A/N: This piece was inspired by 2.16 (Letter Never Sent), though it takes place on Annie and Auggie's flight during 3.02 (Sound and Vision). I thought the scene where Auggie receives the news about stem cell therapy was amazing in itself, but, of course, the melodramatic part of my brain itched for the heartbreaking moment to be revisited, especially with Annie. While understandable—"Auggie Melts into a Puddle of Grief" is not the title of the show—I hope he doesn't always keep something so emotional so close to the vest.
Apparently, Auggie did find a use for the window seat.
It's dark, and quiet in the way that comes with a dark like this—the only noise comes from the hum of the airplane engine and small, scattered rustlings of thin blankets as passengers shift to find a comfortable position. Auggie snores lightly as his head rests against the window, dim starlight highlighting sections of soft brown hair and chiseled jaw.
Annie, however, is not asleep. She drifted off for a few hours soon after they boarded, but now her eyes won't stay shut, her body yearning to stretch and pace the aisle. She huffs as quietly as possible while crossing and uncrossing her legs. Maybe if I had a headrest, she thinks sarcastically. Which, of course, isn't a conceivable option at the moment—to her left is a soundly sleeping middle-aged man; her right, Auggie's admittedly inviting but wait no bad decision shoulder.
"Damn middle seat," she whispers, eyebrows raised to the array of no-smoking and emergency buttons lining the ceiling. She sighs, leans back, presses a palm over her eyes. Decides with an innate resilience to count to five hundred, practicing deep breathing as she goes.
She only makes it to twenty-eight before Auggie chuckles, a flicker of warm breath on her ear indicating his head's position towards her. Her eyes fly open.
"Still awake?" His whisper is playful.
"You had to ask?" she answers quietly, lips upturned into a small smile.
"Just checking," he says, and Annie feels his arm brush hers as he gives a small shrug.
"Did I wake you? I was moving around a lot."
"No," he answers, "don't worry about it." The "no" comes out fine, reassuring and light and purely Auggie, but after the pause his voice dips uncharacteristically low—husky, even, as if he's on the verge of tears. Annie sits up towards him, suddenly more awake.
Regret flashes through his face as he realizes he's let a chunk of his armor down. "I mean—"
"Auggie," she says, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. "What's wrong?"
"Annie, I…" He takes a deep breath—only a hint of a shudder—and runs a hand across his face. "I really don't want to talk about it right now." His head angles back to the window, as if scanning the scenery below.
Annie tightens her grip on his arm. "Auggie, please. What's going on? Is this…about the mission, or—Eritrea?—or…" She shakes her head, attempting to organize her thoughts, and then she hears it.
"No," he says, and this time it's not low. This time, in fact, his voice is scarily high, and for a second Annie worries that he's going to wake the passenger next to her. The thought quickly vanishes, however, as every part of her focuses strictly on listening to Auggie—his voice's undeniable crack on the word, the small part of her that breaks as she realizes he's crying for real.
She bites her lip in concern; her eyes flicker over the harsh pain in his face, her hand moving up to rub circles across his back. "Then tell me." The words sound like they should have come out harder, more demanding, but in fact her voice is in the most comforting pitch Auggie has ever heard. He tilts his head up and blinks rapidly—in the style of classic, though effective, moves to stop oneself from crying—and begins to speak without really thinking his dialogue through.
"I'm not a candidate." His fists clench on their own accord, Dr. Kessle's voice echoing through his mind. Annie's circles falter.
"A—a candidate? I don't—what do you mean?"
"A few weeks ago," he clarifies, his quiet voice not quite back to normal, "I heard about a new medical advance—a therapy. Stem cell therapy, actually, one being used to help restore vision for the blind."
Annie's breath falters after a quick beat, but she nods into his side, nose engulfed in the smell of his well-worn leather jacket. "Go on," she prods gently.
"So," he says. "I mean, I looked into it, of course. I went to the doctor and went through all the tests they needed to put me through. They told me upfront, that…" He trails off, starts again. "I mean, the research on this is so new. There wasn't that much of a chance to begin with.
"I tried not to think about it too much after the appointment. But…when I gave you the Corvette?—I had just heard; I mean, they had just called with the results…"
"And?" she asks nervously. Pockets of hurt are already blooming through her chest, because she knows what's coming next.
He pulls away from her touch. "No, Annie," he finally whispers.
She shakes her head, pulling him back close. After a moment, he leans into her warm body, though the small seats make it one of the more uncomfortable positions he's been in. But he doesn't care. He can feel Annie's fluttering heartbeat, her hair as it brushes his cheek, smell that perfect amount of grapefruit perfume she was wearing the first time they met. Relishes her breath against his skin. Knows, suddenly, that giving her the car was the right choice, but not in the way he thought. The way he made himself believe. It was running—or driving, in a backwards sort of way—from the real problem. It wasn't moving on. Because moving on, he realizes, is not always something to be done alone.
After awhile—maybe a few minutes, maybe more—Annie breaks the hug to settle her head against his shoulder. In the dark, all he can hear is their closeness.
If this was a perfect world (i.e. I owned CA, which I sadly do not), this probably would have been the moment when Auggie realized he was in love with Annie and she'd drive them off in the 'Vette into the sunset forever. But noo—USA so happens to be on a personal mission to destroy my heart. And Auggie. Oh, God, Auggie. Don't tell me you don't know you're breaking her heart.
Any sort of feedback is nice—and greatly appreciated. :)