Every Move You Make [RDJ] - IN PROGRESS

Ten

A/N: Short, I'm sorry...

I missed my opportunity. I missed my damn opportunity.  Didn't I?  There's still...fuck, how many days?

I lift my fingers in the air and count on them as I stare at the ceiling from the hotel bed.  The room's dark, it's well into the middle of the night, and I have press tomorrow.  PR is going to love this.  Just as much as they absolutely love that Rachel is with me.  Did I mention I'm a sarcastic douche sometimes?

My phone's been going nuts all night, as it always does, and I've just left it on the bedside table.  Rachel has her own tone now, and I haven't heard it go off yet. Not...for any specific reason.  Just because I can't stand no being reached when people need me.  Made that mistake once when my sister was in a car accident, and she was fine, but still. Now everyone important has their own ring pattern.  Buzz pattern.  Same thing.

Anyway, now I'm just wide fucking awake retracing my steps from the day.

First thing's first...sat on the bed on the plane awake, too.  Thinking about her out there in the cabin.  Thinking about what she told me.  Thinking about because I wanted to help her, I was able to validate my own panic attack over jail and end it early.  First time for everything, right?

That shifted to wondering why she trusts me.  She said she feels comfortable, too.  Yet she panicked about there being a mattress to sleep on in this thing.  Was it the car?  Was it because we had fun for the first time together?  No weird flirting, no weird tension...pure entertainment from singing that stupid song. Yeah, that was pretty comfortable.  Natural.  Like she's always claimed the passenger seat as her own.

Even the back seat of the damn limo to the hotel was normal.  Jim on one side, us on the other.  Us.  Her and myself, on the same bench.  Not touching.  But close enough that I could've scooted over.  If Jimmy wasn't there I may have, simply because the entire rest of that damn flight, I had her on my mind.  Even reading press notes and the script for another project didn't keep my mind off of her.  Her, on the jet every trip, in the car every ride, fucking sitting in the press audience...  

Fucking hell, stop worrying about her, you idiot.  That's what I've been repeating in my head all night.

She questioned us going through the local Chick fil A drive through before we entered Manhattan.  Even insisted on paying.  It's like ten bucks, most.  Cute, but I don't need your money.  You need mine more.

"What, afraid someone might see us?" I'd asked when she wondered how a limo could go through a drive through, and that silenced her pretty fast.

Shit.  She is, isn't she?  Why?  Because she doesn't want to be in the tabloids, or because she's embarrassed to be seen with me and have someone assume..?  Aren't both bad?

But the smile that graced her face later when Jimmy mumbled his order and she realized we do this shit all the time, even if I'm not supposed to...priceless.  Well, either that, or it's the fact that I called her 'Rach' for the first time, I think, to her face. She didn't react aside from the smile, so it could go either way.

"Um...the biggest box of nuggets you can order," she beamed when telling us her order, and it was fucking cute as hell.

Look, I'll admit it, okay?  Only because it progressed all night, simply because I made it weird without thinking, without filtering, while we drove to the hotel in the city, and she...she didn't suggest I stop making it weird.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, sifting through her bag, but it was waved off.

"On me."

She didn't argue, just slowly accepted it and her first bite into the food...that's what killed me.