A/N: Inspired by the song "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy. For those who are asking, this story is outside of Melody Williams canon. ~madis
It's on an assignment to the city state Cannes (something about radioactive sheep) that he takes her hand in his, lightly, easily, and walks with her down the street. The freelance travel journalist, sometimes ambassador for outer-planetary relations, and the geography teacher.
Her heart sings. She becomes shy, unable to look at him. He doesn't say anything, but when she loosens her grip on his hand he holds on all the tighter. The edges of his palm are workmen-rough around hers; it sends a shiver down her spine.
When they run into a street fiddler asking for a living from his cap on the ground, he swings her around, dances with her in the crowded street. The palm trees watch, their many-feathered hands clapping together in the wind. The sand from the beach spills grey over into the asphalt of the road; it crunches under their feet. The sea roses grow gnarled from the ground. (What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.)
"John," she says, her hands around the back of his neck, his at the small of her back. Small images, frightfully beautiful images for later, when they separate.
"Melody." His forehead presses into hers. Communing the unspoken thoughts of hearts and lungs—things that will never be said.
"I—"
"Yeah. I know. Me too."
"You too?"
"Mhm." They sway in silence for a while. Her heartbeat slots into his chest, that empty ache where he used to (never had) a second heart.
The tin man with one heart still beating. A walking miracle.
He sings her a Spanish lullaby, completely disregarding the fiddler's tune. His voice is rough, catching along the threaded little melody.
Duermete mi Nina, duermete mi amor
Duermete pedazo de mi corazon.
She doesn't ask for a translation.
They keep dancing long after the fiddler's left for the day. They dance ragged into the soles of their shoes and then lose their shoes in the sand as they watch dawn steal the horizon.
He never lets go of her hand.
God help him—right before they ascend into the zeppelin that will take them home to England, he kisses her on the mouth, just the once. It's chaste: a quick confused tangle of mouths, sweet in its brevity, his hands on her shoulders. She closes her eyes and wishes for impossibilities.
They're two intended souls, sliding past one another, holding hands with someone else entirely.
But they have this moment, his mouth on hers.
And it will have to be enough for a lifetime. Saying what they can never say:
(I've never loved anyone more than I loved you.)
Spanish translation:
Sleep my child, my love sleep
Sleep piece of my heart.