A/N:A weird S5 speculation piece. Written in less than an hour when I should be doing other things... so if there are any glaring grammar errors let me know.
Worry Not
Ever since the policeman's short visit, Mrs Hughes has been distant. It's not obvious to anybody but him. She doesn't say anything; she doesn't need to. Perhaps she's scared to.
He watches her watching others. He sees her rigid posture, the permanent furrow in her brow. He wants to reach out to her and make her worried lip melt into a smile.
But he doesn't know how, not when her voice quivers when he's a little too close, when her eyes don't meet his. Not when she comes she comes to his pantry and only takes a single step inside, always one foot outside the door. Ready to flee.
She feeds him half truths and white lies to keep him placated. To keep his temper in check. To save his pride. To satisfy any reason except letting him help her.
He tells her everything, but she tells him nothing.
And he wants to know why she feels the need to flee. He wants to know about the picture she thought she had managed to hide. She wants to know why she stiffens when Mr Bates walks into the room, why she glances at Anna when she thinks nobody is looking.
Why she steps back when he steps forward.
Why she doesn't trust him to help her carry the weight of the world.
She catches him watching her. Instead of turning away in shame at her disapproving glare, he catches her eye and raises his eyebrows slightly, as if to say I'm waiting.
Her breath catches in her throat and her heart is drumming out any coherent thought she might have had.
She can't keep her head on straight when he's around. His hovering is driving her mad. She's left flustered by his sudden bouts of sentimentality, and she forgets how to breathe when he looks at her like that.
She knows he worries. Somehow that makes it worse because she hates it when he gets like this. She knows how to handle his disappointment, his anger, but not his worry, let alone worry directed at her. God knows that if she could, she would smooth worry's wrinkles from his brow.
But they're not her secrets to tell.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he searches her face.
"I do," her eyes remain fixed on her hands.
He reaches forward and intertwines her fingers with his. "I want to help."
"I know," she finally meets his gaze. "Thank you."
She has one secret that belongs to only her. One secret that is locked away in her heart.
One secret that she hopes will become theirs.
One day.
