It doesn't happen the way he imagined it.
It never seems to, and he cannot fault her for the reality of it all - she is not a fantasy and he appreciates that. There is no suave overtures, no chivalric displays, no dates at the Opera house. He is not putting on a show of being an eligible bachelor, and she doesn't swoon at his feet. They never fuck wildly, because as fun as it is to imagine locking his office and pulling her onto the desk, the reality is that they would never risk themselves or their jobs like that. The only flowers he buys for her are customarily refused and birthday gifts between them are exceedingly appropriate - usually pens or a new day planner. Their days run around rules, regulations, and expectations. They have routines.
It just so happens that he shows up at her door late one night, and she offers him a spot on her couch, and a chance to sober up. Their conversation meanders because as many times as they have imagined their moments together, reality always proves to be much different. In his imagination, he is charming, and seductive, but in reality he is worried, and slow. They do not rip into each other because they need each other whole. Clothes are removed with care, and concerned glances examine bruises, scars, and cuts.
He doesn't distract her from feeling the large scar running up his abdomen, doesn't try to flirt his way out of this one. In his fantasies, he doesn't worry her. In reality, they fear for each other's life, and he can see the fear hidden in her eyes. They could have lost everything, if he had died that day, and there is nothing he can do to make that risk go away.
When her hand begins to shake along his scarring, he takes her wrist in his hand, and pulls her close to him, arms wrapping around her own scars, fingers tightening his grip into her flesh, and he begins his apologies for the night because he is so sorry. He has failed her by hurting her again, and if he could wipe clean their pain, he would do it. He can't. Instead, he finds her scars and her blisters, and worships them. Every ridge of her skin is what composes her, and what has made him and he does not wish this away. He unwinds long blonde hair from its updo, and she presses into him because it is the best reminder she has of his existence, that he is still alive. They carry on, assuring and reminding each other that they won't die, wouldn't dare betray each other like that. There is too much at stake, and too little in life to make it without the other.
In his fantasies, they are fiery, and urgent, but in reality they are patient, and slow - there is an understanding that these moments are finite and everything is savored. There are little words, and not much besides body language as they take pleasure in the little details: his aftershave, and her birthmark, the lack of space between their flesh and the secrecy of it all. This is where they exist, the moment they will remember on the field when they leap and dive for the other. This is the moment they will push out of their minds when they decide between running for each other's safety and completing their missions.
And while he cannot bring himself to blame her for being a woman of reality, he does wish that she did not wake up at four in the morning to fix coffee and see him out because they are doing something very stupid, something they know is wrong, and dangerous.
He revels in her realities, the soft strands of her blonde hair clinging to his clothes or the blisters she has on her fingers from her guns. The wiry muscle of her arms and shoulders and especially her back, their most private bond - the thing that has made him and destroyed him, marking just how far he will go for her. This is the woman he loves, the one who will see him a few hours later, the pinnacle of professionalism in the office. There will be no indications that the night prior she pulled him over her and let his weight pin her down so that she no longer felt like she no longer felt without anchor. There is no sign he panted in her ear, or held her tightly because in a single moment he needed her and them to feel as if they might last forever. He doesn't look sated enough for a man who is in love, and besides no one would believe that he could hold a single woman in his heart. He is an exceptional liar, something that only vanishes when they are alone.
It never happens the way they imagine it, and so they steal it in the dead of night and tuck it into their words, savoring each "Lieutenant" and "Colonel", planning each look or nod because nothing is ever said aloud.
And though his second cup of coffee that morning in the office is weaker and colder, Roy admits that even to himself, he is happy with having any reality at all.
Is this the end of the moment
Or just a beautiful unfolding
Of a love that will never be?
Or maybe be?