"Me, Too"
I wrote a trio of vignettes for some pairings that I can't get out of my head (for the others, see my bio). They're kind of schmaltzy, but enjoy.
OoOoOoOoOoO
They don't need to say it.
Neither of them ever put much stock in words, after all. Words can be twisted, ruined. Words can be used up in deception, until to use them sincerely taints the truth with past lies. They both know this better than most. But luckily, they don't need words, because whether or not either of them acknowledges it out loud, it's there.
It's there in the way he smirks at her as she enters the briefing room, and in the way she only quirks an eyebrow back, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders relax at the news that she'll have his back.
It's there in her hand around his in Montevideo, the grip tight even as she ducks over a car to fire off a few more rounds with her other hand, and in the feral look in her eye as she dares him to "just try and die on me, bastard."
It's there in a nod and the twang of a bowstring in Prague, in the formation of a plan in a single shared glance, and in the way she knows, with more certainty than she's known anything in a long time, that when she jumps, he'll find a way to break her fall.
It's there in hands and tongues and lips and teeth, in the wrap and press of skin after a particularly close call.
Neither of them ever needed to say it out loud. But sometimes, in the quiet part of the night, he blurts it out into the silence. And she lets out an amused huff, but her hand finds his in the dark, and he knows that means, "Me, too."