A/N: Some angsty fluff (as per usual) - hope this brightens your day because don't we all need a little sunshine sometimes?
A little bit of a warning: implied(?) sexual intercourse, nothing too graphic; just a warning for those faint of heart (but we're all fanfiction readers here, so this shouldn't be new...)
•
Enoch slips a hand into hers, calloused fingers tapping gently along her palm. Her face streaks bright, bright red, and a dizzying smile lights up her face. Olive speaks his name, once, breath coming out in a sigh, both a question and an answer. He doesn't reply (did he hear her?), and she presses her lips together, going quiet.
A few beats of silence pound between them, then it's his turn to sigh. His free hand comes up, brushing against her, raising her chin just slightly so her can look squarely into her eyes. She shudders at the impact of skin on skin.
(Good thing their new room has soundproof walls.)
Her breath catches, and she barely dares to breathe. She should say something, do something, but his touch is so scarce, and she wants to savor every moment while it's still here. Enoch lifts his free hand, gently cupping her chin. He draws near her, lips pressing delicately against hers, grazing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. Olive's face reddens profusely, but her eyes are sparkling. "You're amazing," he whispers into her ear.
Olive blushes even darker, and she ducks her head, her gaze falling down but her lips turning up. A soft laugh escapes his mouth. "You're naked and on top of me and this is what you're embarrassed of?" She frowns at him, the spell broken; her lips part but he kisses them before she can say anything.
("You know that's not what I meant.")
("I know.")
She's not completely satisfied, but it's not in her nature to speak up. He hates that she never speaks her mind, never truly says her own opinion, but her eyes are creased and tinged with a certain sadness, so he'll let her have her silence, just this once. The air is flushed with the easy, slow thrum of their love and he smiles when she falls asleep with his arms around her.
•
They come down from their high together, slowly, slowly unclenching, and Enoch closes his eyes.
"I love you."
Olive breathes the words into his ear, voice barely above a whisper. It takes all of her courage to spit them out, and all of her willpower not to take them back as soon as they leave her mouth.
His eyes flash open, dark and smoldering, and he doesn't meet her gaze.
A heartbeat passes.
Silence.
It's deafening.
Very carefully all of the sudden, he moves off of her, laying her on the bed beneath him. He sits back, eyes scrolling over her, but still not meeting hers. It's as if he didn't hear her (but she knows that's not true, because he gasped, just slightly, when she spoke).
She's never felt more exposed.
His lips trail down her skin, kissing every inch of her exposed skin. His hands take hers, running his fingers along her palm. She lets out a breathy moan, inhaling sharply, but her body is limp, and she doesn't respond to his ministrations other than an intake of air when he bites too hard.
His mouth leaves pink marks on her skin, motions soft and tender, sweeter than they've ever been; this is all she's ever asked of him, but each kiss is another second gone by, another second where he doesn't say it back.
He doesn't feel the same way.
Whether or not it's true, she's being pessimistic, cynical – that's what she wills herself to believe, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
It's only after a few minutes does he look up, finally sees the silvery droplets of water and pained expression on her face. She bites her lip, hard, but she can't keep it all in. A burning sensation resonates deep in her chest. He stops immediately.
"God, Olive, did I hurt you?"
Did he hurt her?
She almost laughs through the pain.
But his words are so vulnerably crafted, his touch feather-soft as he bends toward her, kissing the tears from her cheeks, tainting his lips with salt. Her own gaze softens, and she presents him with a faded smile. "No, no – never. It's just– I think I'm ready to sleep now, okay?" Slowly, she turns her stare away to anything but him. "I'm sorry."
"No need," he murmurs, tossing her the bundle of clothes lying discarded on the floor. When Olive turns around, he's just standing there, a sheepish expression on his face, his chest still noticeably bare. "You'll keep me warm, won't you?"
She blushes delicately, but the acute pangs wash over her again, and she doesn't respond, just settling under the covers, closing her eyes. Enoch stares at her for a few moments before joining her, wrapping his arms around her slight waist, waiting for her to turn to him and offer a fond kiss. The seconds tick by, and she stays turned in the other direction; that's how they end up falling asleep, tension thickly coating the air, a troubled feeling in his mind as he drifts off.
(There are tears dripping from her eyes; that's why she doesn't turn around. She couldn't bear for him, he who wouldn't open up even the smallest part of himself to her, to see so deeply inside of her.)
•
Enoch wakes relatively early the next morning, considering it's a Sunday and how late they stayed up last night. But Olive's already up, her spot on the bed beside him unusually cold (when did she get up?) since she's almost never awake in the morning.
He steps blearily into the bathroom, splashing freezing cold water on his face, peering at his reflection in the mirror. When he steps downstairs, his footsteps leave clearly audible thumps on the hardwood, to make sure she hears him approach.
(It's pretty much a rule now that he can't sneak up on her unannounced, since the time that she dropped a plate when he appeared behind her.)
She's in the kitchen, of all places, hair swept up messily into a bun, moving eggs around in a pan. (Miss Peregrine said she was going to take out the older kids to get new supplies very early in the morning. The younger kids are probably still asleep; they're alone together.) He waits a good fifteen seconds after she turns off the heat, then slides his arms around her, tucking his chin into the crook of her neck and pressing a line of light kisses into the underside of her jaw.
She sighs blissfully, before craning her head so she can return the gesture, rising up on her tiptoes, and meeting his lips with hers.
"Why are you mad at me, 'Liv?"
The moment is ruined.
(He's careful to kiss her first, softly and passionately, his words spoken the same way; he uses her name, informal, and pleasant, but the words are formed as a direct question, so she'll be obligated to answer.)
"What gives you the impression that I'm upset with you?"
Olive draws back, tilting an egg from the pan into his plate. (He knows what she's doing: asking a question to his question, implying an answer but giving none. It only confirms his suspicions.) And to any observer, she doesn't look anything close to angry: her gait is relaxed; her body is still enclosed within his; her hair is messed up from the sheer passion of their love. She speaks quietly, curiously, and she bares herself to him, wearing mismatched clothes and no makeup.
But he doesn't see any of this.
He hears her humming stop abruptly as soon as he enters the room; he feels her tense as he hugs her; he watches her hesitate for a heartbreaking moment, eyes closed, before she returns his kiss. He sees her hand shy away when he tries to grasp it. His breath catches every time she speaks and doesn't say his name (it's a quirk of hers, sentimental and subtle, but when the word doesn't leave her lips, he doesn't remember ever missing it more). She's no longer comfortable around him. The simple thought strikes a raw nerve.
These are sufficient reasons, but sound pathetic spoken aloud. Yet they're enough, enough to show that he cares, he studies her, he's spent enough time with her to know; they're enough to prove that he loves her, loves her with every fiber of his being.
But he doesn't tell her any of these reasons, just cups her face and stares into her unblinking eyes, and it's then that he realizes she knows them too. So when she bites her lip and doesn't respond, he lets her think, kissing the crown of her head and letting his lips linger.
"I'm not mad at you," she says, finally, voice neutral, expression even more blank, so he can't read a single thing radiating in the powerful feelings thundering off her.
A serene quietude inserts itself between them, and she doesn't say any more.
She chips a fragile crack in the silence, right when he decides to stab it, hard, with a sharpened knife.
She says, "You don't trust me?" at the same time he mutters, "Are you sure?"
The veil of neutrality shatters, and she looks taken aback, her eyes alight for a moment, but then the flames give way to a searing hurt.
After all this time, he no longer believes her; she's said crazier things before, that he approached with hesitation but accepted as truth - which they were. She's done the same for him. What makes this any different? (He's drifting, further and further away from her, and she hates it, so much.)
After a few moments of simply staring at him, she whispers the same words again.
"You don't trust me."
The sound is soft, her voice cracking just slightly – no longer a question, but an answer, a fact.
Her body seems to collapse in on itself, and she flinches away from his grasp, elbows resting on the marble countertop, chest rising and falling heavily.
Silence.
"I'm not mad at you, Enoch."
She won't look up, her voice shaky and frail.
"Really, I'm not."
When he doesn't reply, she inhales a painful breath, pressing her lips together.
"I'm angry with myself, Enoch ― are you happy now?"
Are you happy now?, spoken like she truly believes it, like her fury directed elsewhere would make him feel better.
"I'm angry for giving myself so fully, so freely. I was so stupid to expect anything in return."
She pauses, taking steady, shaky breaths, forcing the tears back in. His mouth opens, and he's about to say something, but her next statement cuts him short.
"I'm sorry."
She whispers the words, emotion seeping from each, so quiet and faint he barely catches them, splintering as soon as they touch his hands, and disintegrating onto the pristine hardwood floor.
"I'm sorry you have to deal with this - with me. I'm sorry because you're so much better than this - don't you see it? - and I keep dragging you down. I'm sorry―" Her words break off and she closes her mouth, biting down painfully on her sobs and furiously wiping away the water on her cheeks.
He doesn't know what to do.
A terse stillness sits between them; he measure the counts in time with her heartbeat, a soft, steady thud as he feels her heart break in two. "No," he cuts in abruptly, gently taking her hand in his, rubbing it soothingly. "No need to be sorry," he whispers, looking her in the eye.
She tries to glance away, shaking her head, her vision already blurring again with searing tears, but he just tips her gaze to him again. Normally she would be more energetic, more joyful, more alive. When she's upset, unlike most others, it's not her loud, frustrated screams that alert him of her anger. No, for Olive, it's her silence that scares him the most.
Enoch takes a shaky breath - inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale - and pulls her close to him, flush against his body. "You are needed, you are wanted, you are beautiful, you are loved." Once the words spill from his lips, they don't stop flowing. "I don't know how you don't realize it, how much I feel for you every second of every day. We're fixed in this one point in time in our loops - me and you, again and again, day after day - and I always have to stop to remember how fortunate I am that you're the one I get to be. I love you, Olive."
Her eyelids flutter open, and she gasps, her hand flying to her face. She tilts her head, staring at him for a moment, confused, but then her eyes shine and the corner of her mouth tugs up slightly.
"I love you, so much, and I'm sorry that I was too much of a coward to let you know that."
Suddenly her lips are on his, and his next sentence comes to a halt. They stand like that for a moment, almost-but-not-quite-still, touching amorously, folded into the curves of one another. He can feel her smiling against his mouth as her hand slides up his back, her arms sweeping around his neck.
Olive cups his face in her hand, her expression so fiercely passionate it takes his breath away.
"I love you too."