It was the mornings that were the hardest for him. He was always at his calmest when the sun was just rising, when the day was just starting. That was when he would look at her sleeping form beside him and he would think how selfish he was, being with her, being anywhere near her formerly calm and peaceful life. He considered it, sometimes; Leaving her. It was a thought that frequently entered his mind. It did more than cross it, it latched onto it and wouldn't let go.
At least, not until she came home at the end of a long day, exhausted, shoulders slouching, feet dragging on the floor, tracking rain water and mud. She would seek him out and fall into his arms, longing for a little tenderness, a little warmth, and the thought of voluntarily being without her flew from his mind his mind like a chill flees fire. He would listen as she told him about what she'd done that day, listen to her worries, her troubles... He would listen to anything and everything she wished to tell him, and, without fail, at the end of this she would always wrap her arms around him and snuggle into his chest, mumbling that she didn't deserve him or his patience, and he would kiss the top of her head and smile because he knew it was the opposite, but he knew he would never be able to convince her of that.
He thought about letting go, ignoring his own wants and needs because it wasn't fair to keep her in his complicated life, to keep her from the pain he couldn't help but cause by being so cautious, so slow to trust.
But that idea never stayed long when she snuck up behind him when he was hunched over some problem or another, growing more and more frustrated with it and himself, and hugged him, pressing kisses to his cheek and giggling when he would eventually give in and pull her - gently, as everything he did was careful and calculated - into his lap and simply hold her, tired eyes closed, lips curved into a rare smile. After a moment, he would open his eyes again and brush her often shower dampened hair away from her face and pretend he couldn't see her blush, because she always hid her face in her shoulder when he pointed it out, and as sweet at that was, he hated to see her cover such a pretty face. Finally, she would curl up against his chest like a child and sometimes she would fall asleep like that, waking later to scold him for letting her doze off. She always found it embarrassing. He always found it charming.
He worried and fussed, struggling with his conscience. He didn't want to keep her from having a proper relationship, one without any fear from either people.
Except she would always interrupt those thoughts when she dragged him to their room and coaxed him into what she wanted with light touches and gentle kisses, and he couldn't help but feel anything but love for her when his lips brought forward soft sighs from hers and the feel of her skin against his turned her cheeks a bright shade of pink that always made him smile. Her face would always be serence and peaceful after, while she lay in his embrace with her cheek against his shoulder and her hair falling in silky waves over her back and his arm, that rosy blush still staining her pale skin in such a way that made her look like she wasn't of the mortal world. He would smile and hold her tighter, because that was the only way he could be sure that it was real. He never felt more content than when she would wrap her arms a little more closely about him when he did.
He panicked, oh how he panicked, when he became angry, when he knew there was no way he could keep "The Other Guy" from appearing, and the idea of just disappearing, keeping her safe, was that much easier.
Only, it wasn't. Because she would be calm and quiet whenever it happened, never fleeing in terror, and sometimes, if he was lucky, when the anger wasn't so horrible that he couldn't control it, she would come to him and speak in soothing tones, and anyone present would always marvel at the fact that this relatively tiny woman was able to so easily approach such a seemingly monstrous creature. Similarly, if he wasn't lucky enough to be in a manageable state, she always sought him out when he was himself again. She would sit down beside him and wrap her arms around him, kiss him delicately and say she loved him, and she would take him home and climb into bed with him, holding him close until the even rythm of her breath and her heartbeat eventually lulled him to sleep. When he woke in the middle of the night as he often did, she would wake with him and place a small hand on his shoulder, and she would hold him again, until he could finally return to sleep, no nightmares plaguing him when she was there.
He wondered if she would understand it, if he ever managed to leave her, if she would know that he had to, for her own protection.
Until he thought of the things they had shared, that they never told anyone else, that only each other knew. She knew everything about him, and he knew everything about her. There were no secrets kept between them. From childhood memories - like the many unpleasant ones from his side which she frequently comforted him over - to things that had happened when drunk - like the tattoo of a heart with thick, black-rimmed glasses on her hip, the one only he had seen and assured her he loved - they had shared everything, and that's how he knew she would understand.
And that's what kept him from it.
She was the only woman, or person, for that matter, who he could trust entirely. He knew she would understand if he left her, knew she would hold nothing against him for it and probably continue to love him despite it. And that, right there, that unfailing loyalty, that unconditional love and trust, was exactly why he could never leave her. He would shove the thoughts from his mind, at least for the time being, and kiss her lightly and settled against her back. Whenever she woke in the morning to find him with like that, with his arm around her and his lips at her cheek, she would yawn, smile at him and ask in a soft tone "Have you been thinking, again?" and he would always smile back and reply "Only a little,"