Love's Labours in Ruins

A Daria fanfic by E.A. Smith

Legal Blather: Daria and all associated characters arethe property of MTV. This story ismy own.

Note: This fic is the second in a plannedtrilogy. Read the firstinstallment, "Love's Labours Lost?", or this one won't make any sense.

On the night of our first date, James met me outside of mydorm one hour before the play was to begin, tickets in hand.  I was unpleasantly surprised to see himin fancy dress, not tuxedo or suit and tie, but a nicer outfit than his usualcasual dress for class. He seemedto be taking this outing pretty seriously, and I wasn't quite sure what to makeof this new side of him. Unfortunately for him, I'm not Quinn; I don't judge dates by theiroutfits, and I wondered why he thought I would prefer him this way.  Surely he knew me well enough to knowthat I would not expect it, and certainly would not be impressed by it.  So why go through the trouble?  At least there was no flower in hislapel. Combined with James's redhair, that would have been a little too close to an Upchuck flashback for me toendure.

After an afternoon of torment, I had finally decided tolisten to my inner Jane - or at least the voice in my head that took on thatpersona - and take this chance. Ihad decided that I wasn't all that happy being the exact same Daria I hadalways been, retreating and nursing my wounds after every relational collision;that if college was a time of growing, maybe it was time I force myself to dosome of my own. What made thesituation particularly sticky was that it had taken me several hours to come tothis shaky resolution, and once enough of my mental powers were freed to thinkof anything beyond my own problems, I realized that James had probably notspent the time in joyous celebration. The memory of his face as I had turned and walked away from him, withonly a murmured and distressed farewell to acknowledge his continued presence,was enough to put another twist in the Gordian knot that was my stomach.  If I called on the phone to tell him ofmy choice, he might very well not answer; if I waited until our next classtogether, several days hence, my own determination would probably fade.  I had to tell him in person, and I hadto tell him immediately.

James's dorm is on the east side of campus, a long walkthrough the cold night air from my own west side room.  That night, though, the temperaturedidn't register on my mind, which was far more concerned with perfecting myopening statement. I had to conveyacceptance without obligation, affection without commitment.  He had to know that, though we werefriends, this date was on a purely trial basis, and that I could make nopromises about how I might feel about him during or after.  After both Ted and Tom, I couldn't justjump into this relationship to see where it might take me; I couldn't make thesame mistake a third time. I wasgoing into this one with eyes open and mind engaged. I was taking a chance, but there was no reason to take itblindly.

Then I was standing at his door, my fist rapping upon thewood. It was a simple, normalknock, but I fancied that it sounded uncertain and nervous.  Then he was standing there, hisgreeting dying on his lips. Theblood drained from his face so fast it was as if a tap had been plugged intohis jugular and the spigot opened. Neither of us moved. I hadthought it bad when my words had failed me on my Bromwell interview; that wasnothing compared to the shroud that now descended on the speech centers of mybrain. Where were all of mycarefully prepared sentences, the declarations that were to grant me totalsecurity and serenity in this encounter?

"I . . . I think we should go out," I stuttered out, afterwhat seemed an eternity. Veryslick, Morgendorffer. Mature andeloquent. Why don't you just goall the way and ask him to go steady, maybe pass him a note in homeroom with abox to check yes or no? James blinked twice in response.

"That sounds like a very good idea," he slowly said, hisvoice hoarse. Though his face wasstill pale, and tinged with even a little bit of green, his mouth curled up ina smile. He had to swallow beforehe could continue his reply. "Tomorrow night, then? There's a local theater troupe doing Troilus and Cressida within walking distance of here.  Um . . . we can have pizza afterwards."

"That sounds . . . good," I replied, brain still in neutral,and promptly ran out of new words to say.

"Well, great," he replied, just as briefly.

Goal achieved, and with no more words left in me, it wastime to cut my losses and escape with some dignity intact.

"Well, bye then," I said.

"OK. See youthen, I guess."

My mind had made its decision, but my legs kept me still athis door, the two of us staring at each other across the threshold.  An increasingly uncomfortable silentminute passed, then finally I managed to stumble backwards, turn, and walkspeedily away, already in the grip of doubt and anxiety.

Oh, yeah, this is off to a great start.

The next night, James and I left my dorm and moved towardsthe theater. James was overflowingwith information about the play, its history and cultural impact, slipping indetails he had heard about this particular production.  His drawl was distinctly more rapidthan usual, its pitch a couple of notches above normal.  Normally, such unceasing conversationwould annoy me, bearing an unpleasant resemblance to Quinn's never-endingsupper-table rambles, but his talk filled what would likely have been an uncomfortablesilence, and so I was grateful for it. Besides, even in the best of times, he loved to talk Shakespeare, andeven though there was little that he said on that walk that I did not alreadyknow, after a while I began to sincerely enjoy his spirited dissertation.

Troilus and Cressidais a strange beast, one of the oddest of Shakespeare's plays. It wasn't even performed until themid-nineteenth century, both because of its demanding stage directions andbecause no one seemed quite sure what to make of it. It starts off looking like a romance or a comedy, and endsup as something more closely resembling tragedy. It even veers wildly between characters, like it can't makeup its mind whose story it is actually telling. It's not one of the Bard's best plays, but it is among hismost interesting, in the same manner that a four-car pile up isinteresting. I'd read the play, ofcourse, but never actually seen it performed live (outside of the movies, I'dnever seen any of Shakespeare's works performed, and it was just as well - ifthe great acting talents of Lawndale High couldn't even handle O'Neill'sbastardization of the Canterbury Tales, then I shudder to think what they wouldhave done with Hamlet or Macbeth, or even Titus Andronicus - though Kevin wouldno doubt have loved all the severed limbs in that one).  I was starting to believe that thismight actually be a tolerable evening after all.

And, for a while, it was. When the lights went down and the play began, it suddenlywas as if we had slipped back into Chemistry class, sitting in our adjacentseats, eyes forward, but low voices aimed towards each other, commenting oneverything that passed before our eyes. Habit dies hard, and in this case, that was a very good thing.  Even with a play like Troilus, this was still Shakespeare, so there was little wecould say about the writing; but the editing, casting, acting, and directionwere all suspect, and James and I had as much fun picking all of them apart aswe would have viewing a competent production, maybe more.  All the awkwardness of the past day wasgone, and we were once again two friends amusing ourselves the best way we knewhow. I thought that I could beginto understand what Jane was always seeking out with her boyfriends, the elusiveidea of just having "fun".

Then I felt it, a light touch on my hand, followed by afull-fledged clasp. Automatically,every muscle in my body stiffened, and without any conscious direction, my handyanked itself out from under his, and flew into my lap.  I heard a sharp intake of breath, but Idid not dare to move my eyes from the stage. It took a few seconds for me to realize what had justhappened, and once I realized it, I didn't know what to do next.  None of what I had just done wasintentional, none of it was planned; if I had anticipated James's attempt totake my hand, I would not have felt comfortable with it - Ted had never so muchas touched me, and despite our initial kiss, Tom hadn't even attempted ahandholding on our first official date - but I would have told him my feelingsin advance, and let him down as easy as I knew how. Despite all of the uncertainty and frustration he hadrecently caused me, I had no desire to hurt him. But the damage was done, and now that the action had beentaken, my feelings followed suit; under no circumstances did I want James totouch me now, or even to acknowledge my existence. I could feel myself withdrawing from him, even though therewas a part of me that didn't want to, that wanted to laugh off this one unfortunateincident and continue on as before. But a more basic instinct had taken over - he's gone too far, he'scrossed the line, he's moved too fast, and now it's time to run and hide.  So I just sat there rigidly, to allouter appearances focused intently on the drama before us, while in reality internallyroiling in fear of hearing James's voice in my ear, or feeling his touch on myarm.

Thankfully, James seemed to realize as much, and left mealone for the rest of the play. Nomore camaraderie, no more shared smirks or quiet chuckles, just an impossiblytense silence filled only by the voices of the actors on the stage, which werenow just an unintelligible drone in my ears.

Afterwards, we stood outside the box office, not quite ableto look each other in the eye. James was the first to speak.

"I guess I really screwed things up, didn't I?" he mumbled,head slightly bowed and his voice choked. His adam's apple jumped up and down several times, and his breathing washeavy.

What could I say to a question like that?  There was a part of me that agreed withhim, and was all for telling him so in no uncertain terms; he acted like anidiot, like the hormone-crazed teenaged boy that was almost all I knew at homeand which I had so desperately hoped for him not to be, and he should sufferfor it. But my own damnablehonesty, that conscience I had always so desperately denied and yet which stillhad an iron hold on me, made sure I knew that this was not so.  He had in ignorance hurt me, and I inreaction had hurt him. The greatrelationship cycle had claimed another victim. There really was nothing new under the sun, not for meanyway.

"It's not just you," I said, doing my best to look him inthe eye. But all I could see therewere Trent's eyes. Ted's.  Tom's. And now I had another name to add to my list, another fellowhedgehog who had attempted to approach me, only to leave me pricked by hisquills. And him by mine, aswell. "It's me, too."  God, I never thought to hear such aclichˇ come out of my mouth, but it was all too true.

"I suppose dinner's off," James said, filling the quiet withthe obvious.

No, I would love to savor this feeling over a good mealand a glass of wine. I thought it, but I didn't say it.  It would have been like kicking apuppy, and I had no desire to take on the role of serial puppy kicker, notwithout Quinn around. Since wewere reduced to stating the obvious, I thought I would take the next turn.

"I think you should go now," I said, and watched as his facewinced at the dismissal. "I'llgive you a five minute head start for the school, and then make my own wayback." The corner of his mouthtwitched in a gallows smile.

"Doesn't seem proper to take a lady out and then not walkher home." He intentionallybroadened his South Carolina accent. "My mother'll kill me when she finds out."  His attempt at a smile faded, and theforced humor left his voice. "I'llsee you in . . . I'll see you sometime." With that, he turned and walked off, feet shuffling and head down.

And now he's out of sight, and I'm walking through the colddark, alone, wondering how I could have ever thought that I was ready forthis. Maybe it's just not beenenough time since Tom; maybe I'm not enough over that relationship to start anew one. Or is it somethingdeeper, something fundamental about my psyche that turns every attempt I makeat a boyfriend into disaster and eventual pain? My mother once told me that I judge people by too high astandard, one I couldn't always live up to myself. Is that part of it? Am I expecting every relationship I have to be perfect, and when it'snot, I destroy it as unworthy? IfI had made more of an effort, could I have shaken off my discomfort, calmlytold James that I was not yet ready for such an overt gesture of affection, andthen moved on as though nothing had happened, trusting in his good will andgood sense to hold him to it? Igave up Ted after one mistake. Itried to do the same over and over with Tom, and it was only his persistenceand refusal to accept my rejection that kept us together.  James didn't even try, but I don't thinkI ever pushed Tom away with such severity as I just did to James tonight; whatwas he supposed to think?

It seems like guys always assume that it's the women whoknow what they're doing, that they're creatures of mystery, who know all therules and are working behind the scenes, pulling all the strings and making themen dance to their will, in full control of the situation.  Bullshit. I have no clue what I'm doing. I've just broken something, and I have no idea how to fixit. I'm going to walk into classnext Tuesday, and maybe James will be in his usual seat.  Maybe he'll say hello.  Maybe I'll even say it back.  But that will be it.  No more jokes during lecture.  No more lunchtime conversations aboutwhatever comes to mind. No moreweekend study sessions and general loitering. Our relationship is as much in ruins as was Troilus andCressida's, when he saw her in the arms of another man.  And it's my fault, I think, or at leastmore mine than his. It's my mess,so I have to clean it up.

But how?