Happy 36th, Natara. It's been five years, and you're still my favorite.
Thirty years ago today, she ran away from home after her father had told her he wouldn't be able to purchase a unicorn for her birthday. She smiles to herself at the memory, wondering if the little six-year-old who stole a pony from the petting zoo and rode it alongside her pink suitcase – packed with an outfit and her fairytale anthology, enough for her to live on of course – would be proud of the way the last thirty years aged her.
Since that day, she hadn't stopped running. She got lost in New York City in 1989 after slipping onto a subway train in Manhattan, she got on a plane in 1996 and ended up in California for the first time, and she fled to Paris in 2003 with her girlfriend-at-the-time in the name of some great love of fate. Even after she "settled" into the FBI, they shipped her out all over the country every few weeks, and she never minded.
She went through six years of running while in the Bureau, but today is almost six years of staying put while in the Bureau. She looks out over the balcony at the San Francisco skyline and breathes in the familiar morning air, the light breeze tugging at her hair, and she takes another sip of coffee. Smiling, she looks back through the sliding glass window where Mal is sleeping on the couch.
He tries to tell her every morning that he's adjusted to her schedule, that he likes waking up early to see the sunrise. However, without fail, he makes a cup of coffee for himself and it goes cold beside him as he sits on the couch and falls right back to sleep – he always has been a creature of habit. She wonders how anyone's sense of homeostasis could be stronger than her itch to move, but here they are six years later, in the apartment he lived in when she met him, and tomorrow they'll get up and go to the same jobs responsible for their relationship.
Sliding the door open, she walks over to him and sets her mug down on the coffee table, careful not to make too much noise and wake him. Gently, she takes the seat beside him – it always amuses her how he manages to fall asleep sitting up – and slips her arm around his torso, pressing a kiss to his lips. He pulls back a bit, blinking groggily, and he rubs his hand on his face, pulling at the overgrown stubble on his chin before looking down at her.
He grins when he sees her in his arms, a hoarse layer of sleep still in his voice. "A wake-up kiss? Is it my birthday?"
"No…" she says, snuggling into his side and resting her head on his shoulder. "It's mine."
"Mm…" He nods, laying his cheek on the top of her head. "Then we better make today count, before we go back to chasing killers tomorrow."
She laughs a bit, finding comfort in the familiar way she fits into his chest. "Today would count, anyway. We'll be here awhile… What's today in the grand scheme of things?"
"Wow… What a profound thought. Especially considering what you would have said five years ago."
"Yeah," she grins, sitting up to look at him. "I'd have said that we better make it count, because we had no guarantee we'd have tomorrow. You changed my mind."
"Well, I'm glad I did," he said. "It means I get to take my time."
She narrowed her eyes. "Take your time?"
He shook his head and chuckled. "Nope, no ruining birthday surprises. You're not gonna profile the answer out of me, or read my mind somehow..."
"What?" She gaped facetiously. "How dare you insinuate I'd ever–"
He laughed and kissed her, laying her back onto the couch cushions. "Happy birthday, Nat. I love you."
She smiled, and for the first time in her life, wished that time could stand still, that she'd never have to move. "I love you, too."