A/N: Alert: there is actual fluff below. I mean it this time. Fluff. So, please read and enjoy and let me know what you think! :)
x x x
True or false. It began as an interrogation, initially. She wanted her answers, and she refused to take part in any of his missions or tests until he told her what she wanted to know. He, as expected, was not open to the idea. He made the same threats as before—they'll kill Weller, he said, and the rest of your team—but there was something tired in his voice that told her the words he spoke were not his own. Something dull that told her that those threats had been put there for him, written in the script for him, and that they were nothing more than lines to him. They gave her pause, of course. She didn't want to lose Kurt—or anyone. But she needed her answers.
She landed on "true or false" because it was the only strategy available to her. He was not much of a talker, and she knew if she asked him straight questions, ones that deserved long answers, he would clam up. He would disappear into the night, as he had so many times before, and she would be left alone with only questions. She hoped offering him the simple task of assigning a one-word answers to her statements would not only expedite the process, but elongate it. She wanted to get through as much information as she could, as fast as she could.
She started with simple things, things she was already aware were true.
We used to be engaged, she said.
True, he said.
I used to be in the Army, she said.
True, he said.
I did all this to myself, she said.
He hesitated then. His teeth scraped over his lower lip, as if the answer were there for the taking. True, he said finally, but he drew out the word in a slow way that told her, Not really.
She didn't press him. That was fine. Even his hesitation spoke volumes. And she would find a way to get the details later.
She moved onto other things quickly. She made statements about the cases, about her tattoos, about his tattoo. She talked about the bearded man who had been killed in her apartment, and any other face she recognized from her memory. He said True and he said False. He hesitated every once in a while, but she trained herself not to ask follow-ups. If she made him pause, he might realize the error of his ways and call it all off. He could. Because she knew, no matter if she was the one interrogating him, that he was still the one with all the cards. He was still the one in charge.
But there was one question that he did hesitate at, one that she did follow up on, and even now, she couldn't be sure why. There had been something in his face, she would think later. Or perhaps she had just been overly curious to know.
We were friends, she said, the man with the beard and me.
He lifted a hand to his face, dragging it over his sparse stubble. She watched his eyes, even as they turned down and away from hers. She repeated her words, firmer this time.
False, he said finally, looking back up.
She blinked, not sure at first what to say.
We weren't friends? she pressed, not thinking before opening her mouth. But I remember us training together, I remember us… She didn't know the word for it. We felt close, she finally said.
He nodded at that. And then for some reason he spoke again too:
You were close. But you weren't friends—or at least, not just friends. At the blank look on her face, he added, smiling slightly, You guys were more like siblings. I actually thought you were, when you first introduced us. It was weeks before I realized.
He could've left it there. They could've moved onto the next true-or-false question, or he couldn't taken his silent leave, as usual, when she got to be too much. But he kept speaking.
That's one thing I'm grateful for, he whispered. The fact that you weren't fully cognizant of who he was when you watched him die. He shook his head. His eyes were too big, too hurt, when they met hers. She knew she should feel sorrow, but still—nothing. She felt only that he was in pain, but nothing from herself. The old you would disagree, but I'm happy he died when you still didn't know who he was to you. If you'd known… He shook his head, half turning away, as he trailed off into silence.
She tossed him a few more statements, meaningless in the grand scheme of things, to take his mind off of the lost possibilities. He gave his Trues and his Falses, and then they let things fall apart again. She left first, heading back to her safe house. When she looked back at the door, he was still standing there in the middle of the musty basement, staring at the floor. She felt an odd urge to comfort him—he looked so alone in that huge, half-lit decrepit room—but she stepped out into the night instead. It was cold out, and in the chill, she found a rationale for the shiver crawling up her back.
x x x
The next time they met, after they'd finished their real business, he allowed the interrogation to continue. Neither Kurt nor Reade or Tasha nor anyone else at the FBI had been killed since their last meeting, and so she supposed either the threats he'd served her were empty, or he wasn't passing along all the information he should be to his superiors. She wouldn't be surprised if either—or both—explanations were true. That thought gave her some fodder for round two.
You're not in charge, she said, once they'd finished their talks about the mission.
He smiled a little, like maybe he knew how good it felt for her to say those words to him. True, he said. His voice was quieter than she expected.
There are a lot of people involved behind the scenes that I don't know about, she said.
True, he answered, with an upward flick of his eyes that said, Well, obviously.
It hardened her some. She did not like his taunting. You want the old me back, she said flatly.
She had meant to sting him. She had wanted, selfishly, to see a flash of hurt in his eyes. She wanted him to suffer just a small amount of what she had suffered. But he was calm when he looked at her.
True, he said simply.
Her next words came out a little shaky.
You don't like the new me, she said. She already knew the answer.
But blinked at her as if he did not, and took a half-step forward, tilting his head to the side as if in confusion.
That's… not true, he said after a moment.
She swallowed, and resisted the urge to step back. The word is "false," she reminded him. And then, before she forgot the real answer herself: You mean "true," though. It's true that you don't like me; that you'd rather her.
It's not that I don't like you. He shook his head. That's not what it's about, he said. He stared at her a moment longer—she had no choice except to stare back—and then he walked away. She stood and stared at the placed he'd been, listening to his footsteps echo across the concrete. She heard them pause at the door. She wondered if he was looking back at her, as she'd looked back at him the other week. She wondered if she looked as lonely and downtrodden now as he had then.
She waited for him to return, to come back, to explain. But he opened the door and left.
x x x
There was food waiting for her, the next time she arrived. She could smell it when she opened the door, could smell the spices and sense the heat. It made her mouth water, even though she'd eaten a few hours ago. There was something about the scents, something familiar but also foreign, that drew her in. An old memory was guiding her, she guessed. She let it.
He had found a three-legged table amidst the rubble in the abandoned basement, and managed to set it upright with the help of a broken bookcase in lieu of a fourth leg. Because they didn't have chairs, they stood and ate, but it was oddly nice anyway. He had gotten her some sort of meat dish, tossed in a thick orange sauce with what looked to be potatoes. She couldn't tell what the meat was, but she stabbed a hunk of it anyway with her plastic fork and tasted it—and nearly lit her mouth on fire in the process. She almost spat the food right back out into the take-out container it'd come from, but then there was his hand in front of her face, holding out an open water bottle, and it seemed like the better option.
She snatched the water at once, downing a third of it greedily before managing to swallow her food, and come up for air. She was about to ask if he was trying to burn her mouth off when spoke.
Despite never having been able to handle your spices well, you still love Indian food.
He said this calmly, while picking through his own take-out box, and then lifted his head to look at her. His look turned into a stare, and she became uncomfortable under his close gaze until she realized she was supposed to answer. She swallowed, still able to taste a little of the spicy sauce in her mouth. It tasted good, she realized—in small doses, at least.
True, she said, drawing out the vowels long and slow, like a question.
He nodded, and smiled briefly, before turning back to his food.
She sat and stared, feeling her own box hot between her hands, her own stomach craving more, but above that, there was a fiercer need for the knowledge he offered.
As if reading her mind, he took another swallow of his food, a sip of water, and then he said, I've known you all my life.
She blinked, caught off-guard by the change in the line of questioning. He glanced up at her briefly, eyebrows raised as if to say Are you going to answer or what?, before he turned back to his food. She watched him, unsure. He had said the words as calmly as he had said anything else. But she had no idea…
True? she guessed, sounding much more hopeful than certain.
He shook his head. False, he said, taking a draw from his own water bottle. He glanced at her sidelong. Six years, he corrected. Seven in May.
Seven, she repeated, thinking on that. She took another bite of her food, a smaller one, and it went down easier this time. She could actually taste the flavor beneath the heat in her mouth. She tried to imagine knowing someone for seven years—or even for a year—and she almost couldn't do it.
But then she glanced at him, sitting at her side, sharing a meal, and she thought maybe this is what it was like, to know someone so long: the ability to find quiet companionship in another person. Learning about them and their life.
How'd we meet? she asked suddenly, looking up just in time to see a grin stretch across his face as he poked at his food. What? she pressed, feeling herself smile, too. It was not often she saw him happy.
He shook his head. Another time, he said. When his eyes met hers, the brown in them was kind, not dismissive. When we know each other a little better, he added.
She nodded, appreciating the explanation, and turned back to her food. She finished it all, and when she was done, she let the heat of the spices vibrate inside her mouth afterwards, waiting for him to finish too, and wondering what other secrets he kept from her, and what others she might uncover.
x x x
You're allergic to dogs, he said.
False, she shot back, defiant—she knew this one.
He grinned, bouncing the worn basketball in his hands, letting the slap of its surface against the concrete basement echo harshly in their ears. They were playing a rapid-fire version of their game, trading off statements and shots.
He pivoted towards the netless hoop, released the ball—
It bounced off the metal circle with a dull thwang, and she crowed, running for it as he groaned, knowing it was her turn now. So long as she held the ball, and kept making her shots, she got to make the statements, and he had to answer.
We met in the States, she said, dribbling the ball around the edge of their makeshift court.
True, he answered, following a few paces behind her, keeping himself between her and the hoop in order to try to block and shot she might take.
He had five points to her (miraculous) four, and she could sense he was getting nervous. When they'd started playing, he'd said something about some record he held, some amount of points over hers. She had never played basketball before—at least not in this life—but she was determined to beat him, simply because he didn't want her to.
Just as she was determined to weasel the story of the start of their relationship out of him. In the few meetings they'd had since he'd brought her Indian food (which she now ordered in at home for herself, every Friday), he'd been mum on the subject. When we know each other better, he always repeated, when she tried pestering him into an answer. Tonight, she'd decided for the roundabout route. Any detail helped, even if she couldn't get the full story.
You're older than me, she said, centering herself before the hoop, watching him slowly walk up between her and it, keeping his defensive position.
False, he answered.
She had been leaning back, positioning herself perfectly to take the shot, but his answer made her freeze, made her hands, and the ball held between them, fall. No, she said, frowning. She still held the ball tight. You're older.
He grinned, that quick, sly grin of his, the one that had only begun appearing recently, during their less serious meetings. Whatever you have to tell yourself to ease your cradle-robbing conscience, he replied. Then he gestured up at the hoop. Take your shot. Stop stalling.
She didn't raise the ball. She was only just realizing that she didn't have any more of an idea of his age than she did her own. How old am I? she asked, curious.
He shook his head impatiently, reaching forward to snatch the ball out of her suddenly numb hands. He pivoted towards the net, adjusted himself a few degrees, let it fly—it went in perfectly, and he clapped in victory. That's not a statement, he reminded her, catching her eye before jogging after the bouncing ball.
She rolled her eyes, the momentary fear gone, the curiosity back. Fine. She tossed around for an age. She thought of how old Kurt was, and how old she was supposed to be in comparison, if she were really Taylor Shaw. I'm thirty, she called out to him.
False! came his shout from the far side of the warehouse—the ball had rolled away, and she could hear him shoving debris aside in order to get at it.
Twenty-eight, she guessed.
A laugh burst out from the back of the warehouse. Don't flatter yourself, he shouted back, and she suddenly wished she had the ball in her hands so she could pitch it at his head.
Thirty-two, she offered next, just as he came back into view with the basketball tucked under his arm.
True, he said. He was smiling. Good thing you were guessing in twos, else this would've taken all night.
And are you— She started to ask, before she remembered, and transformed her would-be question into a statement. You're… She caught the ball he tossed towards her, remembering what he'd just said about twos. You're thirty, she said with confidence.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. True.
She took her shot, watched it sail through the air.
Damn, he muttered when it went in. She was only one point behind again.
Two-year difference, she frowned, catching the ball and tossing it a little harder than necessary at his chest. I'd hardly call that cradle-robbing, would you?
He grinned, bouncing it once, twice, before taking his stance. Sometimes it isn't about age. The ball went in, dropped to the ground. He caught her eye with a teasing look in his. You know, I was as innocent as could be when you stormed into my life.
She rolled her eyes.
False, they said together, their voices ringing throughout the empty space.
x x x
You're nervous, he said, huddling close to her under the umbrella, while they waited for the restaurant's most recent patrons to leave, and tried to keep out of the pouring rain.
She shook her head, shivering with the cold in her threadbare jeans and too-thin hoodie. False, she whispered, but he could hear the lie.
Don't worry, he said. With his free hand, he squeezed her upper arm quickly, and then let go.
Once the restaurant's patrons had left the stoop and hopped into their cab, he and she made their way to the door, shaking off the rainwater in the tiny two-by-two space that acted as a foyer. He propped the umbrella in the basket with the others, and handed their wet coats to the waiting hostess. She rubbed some warmth into her hands and peered around the restaurant. It was tiny. Tiny. The living room in her one-bedroom apartment was bigger than this restaurant. And it was nearly full; there was only one open table left, that luckily was theirs.
Couldn't you have found something a little more spacious? she asked, as the hostess gestured that they could take their seats.
He smiled, sitting down across from her in the cramped space. I like this place, he said.
She sighed, settling in. Their table was squeezed into a far side of the restaurant, cluttered on three sides by other diners and on one side by a wall, but in truth, she didn't mind so much. She was small; she could fit. He, on the other hand… Your funeral, I guess, she muttered, feeling the table shake when his knees bumped against it.
She caught a quick snippet of his chuckle at her comment, and was immediately reminded of the conversation they'd had before coming here. She'd met him in the basement storeroom, like usual, ready to hash out whatever details of the mission he had for her, ready to go through another round of true or false, when she'd pulled up short.
He had been standing there, waiting for her as usual… But he was in a suit. His hair was combed.
He took in her usual ripped jeans and tank top, covered by a damp hoodie, wet from the rain, and frowned.
I thought I told you to dress up? he wondered aloud.
I… She stared helplessly, floundering for words like a fish on a dry deck does for water. I—I thought you were kidding! Then her eyes went wide. We're not—You're not seriously taking me out to dinner. You're not serious. That—That was a joke!
No… He drew out the word, crossing his arms as he came to stand in front of her. It was serious. I believe I even said the words "I'm serious" after I asked. Just—you know—so you got the point.
Okay, first of all, you didn't ask, you suggested, and—
And you said yes! he cut in.
Because I thought you were kidding! she shouted back, her voice rising with guilt and desperation. I said yes in a "Oh, ha-ha, if only" sort of way! Not in a "Yes, I will go out to dinner with you" way. It—
She broke off when she saw him sigh, and close his eyed. She bit her lip, feeling guilt flood her along with the rainwater. She had honestly thought he wasn't serious. Because how could he be serious? The two of them, meeting in public? Having a meal in public? Was he begging someone to put all of the pieces together?
I'm sorry, she whispered when he didn't say anything. I—Honestly, I didn't know. I never thought—
She swallowed hard, and licked her lips. He still wasn't looking at her. And she still didn't know what to say to make it better. She knew it was hard enough for him, under usual circumstances, to be around her. They'd gotten friendly these past few weeks, friendlier than she had ever been with Kurt or Tasha or Patterson, and it had felt good. For her, and, she thought, for him. There was hardly a night she saw him that he didn't smile these days, and even with the pressure of their various and sometimes conflicting responsibilities, there was an ease to the time they spent together, the playing of their true or false game, and the learning of more about each other.
Obviously he'd wanted something different than friendship, though, and it was painfully obvious now. She couldn't stop staring at how nicely he'd combed his hair. It made her want to go jump in a river, and not come back out. Why had she thought he had been kidding? Of course he would be serious about something like this. Of course he would want to look his best for her.
I… I am hungry, though, she tried weakly, inching towards his turned back, hoping for a compromise. Maybe we could get take-out or something? Talk, if you want?
He shook his head, and she felt her throat seize, waiting for him to turn around and storm out. He'd be well within his rights. But when he finally turned around, it wasn't to push past her. He met her eye, looked her up and down, and then finally shrugged. It doesn't matter, he said, laughing quietly. You can go like that. There's no dress code, and even if there were—I don't really care. I just want to have dinner with you.
And now here they were, stuffed into a tiny table in a restaurant that was far too small for the number of people it served, pretending like this dinner and their wildly disparate outfits were all part of the plan. The waitress came by to distribute menus, and fill their water glasses, and list off the specials. When she asked if they wanted any wine or drinks for the table, he glanced over at her.
You like white wines, he said, and passed the list to her. You pick.
Her eyes narrowed as she took it, suspicious of him now. He smiled benignly across from her, waiting for choice. She had only had wine once since the start of her new life, preferring beer or harder alcohols, and though it had been a red wine and she hadn't like it, there was something about him tonight that made her think he was trying to trip her up.
False, she said, and gave the list back to him. Find a nice red, would you? You like those.
He tried to hide it, burying his nose in the list and conferring with the waitress, but she caught a flash of his smile, and she smiled herself, settling back in her seat. The only thing that was better than catching him out on one of his purposeful lies was the way he looked at her when she did it: proud. Like he always expected her to come out on top, always expected her to be smarter than the rest, even him.
So, she said, after the wine had been poured (a rather good one, in her limited opinion) and they had placed their orders. Why'd you bring me here?
He shrugged, reaching for his glass, and taking a small sip. You wanted to know how we met.
She blinked, and immediately bent forward, disrupting some of her silverware in her eagerness to understand, to be closer to the truth.
He held out a hand, calming her. Don't get excited, it wasn't here.
She frowned, and wilted a little. She glanced around the tiny, boisterous restaurant. It was actually lucky their table was so cramped—they could hear one another easily in such a tight space, and with so much noise around them from the other diners, she figured their conversation was mostly covered up. Where, then? she asked. Where did we meet?
He shrugged. I don't know. You tell me.
She sighed heavily, flopping back into her booth seat with an audible slump. Despite the information it had brought her, despite the friendship it had given her, she was beginning to regret having ever started that true or false game with him.
Can't you just tell me? Just like once? Like a normal person?
He laughed. Like a normal person? Since when are either of us normal people?
She couldn't exactly argue with that. She took a piece of bread from the basket between then and worried over it, ripping it into smaller and smaller pieces to eat. She didn't know where to start. She had been so focused on learning about her past that she'd hardly asked him anything about his—at least not anything that did not primarily have to do with her.
She ran through the information at hand, trying to think of something relevant. She was about to give up, and threaten him with whatever she could to get the truth, when one detail made her stop and think.
We met in the Army, she said, abandoning her last bit of bread to hold onto the table so she wouldn't jump out of her seat in excitement. Finally, she was unraveling things.
But he didn't answer True or False right away. He shifted his chin from side to side, messing with his jaw. He did that sometimes, when he was puzzling over what to say.
You have to answer, she reminded him sternly when he still didn't say anything after a few seconds.
I know, he replied. He reached out a finger to touch the spoon set on his right. He rubbed the silver there for a moment. But it might help your cause if you were a little more specific.
I can't be specific, she reminded him through gritted teeth, but he waved her away with an encouraging, Come on. Try.
She drew in a breath. Fine, she muttered, marshaling her thoughts. She thought again of the things she explicitly knew about herself—and the things she explicitly knew about him. One list was rather long, the other rather short. She knew she had been in the Army, but him…
Okay, she said, looking up. We met while I was in the Army.
He nodded. True. He looked clearly pleased with her progress, but she was not. They had been here at least ten minutes and this was all she'd gotten so far? She frowned. It wasn't worth it.
Can I propose something? she asked.
A few weeks ago, the look he gave her would have been wary. But tonight, he only seemed intrigued. Sure. What do you propose?
For every true-or-false I get right, I get to ask you a real question, and you have to answer.
He tilted his head to the side, considering this. And? What's in it for me?
She bit on the inside of her lower lip. It was true, there wasn't anything in it for him, nothing except rehashing the past. Which, at times, cheered him, she knew. But it also hurt him. She had to think of something that would make this worthwhile for him, something that would be as important to him as her answers were important to her.
How about… For every five questions you answer, I'll go out on another dinner with you?
His bright eyes immediately betrayed his eagerness to accept her suggestion, but his words, as usual, were far more pragmatic.
And how do I know that's what you actually want? There's no point in taking you out to dinner if you don't want to go with me.
When did I say I didn't want to go with you?
He frowned, and pointed at her outfit. Do I have to remind you about how we ended up here in this state?
She waved a hand. Miscommunication. I told you I wanted to come. And… She glanced around the room, glanced at him, looked down at herself. Even despite her ridiculously informal outfit, she felt good here, with him. Nowhere near as nervous as she'd felt outside. I like this dinner so far, she told him honestly.
He sighed, and adjusted himself in his chair. Let's hope you'll still like it by the end, he muttered quietly. And then, a little louder, Okay. Start your interrogation, if you must.
She didn't waste any time.
When we met, I was in the Army, but what were you doing? How did we meet?
He stared at her for a moment, and she watched as he put the story together in his head, picking the right words to say, and the right way to say it. He drank some water, and then set the glass aside. She gave him time, knowing these weren't the easiest memories to wade through.
Finally, he said, I was in the Marines when I met you. Stationed in Virginia.
She blinked, not having expected that at all. Marines? she repeated.
He smiled a little at her reaction. Does that surprise you?
It… Yes, she answered honestly, and then she laughed a little. It makes sense, I guess, with what I've seen you do, though. But I never really thought about it. I just kind of assumed you were Army, like me. I thought that's why we knew each other. She thought for a moment. Where in Virginia? she asked, curious. She'd never been there—at least, not that she could remember.
At the base in Quantico, he answered.
Quantico… She knew that name. She thought on it—and then she remembered, just as their food arrived, and it took all her willpower to smile at the waitress and exclaim over how nice her meal looked, and not shout the only thought reverberating in her head. Once the woman was far enough away, she leaned over the table.
That's where they train FBI agents! she hissed. At Quantico!
There was something she couldn't identify in his face as he picked up his knife and fork. Yes, interesting connection, that.
It isn't a coincidence, she insisted.
I didn't say it was. He met her accusatory gaze calmly. Honestly, the proximity of you and me to the Academy is probably the only reason we're here right now.
But… We weren't at the academy.
True, he allowed, cutting into his steak. But you're rather good at finding ways into places you're not supposed to be. He took a bite. Sometimes you took me along for the ride, just for kicks.
Kicks, right, she rolled her eyes, and turned to her own food. Like I dragged around a fully trained Marine for kicks.
He grinned. What can I say? I did enjoy being useful to you.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, him with his steak and her with her fish, and for a time, there weren't any questions or statements or declarations of True or False. When they finished their wine they got more, and when they finished their food, they simply sat. It was late now; half the restaurant was gone, and they had a bit more room to spread out. When the dessert menus came, she attempted to corner him into revealing her favorite, but he shook his head vehemently. I would never presume to tell someone what sort of dessert she likes.
Finally, they compromised, because she couldn't pick anything. The pie sounded just as good as the cake, which sounded just as good as the ice cream, which sounded just as good as the homemade cookies. They got three different things, and shared them all.
While they were waiting for the desserts, she fiddled with her wineglass, and watched him out of the corner of his eye. He was more comfortable now, having been able to push his chair back once the party behind them left, and he had taken off his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair. He had on a simple white button-down underneath it, but it fit very well, and she found her eyes lingering on the places the muscles of his arms and chest strained against the fabric.
She found herself wishing she were wearing something more complimentary, something that would make him stop and stare, too.
What? he asked finally, when the silence had dragged on long enough, and her eyes had perhaps become too lazy as they focused on him.
She shook her head, looking up to his face. Nothing, she said. At another time, an earlier time, she might've blushed at being caught. But right now she simply did not care. Let him know.
Ah, well, he said, reaching for his wine. Surely that can't be true. You must have more questions for me, right? You always have questions.
She smiled a little, fingering the edge of her napkin. She did have questions, he was right. And she liked that he was offering now, to answer them. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to do any of this.
She cast around in her mind, trying to think of what was most pressing. But nothing came to mind. The food and the wine and the warm atmosphere of the little restaurant—and him—had lulled her senses. She did not feel that old desperate urgency to know. She was still curious, sure, but about the little things now. The small details. The brief moments…
You never told me how we met, she realized, straightening her back against the small booth she was seated in. You told me what we were doing and where we were, but… How'd we actually meet? Through friends or something?
I guess you could say that… He smiled, catching her eye. True or false, he offered.
She shrugged. Why not? Sure. True or false.
I met you through a janitor.
She frowned. False, she replied, lifting her hand to stifle a yawn.
He shook his head. True.
She waved a hand, acknowledging that as true, perhaps, if ridiculous, and suggested that he move on. He watched her for a moment, seated there across from her, as she reached for her wine. There was not much left, but she took a sip anyway. He eyes were still on her, warmer now, when he spoke again:
The first time we met, you put a knife to my neck and threatened to kill me.
She nearly choked on her wine. False! She all but shouted the word, and he had to shush her so the few other diners left in the restaurant weren't disturbed. False, she hissed again, fully awake now, as she leaned over the table towards him, pointing a finger in his face. False, I did not do that!
Yes, you did, he grinned, laughing now at her outrage. You cornered me in the bathroom. Like a psycho. His smile widened as he added, Kind of like Psycho, actually—have you seen that again yet?
She shook her head, ignoring whatever joke he was trying to make. Now you're just lying to make fun of me. I never did that.
He put his hand over his heart. God's honest truth. I swear. I'll swear— He glanced around, as if for something significant, then gave up. I'll swear on whatever you want, he finished. It's true.
She was quiet a moment, watching him. Then she bent forward, put her elbows on the table, and propped up her chin. She fixed him with a very hard, very skeptical stare. You honestly expect me to believe that you fell in love with a woman who put a knife to your neck in lieu of saying hello?
He smiled a little, and his eyes were kind when they found hers. I didn't have much choice in the matter, as it turned out, he murmured.
Despite herself, she smiled a little back. She let one of her hands fall from supporting her chin to rest, palm up, on the table. For a few quiet seconds, he kept his eyes on hers, without speaking. Her hand remained untouched between them. She pressed her thumb hard against the side of her index finger so she wouldn't reach out any further.
True or false, she said. I said I love you first.
He shook his head, rapping his knuckles against the side of the table. Come on. Don't be so obvious now.
What? she replied. She still had her hand on the table. She could feel her fingertips tingling with the want to be touched by his. How am I being obvious?
He could point out any number of things: the heat she could feel in her cheeks now; her outstretched hand; the way she still couldn't look away from him. He could point out how her leg had accidentally bumped against his a minute ago and how neither of them had moved.
You're being obvious because you already know the answer, he said finally, straightening his chair. It was me that said I love you first. Of course it was me.
Of course, she echoed. Her voice was distant, even to herself. She could not stop looking at him and she had just become aware that they were closer now, each leaning over the table, than they had been all night. She could feel his leg against hers beneath the table; could feel the warmth of him even through their clothes. Her hand was still lying empty on the table, but she didn't care about that anymore, because when she looked at his face, she didn't want to hold his hand. She wanted to kiss him and be kissed by him and she wanted to know what it felt like, when someone loved you so much he would follow you into oblivion, regardless of whether or not it would work out in his favor.
She whispered his name, and tried to find a way to ask for what she wanted, but before she could manage any semblance of English, the waitress arrived again, carrying their many desserts. It was a blessing in disguise, she thought, as they passed plates back and forth, and stole bites over the table. She didn't know how to ask him for these things. Besides, he was already giving her so much.
x x x
It was nearly ten-thirty by the time they'd finally finished eating, and paid, and left the restaurant. The pouring rain had stopped, leaving a faint mist in its wake, and when he offered her the umbrella, she shook her head. The cool mist felt good on her overheated skin, and with every step they took through it, she swore she was getting some of her sanity back.
He had played along tonight valiantly, she knew, but she also knew she had pushed him. She had pushed him probably farther than he would have normally allowed, or normally liked, but he hadn't said no, because…
It was me that said I love you first. Of course it was me.
She would have to keep that in mind going forward, she knew. He was incredibly devoted, yes, but it was not necessarily to her. It was to the former her, and sure, it was true, sometimes she felt them blending. Surely he felt it. But first and foremost, she knew, his loyalty was to that woman he'd fallen in love with all those years ago, and not this new stranger that now inhabited her body.
They walked along quietly, ambling back the way they'd come, and she did her best to resist every urge to sidle up next to him. Even though it wasn't raining out anymore, it was still cold, and now late into the night, and she was not exactly dressed for the weather. As they walked, she shot sidelong glances in his direction, jealous of how untouched he seemed by the temperature. He was bigger than her—she supposed that made a difference. But she still felt like he was flaunting it in her face.
When they came off the side streets, and hit one of the larger avenues, they had to wait to cross. They had been walking with a good foot of space between them since they left the restaurant, but on the curb, they stopped a little closer together. She was not close enough to touch him, but her shivering sent her rocking, and every couple seconds, she inadvertently bumped against him.
Do you want my coat? he asked, noticing.
She shook her head, just another tremble amidst the rest. Fine, she bit out through chattering teeth.
He sighed. Take the coat.
It's cold. You keep it. You need it.
It's only March. Believe it or not, I think I'll survive.
He took it off and passed it to her before she could say another word in protest, which was good, really, because she was freezing. She slipped her arms through the sleeves, and crossed them tightly over her chest. Her earlier indignation had disappeared, and she was suddenly glad he was bigger than her: there was more fabric to cover her. She wrapped herself tight and shivered in place for a moment until she was warm enough to stand still.
In the glow of the streetlight, she could see him looking at her.
What? she asked, feeling stupidly self-conscious. So what if she was cold? She was half his size.
True or false, he said.
She nodded along, an Of course running through her mind as a smile played on her lips and she waited for the statement. When it didn't immediately come, she glanced over at him, confused. It wasn't until their eyes met that he spoke.
I can't remember the first time we kissed.
Her forehead furrowed at the ludicrous statement, and her mouth actually fell open in surprise. Part of her wondered if he'd really just said that, but his eyes had not left hers, and she could see a look them, different than his earlier kindness. Finally, she managed some words.
And you called me obvious? she asked, turning fully to face him—to accuse him. But to tell the truth, she didn't mind so much. Not if this conversation was going to end where she thought it was going to end.
But to her surprise, he stayed serious, and shook his head at her write-offs. True, he said quietly. Really, I can't remember. Or at least, I don't think I can.
Her frown deepened. She clutched his coat closer. What, were you drunk or something?
He chuckled at the assumption, his eyes breaking from hers briefly. No, not drunk. "High" would be more accurate, I guess. I was in the hospital, he added to the wide look in her eyes. Morphine.
The humor immediately fell from her. She knew what that drug was for, how serious it was. Morphine? Why were you on morphine? She looked him up and down anxiously, as if searching for injuries—as if he had only just now been hurt, and she could do something to help.
He smiled tightly. It isn't like the movies, you know. We Marines do tend to get battlefield injuries every once in a while. Some are worse than others and require a bit of pharmaceutical help.
She nodded, coming back to the present, calming herself with the knowledge that this injury had happened long ago, and that he was not hurt now. What does this have to do with the true or false game, though? she asked. She wanted to ask what it had to do with their first kiss, too, but she wasn't sure she could actually get those words out with a straight face like he could.
Well, see, you never admitted it… But I think you kissed me, while I was out of it. I have this hazy memory of you being there with me one night, while I was recovering, being closer to me than usual. I know you visited me when I was laid up—private hospital rooms are another thing you were good at breaking into, by the way—and I know we talked, but… He shook his head, staring down at her as if her face might offer the answers neither of their minds could remember. There are parts I'm blank on. Conversations with you that I don't know if I dreamed or if I really experienced. Sensations that were… maybe real, or maybe just fantasies. He smiled a little, and explained: I liked you for a long while before you ever so much as looked twice at me.
Despite herself, despite him, despite what they were talking about, she found herself laughing. Why does that not surprise me?
He smiled, shrugged.
He was standing closer to her now, she could tell without having to look down at their feet. In her periphery, the reflected light on the wet pavement turned from green to yellow and then to red. They could walk across, if they wanted. But she didn't much feel like stepping away from him just now.
What did it feel like? she asked, her pride gone too, lost somewhere on that walk with his. The kiss that might've been real, or might've been fake?
I'm not sure… He tilted his head to the side as if in thought, and then lowered it a little. Maybe you could remind me.
She grinned, and then quickly ducked her head at the suggestion. Very smooth, she whispered when she could, lifting her head to meet his eyes once more.
Better be. He laughed a little, and then shook his head at himself. I'm trying my hardest here to do this right, you know, he murmured. If you couldn't already from how so very subtle I'm being…
I can tell, she whispered back. She removed a hand from his coat, and reached out for his. She squeezed it tight, and didn't let go. I can tell, and I appreciate it, I do.
She looked at him for a moment more, holding his eyes, making sure they saw one another. Then she pushed herself up onto her toes to meet his taller frame, and kissed him.
It was soft, like a half-forgotten dream might be. Light, and slow. She held onto his hand and lifted her free one to cup the side of his face. His skin was cool, from the rain, but his lips were warm. She kept hers on his for as long as she could before she needed breath.
His eyes were still closed when she pulled back. His hand was resting lightly on her waist.
She smiled at him, watching him savor it, still holding onto his hand. Her other slipped from his cheek to his neck to his chest. She pulled on the collar of his shirt gently.
Feel like you're on morphine again, Marine?
He laughed, his eyes flickering open. No, sorry. You'll have to be a good deal more generous to get me to that level.
She rolled her eyes, and tugged on his hand, leading them across the rain-soaked streets. It must be nearly eleven, she thought, but the night felt so much closer to dawn as she walked through it with him. She glanced at him beside her, and for the first time since she'd come out of that bag, she felt at peace with who she was, and who she once had been. She was not so worried, as she used to be, about who she might become.
x x x
A/N: Thank you for reading! If you have thoughts, I would love to hear them! :)