his knuckles whitened around his Sidekick.

Hemingway tugged playfully at the sleeve of Amaya's shirt as she lay motionless on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He pulled back a few paces, stopping as the shirt reached the end of its stretch and let it drop. Shifting her eyes across to the bulldog, Amaya smiled, giving him the attention that he'd been working for, and passed her hand over his back before letting it drop to the floor.

"I wonder what he's doing right now," Amaya said to him, "I wonder whether he misses me at all." Pausing on that thought, she delved her hand decisively into her pocket and drew out her phone. As she dragged her eyes over the device, her fingers drifted hesitantly over the keys, travelling over random sequences. With eyes closed tightly, she finally dialled in one well-worn number and placed the phone next to her ear to listen to the rings on the other end.

"Amaya!" a voice answered abruptly, "Where the fuck are you?" Tightening her hold on the phone, Amaya bit her lip against any response to the question, choosing instead to listen to the tirade on the other end. "Tell me where you are. I'm coming to get you. I swear to God, Amaya, you've pushed things too far this time. Where the hell are you? What are you playing at?" As each of his questions remained unanswered, Sean's voice grew more aggravated until the phone vibrated with his anger. "I'll find out where you are, you know. You're bound to have told someone. You wait. You've made such a big mistake."

Slowly withdrawing the phone from her ear, Amaya took in the ceiling with distant interest as a knot tightened in her chest. Despite the distance between herself and her phone, she could still hear Sean's outburst slung at her and she couldn't ignore the pull his anger had on her. Running a hand over Hemingway once again, she attempted to anchor herself to the life she was laying in but, despite her efforts, she could feel herself become more displaced with every exaggerated syllable that echoed from the phone. The steady trembling of her hand reminded her of the hold that Sean had on her, regardless of any amount of space she placed between them. It was one stronger than any rebellion or connection to some perfect stranger could be and she couldn't help but nod in agreement as Sean spat at her, "You belong here, Amaya. You're mine."

Andy's advice was still humming in Pete's ears as he stepped into his house that night. Shutting the door behind him, he found himself almost amazed at his ability to ruin everything he was involved in and he knew it would take more than just a scattering of apologies to making everything right but he was determined to try. It was what Jeanae deserved after all yet, despite that, he couldn't stop that stubborn inch of him from repeating how ridiculous everything had gotten, how a simple friendship had suddenly morphed into something that could corrupt what he worked so hard on to maintain. As he made his way to the living area, he rid himself of the thought, resolving to solve the confusion at a later stage. Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused in confusion as he scanned the room but only found Hemingway sprawled across his couch with a wistful, almost desperate, look in his eyes. Pete crossed the room to the bulldog, smoothing him in greeting before kneeling down in front of him. "Where is she?" he asked, receiving a clattering from the guest room as a reply. Standing up, Pete analysed the wall between him and the room in confusion as he walked towards it. Stopping in the doorway, he watched as Amaya occupied herself by frantically throwing her belongings into a suitcase, oblivious to his presence. As she hauled the Clandestine hoodie from the wardrobe, she paused, glancing down at it with sad longing. Pete waited until she'd sunk onto the bed before stepping into the room.

"Amaya," he said softly. Glancing up at the bassist with widened eyes, Amaya sprung from the bed, positionning herself in front of the suitcase as if to obscure her actions. She watched the bassist wordlessly as he ran a hand through his hair and swallowed. "I'd ask you what you were doing but that's pretty obvious," he started, walking further into the room. Surveying the now empty wardrobe, he sighed and turned back to Amaya. "You're not going back, are you?" he asked.

Gasping back a breath, Amaya raised guilty eyes to the bassist. "I don't belong here," she explained, "I belong with him."

"Amaya," Pete coaxed, stepping cautiously towards her, "You don't belong with him at all. You know that."

"No, I don't," Amaya argued, shaking her head, "It's not true. He's been there for me since I got out here. Who else have I got if I leave him now?"

"Me," Pete replied, "The million other people you could meet when you're not caged inside that relationship."

"I'm not caged," Amaya insisted, placing the hoodie on the bed beside her.

"Well what is it then?" Pete asked, "Because it sure as hell isn't a relationship."

"And how would you know that?" Amaya bit back, "You're hardly an expert on relationships, are you?"

Stepping back, Pete glared at Amaya, taking in a deep breath before replying. "That was uncalled for," he told her.

"What do you expect?" Amaya asked, standing up, "Everyone keeps dictating to me what I should be doing and everything I do doesn't seem to get me closer to solving anything."

"We're only trying to help you. Maybe if you weren't so addicted to the drama of the whole situation, you'd realise that."

"You have no idea, Pete."

"No, Amaya, that's the problem. I never have any idea. You explain to me and I still don't have a clue. I'm beginning to think I don't want to know anymore. It would make things a whole lot easier."

"You don't mean that," Amaya told him, shaking her head.

"No, you don't want me to mean that so you can keep your shoulder to cry on," Pete replied.

Amaya paused, resting her hand on the bed to steady herself. "That's all you think I hang around with you for?" she asked, "To be my shoulder to cry on?"

Seeing the young girl's defeat, Pete dragged a hand over his face and shook his head. "No," he replied gently, "I just get so frustrated sometimes trying to help you and getting nowhere."

"God, Oompa," Amaya said, crossing the room to the bassist and looping her arms around him, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Pete replied, hugging Amaya to him.

"The last thing I want to do is drag you into my problems, but I do it every time," Amaya explained, pressing her cheek against Pete's shoulder, "I'm just so confused right now."

"And you thought you'd run away because of it?" Pete asked.

"I guess I was born with no fight mechanism. Just a flight one," Amaya shrugged. Squeezing the bassist tighter, she pressed her lips together in confession. "I phoned him earlier," she whispered.

Pete pulled back, holding Amaya at arm's distance, suddenly finding the reason for her irrational behaviour. "Sean?" he asked.

Amaya nodded. "It's strange. I guess I just wanted to see what his reaction was, find out how he was feeling so I could figure out how I should feel." Shaking her head, Amaya pulled back from the bassist's hands and scraped a hand through her hair. "I didn't even talk to him. I couldn't. He was just hurling abuse at me, said he was gonna find me somehow." Looking up, Amaya smiled bashfully. "You know the funny thing?" she asked, "He can't. I didn't know myself I was coming out here until I got in the taxi." Glancing down at her suitcase, Amaya replaced her smile with a guilty blush and glanced back up at Pete. "I didn't know what I was doing," she told him, sitting next to the suitcase, "He just has this hold on me. I can't explain it."

"It's not a hold, Amaya. It's fear," Pete replied, sitting on the opposite side of the case, "And it's something you need to rid yourself of."

Amaya nodded slowly in agreement. "I will," she said, "As soon as I get home. I will." She raised her eyes to look across at Pete whose expression was darkened by whatever thoughts drifted through his head. Leaning over, she took his hand apologetically, causing him to raise his heavy, brown eyes to her. "I'm sorry," she apologised again, "I ruin everything I every collide with."

"We both do," Pete replied with a melancholy smile.

"I didn't mean that thing about you not being good with relationships," Amaya told him, "My mouth ran ahead of me trying to find a decent insult to hurl at you. It's not true."

"That's the thing," Pete said, "It is."

Shuffling closer, Amaya squeezed Pete's hand tightly. "How's Jeanae?" she asked.

"She's fine," Pete answered, looking up at the worried waitress. Sighing, he shook his head, "Who am I lying to?" he asked himself, "She's so paranoid right now because you're here. She thinks something is going to happen between us."

Amaya swallowed. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked with a lowered head.

"No," Pete replied, resting a hand against Amaya's cheek, "I want you to stay. I want you fixed."

Amaya smiled, leaning into the bassist's touch. "I'll never be able to thank you enough for letting me ruin your life like this," she joked.

Pete grinned in response. "No one does it better than you, Bambi," he replied.

"Bambi?" Amaya asked, pulling back from the bassist and regarding him with an amused expression.

Pete shrugged. "I just thought if I was gonna have a nickname, you may as well have one too," he explained.

"Bambi and Oompa," Amaya murmured to herself. Looking up at Pete with laughing eyes, she grinned widely. "You know, that has a ring to it."