Every morning at 5:30 Nadia Yassir comes to his apartment. She lets herself in as to not disturb him, but Doyle is always already awake. When he gets out of the shower she has breakfast ready for him; eggs and sausage and a glass of orange juice. Sometimes she munches on some cereal while he eats, but usually she leaves for work without saying goodbye.
He spends the next few hours on the couch, efficiently navigating the remote control. But he never enjoyed watching television in the past, even less so now that the experience is limited to laugh tracks and empty dialogues. It is now that he usually moves to sit by the window, bandaged forehead resting against the panes. He listens to the cars that rush by on the street below, to the drivers and the busy people who traverse with undamaged eyes.
When he is especially pensive, he takes out his gun, which he keeps in a desk drawer for easy access (just in case, he tells himself). The metal is smooth and cold and dangerous in his hands, a fossil from a previous life. In the evening, when he hears the clatter of keys at his door, he returns the weapon to its hiding place. He doesn't want her to worry.
Nadia cooks them both dinner, They eat together, silently, at opposite ends of the table. He does not ask what she did at work today (he doesn't want to know) and she does not ask what he did while she was gone (she already knows). When they are finished she clears the plates and he sits on the couch.
He does not see the fresh bandages and medical tape nestled in her lap but when she sits down next to him he knows that they are there. She begins to peel his old bandages off one by one. He knows he should be grateful for her soft, caring touch and for the light scent of her perfume as an assurance that he is not alone, but all Doyle can focus on is his growing desire to release the restlessness mounting inside him.
When she removes the last bandage he blinks his eyes open to see her blurry, collected face. The agitation in his gut erupts. In one fluid motion, he hooks one hand around her neck and pulls his mouth to his in a bruising kiss. His blindness-heightened senses relish her taste, the softness of her hair, the warmth of her body. But then she pulls away and he can see the slope of her back heave as she catches her breath.
When she finally speaks, her words are small and soft. "No, Mike," She says, "I'm sorry, but no." She turns back to him and tries not to meet his eyes as she unrolls a fresh bandage. But his blue eyes are solemn and she hurries to cover them with a strip of gauze to avoid his gaze.
He knows why she is here today and everyday for the past couple weeks- they were her orders that compromised his safety. There was a time that Doyle placed the blame for his eyesight (or lack thereof), but not anymore. Not when he realized that she was no more at peace than he was over that day.
She finishes and stands,placing a hand on his shoulder. Failing to find the courage to tell him goodnight, she pats him awkwardly and turns to go. But his hand catches her wrist and she casts him a puzzled look that he cannot see. "Please, stay tonight," he asks gruffly. Nadia considers, licking her lips in thought. Finally, she squeezes his hand to say yes.
He gives her one of his t-shirts and a clean pair of boxers, grinning when she steps into the bathroom to change (despite his inability to see her nakedness). When she re-enters his bedroom Doyle can imagine the smooth expanse of her legs under her borrowed clothing and itches to runs his hands along her tawny skin but says nothing when she slips into bed across from him. He expects her to shy away when their hands accidentally brush together, but she suprises him by planting soft kisses on the pads of his fingers, the palms of his hands, his knuckles, and the calluses rubbed into place from long years of holding a gun. Her touch is warm and by the time she presses his palm to her cheek, he is sleeping, calmed for the first time since the explosion.