Love's Labours Renewed

A Daria fanfic by E.A. Smith

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

Note: This story is the third part of thetrilogy that began with "Love's Labours Lost?" and continued with "Love'sLabours in Ruins". Better readthose first.

I walked into Chemistry Tuesday morning with a mission.  My weekend had been torture; all I hadbeen able to think about was the hurt on James's face as he had turned andwalked away from me at the theater. I had done little studying and even less sleeping; a guilty conscienceis a more effective stimulant than anything you can buy on a streetcorner. If I was ever to sleepwell again, or at least for the rest of the semester while we shared the sameclass, I had to do something to patch things up with James.  The problem was, I had no idea how tostart. I had little experiencewith reconciliation. The onlyserious fight Jane and I had ever had took a whole summer to clear up, and Iwas not willing to wait that long again. I had even tried to get some motherly advice, but I was only ever ableto get as far as Marianne. Left tomy own devices, the only thing I could think of to do was to get him to sitdown and talk with me, and hope that the two of us together could work thisout.

His usual seat was empty, confirming my worst fears.  He wasn't planning on seeing me anytime soon, and so it was probably not going to be easy to get him to agree tomy proposal. Still, I couldn'tgive up. Giving up on people hadfor too long been a habit with me, as I was just now starting to fully realize,and I was determined not to let that habit sabotage this effort.  The lecture room was large, and theclass was filling up; but with James's colorful hair, he wasn't too hard tospot, seated about halfway up. Hesaw me, too, I'm sure, but to his credit he didn't move as I walked up to him.

He looked horrible. His face was pale, which was only emphasized by the fiery brilliance ofhis hair, which was quite disheveled. There were huge dark circles under his eyes; the eyes themselves weretinged with red. On the whole, helooked about ten times worse than I felt. His gaze on me, as I walked over beside his desk, was accusing,unforgiving. I wanted to sink intothe floor, but I stood my ground.

"James," I said simply, needing to get straight to the pointbefore he had a chance to leave or attack me, "I think we need to talk."  He turned and looked towards the frontof the classroom, his face now a total blank.

"I really don't think that would be a very good idea," hesaid in reply, his voice flat.

"James, please," I reiterated, trying my best to soundconciliatory and not whiny. "Iwant to work this out. You have toat least give me a chance to apologize, to explain."

"No, I don't," he replied, words clipped.  I hadn't anticipated that it would bethis hard; he'd never before been anything less than reasonable about anything.

"Class is starting soon. You'd better get to your seat before it's taken."  It was a blatant lie - no one ever tookmy seat - but as an effective a dismissal as I had ever heard.  After his initial glare, he hadn'tlooked my away the whole time.

Unfortunately, I did have to take a seat soon, and sincesitting near James would probably do more harm than good, I headed back down tomy wonted place.

I barely noticed the lecture; fortunately, my note-takinghand was on autopilot. I spent theentire class time trying to conceive some notion of how I could get aroundJames's new-found spite, how I could slip pass those defenses and convince himto give me another chance, give us another chance. After all, I was not the only one at fault here.  Never in my life have I wished that Iwas Quinn, but I had to admit, this was one time I envied her abilities.  Would I have been willing to sufferbouncy hair if it would convince James to listen to me?

The ninety minutes crept by, each one stretched to aneternity, and yet when the professor dismissed the class, it was still too soonfor me. Which is why it was somuch of a shock when I stood up and turned to leave, only to find Jamesstanding there, waiting for me.

"Fine, we can talk over lunch," he said, then turned andwalked away without another word. I took a few quick steps to get a pace behind him, then matched hisspeed. I didn't feel quitecomfortable walking where we could make eye contact.

A few minutes later, we sat down at a table in the dininghall, neither of us with any food on our trays, neither of us feeling any realdesire to eat. The air around uswas filled with voices, but it was as though we were surrounded by a bubble ofoppressive silence, neither of us sure how to break it.  James just sat there across from me,trying to look in every direction but my own; it soon became obvious that hewasn't going to end the silence. And it wasn't his responsibility, anyway; I had asked him here, I haddemanded that we talk, so it was my role to break the ice.  But now that the moment had come, Ifelt a strong reluctance. I felt somuch weight on my words that I feared to utter one, afraid that the wrongopening could condemn my effort before it had even started.  But as the silence stretched longer, Iknew that if I didn't say something soon, everything would come crashing down onmy head anyway. I had to startsimple, so I started with what seemed to me to be the heart of the matter.

"I'm sorry . . . " I started, and then didn't know what elseto say. Everything that followedwould depend on his reaction to those words. At first, there was no reaction, except that he began tolook straight at me instead of everywhere else. After a few seconds, he raised his eyebrows, but keptsilent. Finally, he spoke.

"Sorry . . . sorry for what, exactly?"  His voice was hard, demanding.  It was a shock to hear it like that;until today, I had never heard him so much as raise his voice in annoyance, andnow it was hard with anger.

At first, I thought he was mocking me; surely he knew what Ihad to feel guilty about. But thenI realized that he wanted more than a vague apology; he wanted specificconfession. Get every little gorydetail out in the open. And aspainful as the thought was, I realized that he was right.  We could only deal with our problem ifwe were able to talk about it, no matter how much it hurt.

"I'm sorry that I overreacted, sorry that I shut youout. Sorry I didn't give you achance to redeem yourself." Thosewere the easy admissions; I knew my faults here, and I had been berating myselfwith them for days. I was used tosaying the words by now, if only in my own head. And I thought that I knew James well enough to know thateventually I would be forgiven all these failings. It was the last that truly scared me, since I didn't knowhow he would react to it, whether he would be capable of forgiveness forit. "I'm sorry that I can't bewhat you want me to be."

"I see," he replied, eyes now fixed on the table before us,the hard edge of his voice partly eroded away by a hoarse swallow.  He rested his hands on the table, andwrung them together so hard that their edges turned white, but he didn't sayanything more. James had neverbeen taciturn, and his silence now was more punishing to me than any wordscould have been. Finally, I triedto prompt him to a response.

"Do you accept my apology?" I prompted, thankful that I hadso much practice at keeping my voice rational and nearly monotone.  I didn't want to sound as desperate asI was beginning to feel. "Ipromise you; I truly am very sorry for all the pain I've caused you."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," he replied, still not lookingme in the eye. "I know you don'tlie, Daria. I believe you when yousay that you are sorry for all those things." Now he looked up, and I could see that though his voice mayhave calmed, the anger was still there. "I believe your apology, Daria, but I don't accept it.  Not yet. I need to hear something else first."  This worried me.  I was willing to apologize, willing toaccept what blame I felt was my due, but no more than that.  I would not be humiliated, I would nottake all the blame, and I would not be made to beg. Of course, at any other time, I would not have thought Jamescapable of such a demand, but then again, I had never before seen him in such astate.

"What?" I asked, warily.

"I need to know why," he said, and to my surprise, he didn'tsound like an angry man making a demand, but like a hungry man asking forbread. "If you couldn't be what Iwanted you to be, if you aren't interested in me, then why did you go out withme in the first place?"

This was the question I had dreaded most.  The whole time this weekend when I wasanticipating this very conversation, I had hoped that, somehow, this one issuewould not come up. It wasridiculous to think that, I knew as much, but I could think of no way to answerthis question honestly without hurting him, no matter how much time I spenttrying to. I was briefly temptedto lie, to try to think of some pleasant deception that could defuse this wholematter, but that kind of dishonesty was not in me. I could only offer the truth, and hope that it didn'tdestroy the entire effort right then.

"I needed to see if I could."

His reaction was about what I had feared.

"What the hell does that mean?!" he exploded, catching the earsof several of the surrounding diners, who turned to look briefly in ourdirection. "What was I to you,some experiment? I know you can bedistant and reserved at times, but I never before thought you were cruel.  God, Daria, I'm a person, my feelingsare real, not some laboratory for your amusement!" He jumped out of his seat, face aflame, and looked ready torun out.

"James, please," Isaid, my voice surprisingly loud, and my arm instantly shot out to take hold ofhis. OK, apparently I wasn't abovea little begging after all. But Ihad no time at that moment to be disgusted with myself; that would have to waituntil later. "Please, sit down." Thankfully, the second time my voiceand manner were something approaching my norm.

"Why should I?" he asked, and I knew that this was norhetorical question. He needed areal answer, or I was going to lose him then and there.

"I did not mean it the way that you think," I said, and thenhad to clarify, "at least not only the way that you think.  I wanted to like you in that way; Iwanted it to work out. I thoughtthat since we got along so well as friends, that if I tried, we could be more,in time."

Several tense moments passed.

"And I didn't give you that time, did I?" he said, the angerdraining from his voice, replaced by realization and despair.  His shoulders slumped, the tension lefthis body, and he collapsed back into his chair. "You weren't ready, and I pushed it, and I blew it.  I even knew it then, but sometime overthe past few days I passed the blame from me to you. I guess I couldn't handle having the heat on myself likethat. All the more credit to you;you were willing to admit it. I'msorry, Daria."

"I think that there is more than enough blame for both of usto share," I said, relieved that he had given me the chance to explain myself,and that he was willing to acknowledge his own role in this affair.

"Yeah, but you weren't the one who started the whole thing,"he responded, then shook his head and laughed ruefully.  "And after all the effort I took tomake sure that everything went well. I even called my mother to ask her advice on what to do while on adate."

"You called your mother?" I asked, surprised.  Of course, there were times when I hadgone to my mother for help as well, but it was usually only when all otheravenues were closed to me. When Icould get in contact with her, that is.

"I wanted the female perspective," James said, ratherdefensively. "I'd never actuallybeen on a date before - my life in high school just didn't work out that way -and I was scared. I didn't want toscrew things up." Bitterly, headded, "How ironic."

"What did she say?"

"Oh, the usual things. Be polite and respectful. Show interest in her; don't just talk about yourself.  Treat her like a lady and act like agentleman. Dress well.  All the expected things a mother tellsher son in those kinds of situations."

Dress well, Ithought. That's onemystery solved. Still, he shouldhave known that it wasn't necessary.

"Don't blame my mother, though," James continued.  "The handholding idea was minealone. I told you, I'd never beenon a date before; I was just doing what I thought one did on dates."

"So you didn't actually want to hold my hand?"  I didn't know what to make of this news.  Despite everything, it seemed almostinsulting. Was I not worthy ofeven the desire?

"Oh, no," he said fervently. "I definitely wanted to. I can understand how you could have accepted just to see ifit might work out, but I knew that I liked you. You were all I could think about, all I could talkabout. My own parents got tired ofhearing about you."

"I had no idea." I felt like such a fool. I'm not exactly skilled in the ways of Eros, but if he was truly thatsmitten with me, how could I have missed it?

"I didn't intend for you to, not at first.  It took me forever to get up thecourage to ask you out; I was terrified you would say no.  You seemed so above it all, so farabove me, that I was afraid you would just laugh at me, or be insulted, if Itried. I've seen your scorn; Ididn't want to be on the receiving end of it."

Insulted? No. Scared out of mywits? That's a little closer tothe truth. James had bared his soul to me, shown me his throat and hadtrusted me not to tear it out. WhichI had, gruesomely. And yet, herehe was, doing it again. Whateverhis faults, I knew James was not a fool; he knew what he was doing. I didn't feel worthy of suchtrust. The only way I could thinkof to even everything out and start to make this better was to bare my soul tohim as well. I could only hopethat I would survive it.

"James, it's just as well that things didn't work outbetween us," I started, leading in to the matter slowly, trying to give myselftime to adjust to the idea of what I was about to do. I was going to breach the wall around my heart, which I hadallowed only Jane to see through. But that was the problem, wasn't it? All my little self-defense mechanisms, designed to keeppeople at bay, to keep me from being hurt, were the very things that had led meinto this pain. They were thethings that were hurting me, and those around me. If James was to be the final victim of my hedge of thorns, Ihad to start tearing it down. Now. No matter how muchblood I might draw from myself in doing so. "I'm not ready to be in a relationship.  You've heard me talk about Trent andTom . . . "

"Are you still in love with one of them?" James said, almostjumping at the thought.

"No!" I responded, a little too emphatically, annoyed atbeing interrupted and surprised at the idea. "I don't think I ever was in love with either of them.  I doubt I even know what that kind oflove is. The very idea isfrightening to me. But, you see,that's part of the problem . . . "

And, slowly, with much difficulty, I told himeverything. I told him aboutgrowing up in a household where my little sister was always looked upon withmore approval than myself, because she was cute and my parents understood herbetter than me. I told him aboutthe problems I had had in school when I was young, where the other childrenbored me and there was no one I could talk to. I told him how, unconsciously, I had withdrawn behindself-righteous walls, looking upon the world with scorn, allowing no one nearwho did not measure up to my standards. Walling myself off from disillusion, rejection, and pain.  And then I told him how this hadhampered every attempt I had made at both friendship and romance, how it tookonly the smallest error on the part of the other person for me to backaway. About how Jane had been theonly person to make it all the way past this wall, because she had been thefirst person I had met who understood the way I felt about the world and allthe idiots I saw in it; and by the time I realized that even she could fallshort, I needed her - loved her - too much to let her go.  Then I told him of Trent, Ted, and Tom,how in each case they had failed me, and how in each case I had left them forit. I told him that the onlyreason that Tom and I had been together long enough for our relationship to diea natural death was because he was the only person I had met, besides Jane, whowas not willing to take my "no" for an answer.

"It's the circle of my life, James," I concluded.  "You just happened to be unfortunateenough to be caught up in the latest iteration. And until I can learn to break this cycle, no relationship Ihave is going to last. I just wishI knew how to do it." I feltutterly drained, on the brink of tears that I never thought I would shed.  And yet, it was almost, very nearly, apleasant feeling. Like after thefew times I went running with Jane, when I would lie nearly immobile, everymuscle exerted to its fullest and then recovering, the dull ache that wasalmost like pleasure.

"I can be persistent, too," James said desperately,earnestly. "If that's what ittakes, I'll never stop chasing you . . . "

"No, James," I said, touched and yet panicked by thethought. "In the end, Tom and Iweren't right for each other, but at the beginning, I did feel anattraction. More than I shouldhave, actually. With you, that'sjust not there." James closed hiseyes, and gently lowered his head to the table, face down.  His body quivered silently.  A passerby might have thought he waslaughing, but I knew better. Ididn't know what I could do to help him, so I just sat there quietly, observingthe consequences of my indiscretions.

Finally, he raised his head, and though his cheeks were wet,no more tears flowed. He swalloweda few times, and then, in a croaking voice, asked, "So, what is there left forus?"

"I still want us to be friends," I said.  "We were before, we can be again."  But James shook his head.

"No, we can't," he said, sinking my own heart, "not yet, notfor a long time, maybe not ever. Idon't see the same thing when I look at you now. I don't see a friend; I only see my own pain.  In the future, possibly, that might notbe the case, but I can't imagine the future right now.  All that is real to me is the present,and in this present, being around you puts me in agony."

"You hate me," I said, my voice sounding hollow to my ownears. I didn't think I had everbeen hated before. Ignored.  Mocked. Criticized. Misunderstood. All ofthese, yes, but never hated. Not evenby Jane at our lowest point. Ifelt like a speck.

"No, I don't hate you," he said, shaking his head sadly,eyes downcast, and despite the dismal circumstances I felt my spirits rise alittle, spared an even worse fate. "That's the problem. If Ihated you, I wouldn't have had any qualms about rubbing your nose in my misery,giving you the finger, and then walking off without a second thought.  If I hated you, than this wouldn't hurtso much. But I don't hate you; Istill like you, a lot. I may evenbe feeling some small twinge of what could possibly one day become love foryou." He raised his eyes to lookinto mine, and it was like a physical blow. "I can't allow myself to fall in love with you if you don'treturn it; I can't live much more of my life the way I have lived the past fewdays. And if we keep seeing eachother, even just as friends, I'm afraid that's exactly what will happen."  He stood up, and stepped back from thetable, his gaze never leaving my own. "So I really think I should go now."

"James, wait . . . " I said, jumping up from my own seat,but I had nothing more to say. Ididn't want to see him go, but what could I say to him to convince him toremain? There was nothing morethat I could honestly offer him than what I already had, and he had alreadyturned it down. So my voicetrailed off into a whisper of muttered sounds, my lungs and vocal cords takinga few seconds to shut down after my brain had already ceased its message.

We stood there silently. It felt like an eternity, but it was probably just a fewseconds. But in those seconds, theface of every person I had ever walked away from flashed through my mind.  Trent at Pizza King, after our failedcollaboration. Ted at the videoarcade. Tom.  And, in another way, Quinn, when shewas a baby, perpetually cute and stealing the attention and approval of myparents. My parents themselves,when they had started comparing me to Quinn, refusing to accept me for beingmyself. I had turned my back andwalked away from most of my world, rejecting them before they could furtherreject and disappoint me. It wasthe only way I had known to defend myself; erect a wall and let no one pass whowas not worthy. And now the samething was being done to me, not from spite or hatred, but from simpleself-preservation. Was this cosmicjustice, karmic revenge? If so, itfelt magnified a thousand fold. Did I really deserve this retribution?

"I'll really miss you, Daria," James said, and for a moment,he smiled, and there was joy in it as well as sadness.  "You may not believe me, but I'll neverregret the time that we spent together, and I hope that one day we can pick upwhere we left off."

"I hope so," I responded, and even though I had doubts thatit would ever happen - after all, doesn't everyone say things like that insituations like this? And how many actually go through with it? - I sincerelybelieved it, nonetheless. "I'll bewaiting to be your friend again, when you're ready. You still have to meet Jane, after all."  He had often expressed a great deal ofinterest in meeting my oft-mentioned but never-present best friend.

James chuckled, then suddenly became serious.  Hesitantly, he took a step towards me,but then abruptly stopped and looked down at the floor between us.  He took a couple of deep breaths, thenasked simply, "May I?", and raised his hand slightly.

For a moment, I was confused, unsure of what I was beingasked. Then, somehow, maybe byinstinct alone, I knew what he wanted. I felt a surge of panic, not wanting to stir this pot again, but thistime, the rational part of my brain prevailed. I can give him this. I nodded once, and closed my eyes.

A moment later, I felt his hand upon my cheek, and his lipspressing lightly against mine. Thekiss was brief, but I did not go unaffected by it. It did not stir me to passion, but it made me wish that ithad. It made me wish that I couldgive him what he wanted. But thenit was over, and the situation had not changed.

I opened my eyes to see James had already backed away fromme. He was shaking, and his chestrose and fell heavily.

"Goodbye, Daria," he said, his voice unsteady.  He turned and walked out of the dininghall. He walked out of my life.

I don't yet have all the answers, but at least now I knowthe questions. It's still a coupleof months before Jane joins me here in Boston, and until then, I'll have a lotof solitary time to think over all the issues that have brought to myattention. I think that's a goodthing; I think I need that solitude. If the proper study of mankind is man, than the proper study of Daria isDaria, and I'll spend the time that I have in that pursuit.  It's time to break the pattern of alifetime, to finally opt out of the cycle. If I don't, I may eventually lose everyone, even Jane.  She'll understand that; she'll helpme. And maybe, eventually, Jameswill be there to lend a hand as well.

For now, I walk alone. But, hopefully, this is the last time.

The End

Author's Note: Whew, the trilogy is over, and I'mexhausted. That's what a week'sworth of non-stop writing (interrupted only by school and a few socialengagements) will do to you. I've been an avid Daria fan for years,and an amateur writer for much longer, but this was my first attempt atfanfic. Telling a story fromDaria's perspective has been one of the most difficult and rewarding challengesI have ever undertaken as a writer, and it's given me new respect for thewriters of the series, who managed to bring her to such vivid life over thecourse of five seasons. I don'thave any plans right now to write more stories, but if inspiration strikes I'llbe glad to go at it again; I don't know that I would keep the first-personperspective, though.

I'd like to thank everyone who read all the way.  I hope it was worth your time.  If you have any praises, constructivecriticisms, questions, or general comments, or if you would just like to chatabout Daria, feel free to e-mail me at eric.a.smith@vanderbilt.edu.

I would also like to thank all the fantastic fanfictionauthors whose works I have enjoyed over the years - Roger E. Moore, Renfield,Galen Hardesty, Greystar, Robert Nowell, and many others.  Your hard work and talent has not goneunappreciated.

And, finally, a huge thanks to the creators of Daria.

Update: I might be back to Daria fanfic earlierthan I originally thought. I'vegot what I think is a pretty good plot concept for a crossover between Dariaand the American movie version of The Ring (meaning I have the beginning, theend, and an idea of what goes on in the middle). It's still in the "percolating in my head" stage, and I'llprobably wait until The Ring 2 comes out in March before I finalize the storyline, but I'm pretty excited about it.