Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: From time to time, I like to do timed writing experiments. I give myself thirty minutes to see what I can come up with. It had been awhile since I'd done one of those, but this drabble is what emerged. It's not wonderfully brilliant, but I will say that it is unapologetically melodramatic. LOL. It is not related to any other story I've written or am currently writing. Season 2 spoilers are included.
One Grain of Sand
She fights back a sigh as she looks at the moonlit water. No matter the time of day, there is always something beautiful to see, and this place captures her. It is more than the moon-glistened waves washing ashore. Haven is part of her.
It seems bizarre to her how a place can be so deceptively beautiful, seem so simple, and be so complicated. And yet she can't imagine leaving. Will it come to that? She hopes not, but she's beginning to feel like a pawn in someone else's game. Did Lucy get to choose?
The roar of the waves dulls in the background as she looks over at him, hearing her own heartbeat in her ears. The heartbeat is a mantra that echoes I am real. I am real.
For now, I am real.
As he stands beside her, she realizes that he is so much more certain of her than she is of herself.
"I wonder how much of me is me and how much of me is her." Her tone is not self-pitying or plaintive. She speaks matter-of-factly, much as she would expect the real Audrey Parker to speak, but she now knows the truth. Or at least some of it.
"Guess that depends."
"On?"
"Which parts you want to claim."
"Do you ever think about Max Hansen?"
"Sometimes," he admits. He knows he has inherited his biological father's affliction. He prays he hasn't inherited those parts of Max Hansen that are even worse.
They fall into a comfortable silence. They complement each other. His-and-her weapons? Check. His-and-her badges? Check. His-and-her identity crises? Check.
After a few moments, she gestures toward the waves. "Growing up in Ohio, we didn't have anything like this." The recollection slips from her lips, but the questions fire rapidly in her head. Where did I grow up? Did I grow up? Have I ever even been to Ohio?
Nathan considers her words, accepts her memories as her experiences, though they both know those memories belong to someone else. "I've become used to it." He's never been far from the ocean for any stretch of time. He wonders if he would look upon Ohio with the same fascination that she holds for the Maine coastline. Though he knows that nothing could ever fascinate him more than the woman standing beside him.
A breeze sweeps over the water, chilling her in the cool, autumn night. Nevertheless, she plants her feet in the sand, almost as though to welcome it. "I don't know that I'll ever grow used to this." She kneels down and scoops up a handful of moist sand. "This makes me realize that for all the questions I have about my past, I'm insignificant. Like one grain of this sand. And someday, someone else will walk this beach, never knowing that I even existed."
"Wow, that's—"
She grimaces. "Yeah, I think I made myself want to vomit just a little bit there, too."
He shrugs. "I was going to go with deep. Dramatic but deep. You do realize that one grain of sand can be the difference between a pearl and goo."
"So am I the pearl or am I the goo?" she asks, then finds herself ruefully chuckling at the ridiculous turn of their conversation. There's no one else she can talk with like this.
In the moonlight, she can see his lopsided smile. "Guess I could ask what has you philosophizing, but…"
"Good detective that you are…."
"Great detective that I am," he corrects, "I already know."
"I think you're the only one who does," she replies, her tone serious. "How are we going to keep this place whole?"
"One step at a time."
"I just wish I knew…" her voice trails off.
"No one ever does, Audrey."
She squeezes her own hand, feeling the coarse sand in her palm. Looking over at him, she extends her free hand, gingerly reaching for his. He seems almost startled by her touch but does not jerk away. "Nathan…"
His hand is warm, strong, rough. Hers seems small in comparison. She brings her other hand up, sandy palm to his empty palm. She runs her palm against his.
Her heartbeat quickens. I am real. This is for real. She wants to say so much to him, but she settles on, "What do you feel?"
He swallows hard. Coarseness. Coolness. Wetness. Softness. It is more a reaction to her than to the wet sand itself, as though he feels its effects on her and by extension, a ghost of the sand as her small hand glides against his.
Above all else, he feels an endless longing.
"Your hand. It's cool and moist and has traction." He wants to say so much more to her than to break it down like he's reading a police report. He's not certain he could form the words even if he had the nerve.
"You know what would be really great? A distraction. Want to head to the Gull? Get a drink? My treat."
Nathan is already pretty damn convinced he is distracted enough. Her hand is still tucked in his. Does she realize the effect she has on him? Even if he couldn't feel her skin, she would still drive him to distraction. He tries to retain a veneer of calm.
He loves her, would lay his life down for her, but she doesn't need him to complicate her already complicated life with his feelings. They're his feelings to deal with, not her problem.
He calmly informs her, "No amount of alcohol you ply me with is going to lead to a karaoke night."
"Is that a challenge?"
He groans, "This is why talking is overrated."
She grins, squeezes his hand, and doesn't let go.