Their love was quiet. Maybe that was why neither of them would admit to it.
They were spies, infiltrators, assassins. They operated in silence.
That was what drew them to each other. They recognized in one another a fluency in the same wordless language that they spoke themselves. Their communication was straight-forward, un-invasive, and safe. There were no words in their silent language for the things they did not understand, only those things that were known to them.
How to disarm, how to injure, how to intimidate, how to kill, how to lie.
There was no word for "love" in their silent language.
A kiss could be wordless, but it spoke volumes. Roared with meaning, with importance, with consequence…
It was a risk, one that interfered with optimal performance.
And yet they loved in silence all the same. The very reality that they were such mirror images of each other, trapped in silence together, insured that they could be nothing else but in love.
When he had been taken, the spot he'd left behind had roared with sound. She hadn't been able to rest until he was back to fill that space, return her world to calm.
When she had brought him back, she was the only thing that could drown out the screaming in his head. Her presence helped to muffle the memories, dampen the experience.
In the end, why would they need to speak their feelings aloud? It would not change the conversation. They would still speak through looks and nods and gestures. Their talks would always be moments of sitting alone together, completely in silence and completely in peace.
Yet one day all the same, in one of their many moments alone, he laid a hand gently on hers. And she looked up, giving him a smile. That was all it took. They looked away, relaxing back into the quiet ease they brought each other. Their thoughts didn't race, their hearts didn't pound, yet they knew.
They'd learned a new word, and it was called "love."