Just a little pointless and plotless Chryed moment, dreamed up after those red button episodes.

Thank you to the lovely Clarkey for being my beta :)

I lay still, knowing the darkness behind my eyes would only be fractionally blacker than the shadows that enveloped my surroundings if I were to open them. It is quiet, too quiet. Even the steady and rhythmic breathing by my side, normally enough to comfort and appease, to muffle the drone and soothe the painful picking away inside my skull, isn't enough. Not tonight. The words won't let me be. Here in the darkness, in the silence, they find their focus and their voice, louder and clearer than daylight and movement and warmth of touch and sight will allow. It's my fault. I should have done things differently. I should have done things better. I should have been better. If I'd been stronger, spoken up sooner.

I ruined her life. Me. I did that to another person. Not only that, but someone I cared about, someone I promised to protect, someone I allowed and encouraged to trust me, to believe in me, to love me, knowing that I didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve what I did to her. Now here I am. I have been found. My heart and my head and the very essence of me fuller and happier and more real than I have ever been. Content and rich in the knowledge that I will always have the feel of arms around me, always feel the occupancy of another loving soul within me, that it is right, that I am right, with him. But she is lost. Wherever she is, I'm sure she is not where she should be. Not where she would want to be. The path of her life changed indelibly and irrevocably because of me. It is wrong, and it is my fault. I've done wrong and I can't fix it. Worse than that, I never even tried, never even contemplated an action of concern or acknowledgement or help outside the confines of my own thoughts, my regret enclosing and holding onto my redemption in a tight fist inside of me.

I see her face as I broke her, as she became lost in the chaos I created. I see her tears and certainly not for the first time, but for the first time in a while I feel them in my own eyes. And I feel it. Guilt. Guilt for what I did and guilt for what I am doing now. For crying, for seeping tears of apparent self-pity, tears that would evoke sympathy in others when I do not deserve it. They should be her tears and her tears alone. I feel my body tense as I turn on my side, trying to will away each jagged breath of betrayal, to smother each sob of shame.

The pillow beneath me grows damp as I bury my face into its soft cocoon, trying to hide myself in its folds, it may subdue the sounds but it only seems to heighten the constriction of my throat, the painful throbbing along my brow and behind my eyes, and that other thing… the hurt. That place of pain and overwhelming rawness of feeling that exists inside me from past battles within and without, bred in a whirlwind of confusion and hopelessness, self-doubt and self-loathing. A place that can and does heal over, leaving only a scar, sometimes unnoticeable, practically invisible unless you know it is there and you know where to look. Sometimes little reminders of its existence can redden the edges once more, cause it to tingle and itch, but in the manner of a wound that is healing, that is mending itself from the inside out. But then it, the guilt, comes along once again. And I am not allowed to heal, I am not allowed to move on. It picks and peels away, re-opening and reminding, but never more so recently than today. And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to control it, to control them, the tears that flush through old wounds, resurfacing old memories and feelings changed but not forgotten. I don't wish to remind him of those times. To disallow him the comfort and peace of moving on, not forgetting, never forgetting, but leaving the painful parts where they were.

I try to lie still, to control my crying, he is asleep and I don't want to wake him, I don't want him to see me like this. I consider getting up and going to the bathroom, but I worry that the sudden movement would wake him even more. Then there is also that part of me that doesn't want to move away from him, for fear the tears would flow even more. He is here. Beside me. Even in slumber, I feel the strength of our solidarity, and in my moment of weakness I really don't want to move away from him. Just the knowledge of his presence is a comfort that grounds me, that steals me back from the precipice and holds me in a place of safety.

Then I feel it. The tentative touch of curled knuckles in the small of my back, stroking a whisper of questioning concern and offer of comfort into my bare skin. I hear my own small gasp for breath as I attempt to contain the broken sob that threatens to spill out, and it escapes only as a quiet whimper. A large, warm palm slides up the centre of my back, absorbing the slight shake and tremble that rattles intermittently through me.

"Sy…"

His voice is so low and gentle, and I press my lips together as tears are renewed afresh. There is the rustle of sheets and the shift of weight and slide of movement behind me, as he shuffles closer, an arm reaching around me. I feel the softness of his breath, as he whispers into the sensitive skin at the back of my neck.

"Baby…"

And without thought I turn around, turn to him, nestling my face into the solid warmth of his chest, feel his strong arms wrapping tightly around me, my body held and encased in his, and suddenly it's ok. It's ok to cry, it's ok to feel the pain that was part of me for so long and whose residue I can still feel in the darkness of the night, despite the passing of time. I am comforted and I feel validated in the care and love he gives me, it's ok to be comforted, it's ok to feel the pain of it, not just for her… or for him, but for myself, the hurt I endured from others and inflicted on myself. It has all lead to this. To us. We are together, and nothing has ever felt more right. I have never felt more right. I can breathe again, deep breaths of belonging that come from the centre of me and fill every corner of my being. They relax my muscles and scatter the clouds that are my thoughts until there is peace, and the tranquillity and quiet assuredness of us.

We lay quietly together for a while, our entwined bodies and hearts communicating on a level that needs no words. My skin starts to tingle with the delicate touch of his fingers, trailing lines up and down my back and smoothing wayward strands of hair away from my face. I tilt my head back, opening my eyes to take in the light from his as they shine back at me in the darkness.

"Are you alright?" He asks worriedly, the lucidity of feeling on his face making his features soften with a vulnerable openness.

"I am now." I smile, the instinct to touch the truth that I see and ease his lines of concern making me reach up and tenderly cup his cheek.

"Do you want to talk?" he says, his eyes looking intently and searchingly into mine. I shake my head and he understands, he knows it all, he knows me, and words can wait until morning. Instead I use my lips to press a light kiss to his, lingering in the intimacy of our connection, in the sweet taste of him against me. Yes, I think, this is right. It doesn't make what I, what we did ok, but there is reparation in acceptance and understanding, and a feeling and thought creeps up and over me as clear and sure as anything that had gone before. Some day, some day soon maybe, we will all be able to move on, to live our lives as they were destined to be. And as I move my body over his, this man, this beautiful man that I am going to marry, I feel our closeness so acute that I am but a part of him and he a part of me. Mouths, skin, flesh, find each other once more, complete in touch of heat and love, and knowing that this will always be.