Short little one-shot, taking place the night after Claire was killed. Reviews are appreciated.
"Hi."
It's all she says, but standing there on his doorstep, her eyes tell him all the things her lips won't. She shifts uncomfortably, clears her throat. Maybe those are tears behind her eyes, but maybe it's just the gleam of the porch light. Either way, he stands aside to let her in.
The door shuts, closing them in, and only then does she look at him. She smiles slightly, apologetically. He just shakes his head and pulls her close.
"You want a cuppa, darling?" He murmurs against her neck, and she sighs and nods into his shoulder.
It occurs to him, as he puts the kettle on, that there are a million reasons why they shouldn't be doing this, especially now, at some odd hour of the morning. A dining room chair scrapes across the floor and Gillian eases into it with a sigh. She knows, he's sure. She probably debated coming over here in the first place. It's dangerous, flirting with the line. They know the rules of this game, and they play by them. Most of the time. But death messes with the balance of their carefully organized universe, tilts the board this way and that, tosses the pieces about. Death doesn't play by the rules.
He hands Gillian a mug and then pours some for himself.
"You okay?" He asks as he flops down onto a chair beside her. Gillian nods slightly but doesn't say anything. She looks smaller, suddenly, sitting in his dining room, her delicate fingers curled around the mug of tea tightly. His stomach clenches as he thinks of all that has happened today, and he hates himself all over again for exposing her to this, to his world.
"I'm sorry," he mutters.
Gillian shakes her head fiercely, grabs his wrist and pins him down with her eyes. "Don't. You don't get to blame yourself for this. It isn't your fault."
He just sighs and continues to study her mournfully. "Why did you come?"
She blinks, breathes in through her nose. He thinks she is about to answer when Emily appears. "Dad? What's going on?" The teenager squints sleepily in the bright kitchen light.
"Nothing, Em. Gill and I were just talking. Go back to bed, darling," he replies, going to his daughter, pulling her close for a moment.
Emily nods, but surprises them both by going to Gillian and pulling her in for a hug first. "Night, Dad. Night, Gillian," she says as she pads back down the hallway to her room.
They echo her, but their eyes are on each other. He's sure it's not the light that makes Gillian's eyes gleam so brightly this time.
"Why did you come?" He repeats softly.
She leans back, looks away; he watches shame and then embarrassment flit across her features. "The silence isn't so loud with you."
He swallows, nods, tries to ignore the pain that curls in the back of his throat. "Stay."
Her eyes return to his. "Okay."
As they lay curled together like puppies in his bed, the darkness cocooning them like a blanket, he realizes that she is right: the silence isn't so loud when he can hear her heart beating.