I got a little carried away after watching Dredd - yes I'm on a Karl Urban kick - mmmf that man. This just had to be written. What happens to the man as he becomes the Judge? This is the day of the movie; Chapter 2, when I write it, will be his return home.

IN THE SILENCE; A THOUSAND WORDS

She wakes early, always before him. Showers first, dresses, twists her hair into a long plait and then knots it at the base of her neck. She moves with ease through their small apartment, quiet, sure in her movements. She takes her time, never in a hurry as she is always in sync with him. As he wakes, she passes him with fresh towels, enters the bathroom to set the water to his preferred temperature – hot, with a tinge of cold to take off the burn. When the room is filled with steam, he joins her, presses his lips to the back of her neck in silent gratitude.

She hums softly in the back of her throat, closes her eyes and leans back into his embrace, sliding her hand up through his messy brown locks. He needs a haircut, but they didn't have time in the last three days of respite, they were busy making other memories. His arms tense around her, and he grunts softly with satisfaction as she turns her head to kiss his stubbly cheek, then hands him soap and a wash cloth before leaving.

As he showers, she sets to making their breakfast. Poached eggs – one luxury she indulges them in. She sets shredded potatoes to sizzling in the fry pan, and toasts rye bread under the grill. Butter isn't easy to come by, but she traded some in the quarter for saving a man's life, so she smears it liberally on the hot bread, smiling to herself.

She can hear the shower running in the adjacent room, knows what he looks like with the water running down over his hard, firm body. Can trace each and every scar with precision, and knows what caused them. As the water bubbles on the stove, she watches the eggs with the eyes of a hawk, waiting for them to reach the perfect balance of firm and runny. The water stops. She never interrupts him during this time. He will start to become lost to her, now. She knows the exact moment he disappears, savours the moments they have left.

When he joins her in the tiny nook where they have a small table and two chairs, she has already set the table, and their breakfast awaits. He has started to dress: leather pants cling to his thighs, a tight black sleeveless undershirt hugs his chest. He doesn't say a word as her eyes roam over his latest wounds, assessing; she will determine whether he needs a dressing changed before he leaves, or another shot of pain killers, even though his eyes will protest when she offers – he doesn't want his reflexes to be slowed from their side effects.

Silence. Together they relax in the company of the other, their eyes speaking louder than any words ever could. Small gestures: the brush of her hand along his forearm as she pours him coffee; the dance of his fingers along hers as he reaches for the salt; the slow, steady breathing as they both watch each other for what could be their last moments together. It is a waltz that they have taken years to perfect, one that didn't come easy in the beginning, and even now takes great discipline to execute.

He licks his lips and smiles his appreciation as he finishes, she meets his gaze, eyes dropping down to his knuckles. His eyes harden and he stares defiantly at her, she narrows her eyes. His face sets into a scowl, his mouth turning down at the corners as is his well-known trademark, she doesn't give an inch. He sighs and nods, she rises to her feet to collect the med kit from the closet.

With practiced skill, she takes gauze and wipes at his bruised knuckles with antiseptic cream. The shower has caused them to swell a little, and the purple discoloration is more pronounced. She takes a bandage and looks him in the eye, raising an eyebrow – an order for him to comply. His mouth lifts at the corner in a rare expression of amusement, then he lifts his hand, allows her to wrap the knuckles until she is satisfied that they will be protected under the gloves he wears. He flexes his hand, then balls it into a fist to ensure that he has full movement under the bandage, nods once when he is happy with the result.

Next is the jacket, while he slips on his gloves, she turns toward the bed where she had laid it out earlier on her side. He grunts softly, trying to hide the tenderness around his ribs that only she has borne witness to in the last few days. She doesn't say a word, allows him to take his time, sucking in a few deep breaths as he slips his arms into the sleeves and she positions the jacket across his shoulders. She turns him to face her, attaches the zipper together and grits her teeth against the jarring sound of the metal joining as she pulls it up to his throat.

His eyes lock with hers, dark, filled with mixed emotion as he slips a hand behind her neck, pulls her forward so he can kiss her temples. She sighs softly as his lips press to her skin, and she secures his belt, laden with a day stick, knife, grenades and other weapons around his waist. For a moment she locks her arms around him, pulling his body toward her.

He circles his arms around her shoulders, holding her for as long as she needs, until she pulls away and moves to lift his external armour plates, helping him slip them over his shoulders. She places her hands on his chest, feeling the smooth, hard surface of the protective gear – it reassures her, although she has seen it buckle once or twice from one attack or another. Her hands rest there for a moment, only a brief second in time, but it is like this every time. He will take the final walk alone.

Opening a drawer in the centre of the dresser, he picks up his lawgiver. The room is suddenly filled with the click and whirring of the gun as it reads the DNA off his hand, confirms that he is the authorised user of the weapon, before he holsters it at his side. These are their final moments together. She swallows back the lump in her throat, refuses to show him her bottled emotions. She walks him to the door, and he turns one last time to look at her from guarded eyes.

His mouth twists into a half sneer as he struggles not to say good bye. She nods at him, her lips pursed in a straight line as she puts all her love for him into the look she shares with him. Then she hands him the helmet. He lifts it with both hands, watching her until the helmet covers the top half of his face, and his preparations are complete. She watches as Joseph disappears behind a mask. He is now focused on the day to come, the dangers that lie beyond their door. He has become Dredd, the jury, the executioner… the Judge.

Then he is gone, the door closed behind him as she rests her forehead against the smooth metal, and sends a prayer up to whatever God might still be listening. She knows it is foolhardy to pray for his safety when he is walking head first into it, so she says the only thing she can: keep him breathing, she says silently to the wind, bring him home.