A/N: I have had two very weird images stuck in my head for days and this is sort of a post epi/my images mushed together.
"Let your plans be as dark and impenetrable as night,
and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."
It's nothing.
The phrase is on repeat in her head, on a loop, it doesn't help. She tells herself over and over again and she does follow him to the shower, but she takes her time. Dropping her clothing on the floor, kicking off her shoes and rolling the balls of her feet in circles listening to the joints pop and click in release. She joins him slowly, unintentionally leaving it almost to the last minute before she's pushing on the sliding door to get it moving.
It's nothing.
Her wine is untouched at the foot of his bed and she's not really sure when it started but her head aches, aches so intensely that she almost forgoes the shower altogether and just collapses on his bed. The tops of her shoulders are tense, muscles throbbing with the knowledge that weighs her down.
It's nothing.
It's not nothing.
She's not sure how she got here, how they got here. It was only few weeks ago she was clinging to him, heart racing, just grateful to be alive. Now she's wondering if he cares, if he notices her.
If. Just if, all the time if.
And after five years she knows, knows in a way that tears at her chest, makes her feel bitchy, like a selfish immature child, that should be giving him more credit, having more faith, that time and again he has proven how he feels. But there is a doubt.
A little doubt.
And it's nagging.
Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies has been their modus operandi lately, sweeping things under the rug, letting things go. Sidestepping and sitting down with wine, a smile and a tumble into bed, but it's not working for them anymore.
When she does do it, works up the courage and asks, he deflects. Or, worse yet, he asks and she...she does lie. She hates that she lies to him, to his face, to the echo of his voice as he leaves the room, to herself.
It's nothing.
It's not nothing.
Pinpricks of heat press like savage needles at the backs of her eyes, a heavy tingling ripples down the side of her face and a numbness spreads to the edge of her lips. A migraine or a tension headache, stress. Something, all of it pressing at her so that she sighs heavily, the pain throbbing through her skull so thickly she can feel it in the roots of her teeth, in the follicles of her hair. Kate casts aside the last of her clothes, shoulders rolling seeking relief, and she steps towards him.
He's rinsing his hair and the soap bubbles slide down the muscle of his neck and merge together, hitting that crease at the top of his spine and riding down his back in one long wave. It's the most inviting image she's been confronted with in a while, calm and peaceful, relaxing and familiar. Even though her head pounds she knows that if she lets the tips of her fingers chase those bubbles she will feel a little better, but she's not sure she deserves it.
It's nothing.
It's not nothing.
The shower door slides and hits its counterpart, bouncing back, the glass protesting at the force she uses, like it always does, and he turns with an expectant smile. It falls away quickly when he sees her face, his brow furrowing in concern.
"Kate?"
The worry in his voice hurts her, head to toe, the throb lingers over her body.
Warm wet fingers wrap around her elbow and draw her towards him, into the billowing steam and under the spray, his thumb sweeping the inside of her arm and trailing down to her wrist. He gathers her hand in his and tugs her in fully, closing the door after her.
"Headache." She mumbles and his bottom lip drops, an almost pout of sympathy, but his concern is too much. Too much, because if he knew the reason for her headache, for her inability to talk or sip the wine and tease him back when he flirts with her - she can't finish the thought, can't meet eyes in case he sees - it would crush him.
It's nothing.
It's not nothing.
Kate steps around his body and faces away from him, her hands landing on the cold white tile in front of her. She tips her head so that her hair falls in front of her face, hiding her, and the water pounds against the back of her neck.
It helps.
It takes her by surprise, and is exactly what she expects all at once, when his lips feather a path through the water and land on her shoulder, his fingers digging into her muscles. Just right, right over the base of her neck up into her hairline. The pads of his thumbs press in hard and perfect, soothing circles, the long thick digits of his fingers surging and massaging through her scalp.
She groans long and low, closes her eyes and tries to hide from the shadows settling over her. But it's like an oncoming storm, the dark grey clouds are gathering and when it falls, whatever fate this is that's toying with her, it will fall like thunder, strike at them like lightning. And as much a she tells herself it's nothing, it's not nothing.
His fingers soothe the tension in her shoulders, slip down her arms following a ripple of water and one hand slowly gathers her to him, weaving around her stomach to draw her back into his chest. She goes, turning her face into his neck when his lips land at her temple. The droplets of water that land on their faces are enough to hide the tears when they gather in her eyes, enough to hide it when they start to fall.
She's drenched to the skin, to the deepest reaches, to her soul, and the storm is still coming. She lets the water wash the last of the tears from her face before she turns in his arms and wraps herself in him.
The storm is coming, she just hopes that together they're strong enough to weather it.