A/N: This was supposed to be a micro-fic. Turned out slightly longer than intended. It's pretty (actually very) experimental.
One argument.
There's an annoying tickle in Frasier's throat that he can't get rid of. He tries gallons of water after the sherry doesn't help. No matter how often he clears his throat, though, it stubbornly remains.
"Are you sick?" His father asks and Frasier just shakes his head. It's all Roz's fault. Not that his father would understand it and so that non-verbal answer has to do. Except his father keeps staring at him.
"You sure? That constant throat clearing and you're awfully quiet."
"I'm fine, dad." Frasier's voice betrays him. All because of Roz. Oh, he wants her out of his mind as much as he wants to get rid of that tickle.
"Suit yourself. You seem weird to me."
One argument. Thousand of words thrown in either direction; Frasier doesn't even remember half of them. He remembers the strongest words; thrown with vigor and without thought. There's a fragmented conversation in his mind about who did what and when. Never a why. There's no why. No reasons, yet so many accusations. One argument. One argument and this.
One moment.
It's the quiet that keeps Frasier awake. Usually, he needs it. He craves the heavy tranquility that accompanies the night. Not this night, though, not tonight. It's the quiet that ended the argument. The silence that stretched from one moment into an endless abyss. Just one moment. A moment too long and a word too much. The quiet that followed stronger than all the thousands of words; a weight so heavy Frasier cracked under the pressure.
"I'm-" His voice hoarse (but without that annoying tickle), cutting through the silence. Roz, however, stayed quiet. No word. Just one moment. She put up her hand – such a bitter sweet surrender – and just left. She left the quiet with him. He stayed a moment longer. Just one. Waiting for her to return or for time to move backwards. Just this once; just for one moment. The quiet remained by his side and it grew bigger, it grew stronger until Frasier had to leave too.
Now the quiet keeps him up. Like an unwanted guest, it has come to his apartment and taken over. Frasier hears himself think and it sounds like a broken watch. Tick, tick, tick and it's steady, it stops before it begins again; a new rhythm and it's wrong. His thoughts are too heavy and the quiet tries to tackle him to the ground. One moment. An inkling; it's small and it's shady. Frasier thinks – tick, tick, tock. Another moment; there's light, there's more. Tick, tick, tick in his heart. One moment later he finally understands.
One decision.
Knock, knock. In the middle of the night his knocks sound like an air hammer. Knock, knock. This time a little softer. Once he made his decision, Frasier couldn't wait. His feet were quicker than his brain but eventually he landed here. One decision in the middle of the night and he hopes it's finally the right one. Thousand of words are swirling in his head; different ones than before (he just knows too many).
"Frasier?" Roz's surprise is written all over her face. At least there's no silence. Frasier feared the silence like a small child might fear finding no presents under the tree on Christmas morning.
"Roz, we need to talk."
"It's what? Morning? I just got up and uhm-"
"It's late, I know. Or early. It doesn't matter, Roz. We need to talk. I need to tell you how sorry I am and how I didn't mean anything I said. It was a stupid fight."
"You meant every word." Her voice clears; a sharp undertone appears as she tightens her robe around her body. So far he's only seen her face. Her deep, dark eyes. Her body, for once, is not what interests him.
"I-" In the end, it's not a decision; it's a need. Frasier is used to using words, because it's something he knows well. His mother taught him to explain himself – with words. His father taught him to defend himself – with words. Now he needs to understand this; and words don't help. There's one thing he's learned from Roz herself. And so instead of doing what he knows best, he does what he knows she knows a thing or two about. His lips melt into hers easily. No arguments here. Not one moment, but a thousand tiny ones. The best decisions he's ever made.
"This is what I really meant to say today." Frasier breathes against her lips a million moments later. She leans against him heavily.
"I like this argument much better than the one we had earlier. And I'm sorry too. I said a few mean things." She says these words into his chest. Frasier puts his hand on her head; his fingers run through her hair needing to touch her.
"As did I."
"We need to talk about this."
"Tonight?" There's a smile in his question, because he is so sure of the answer.
"No. Not tonight." As Roz leads him inside her apartment, Frasier is thankful for that argument. He's forgotten all about that annoying tickle in his throat. He's even grateful for the quiet Roz never filled; it was his moment to really think about the why. There's so much left to say and it's only because neither of them ever dared to make the first move. Thunder that meets lightning. Sun and rain. Yes, they'll have to talk about this. But first they'll have to get to know each other in this whole new way.
At the end of the day they become one.
END