Title: Hold Me Tight
Author: fais2688
Fandom: The Following
Characters: Claire Matthews, Ryan Hardy, Joe Carroll
Pairing: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy
Rating: T (slight M for the last scene)
Warning: Spoilers up through 1x02.
Summary: "In the eight years since he'd left, he hadn't thought about any other women except her." This started as a Claire/Ryan fic but strayed from the path… I adore vindictive Joe.
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"You don't have to stay here, you know," he told her, placing a hand on her shoulder and patting her awkwardly. He wished he still knew how to comfort her. "We could take you somewhere else."
The hopeless way she looked up at him made him feel all the worse. "Where?" She wondered, and he knew that there was nowhere else for her to go. All the damage that could be done, in her mind, was already done. Her son had been taken from her and might very well be dead by now.
Ryan refrained from comforting her with the fact that she was still alive. No doubt she would barter her own life for her son's, and Ryan couldn't let her do that. It would kill him, too, more so than Sarah's death—her murder—had. Sarah had been his daughter of sorts, but Claire was… He searched for the right word. The closest he could settle on was wife, though he knew that was incorrect. …Still, in a way, it fit. They had a strange bond, a union forged in fear and terror and regret and guilt. They knew each other nearly as well as husbands and wives did, simply because of the circumstances that had surrounded them all those years ago. There had been no one else to turn to, no one else that understood… and so they'd turned to each other all those years ago.
She was still the only person that really knew him, even now. He wondered if other men knew her. He couldn't imagine it—he didn't want to—and yet, he knew it was still a possibility. He had wanted her to move on when he'd left.
"You should get some sleep," he murmured finally, before turning and heading toward the door. He hadn't even made it three steps away before she called out to him.
"Don't go." She spoke softly, and though it wasn't a command, he turned around at once anyway. He looked into her eyes, and he saw the truth there before she even said it: "I don't trust anyone but you."
That was all it took. They both knew he couldn't leave after she said that.
"I'm not going anywhere," he assured her.
She gave him a small, grateful smile, but her lips soon turned into a frown as she stared at the floor in sadness.
He wondered, as he made his way back over towards her, if she'd said those words on purpose. Did she only want him here because—unlike all the armed guards in every room—he made her feel safe? Or was there another reason?
Did she, somehow, still feel something for him after what he'd done?
He wouldn't lie to himself and say he didn't feel something for her. He'd felt something for her the moment they'd met, and while he'd quickly squashed that budding attraction when he discovered she was married, she had never quite left his mind. Then when Joe was out of the picture and she was still looking at him the way she used to all those years ago, he simply couldn't help himself. The attraction had flared again then, stronger and fierier than before, and he'd willingly, eagerly, let it spark and burn. The desire that smoldered between the two of them was mutual and heated for those few short months, and while it had cooled a bit over the years, the embers still hissed and simmered—for him, at least.
Ryan looked over at her as she settled into her son's bed. She looked both too large in that bed and too small. The piece of furniture was not made to accommodate a fully-grown adult, but neither did she, in her state, exactly look like a fully-grown adult. He bit back the urge to hold her. He wanted to make her feel better, but he knew that would probably only make her feel worse. And he was only here for her, anyway, to help her and protect her, not to further his own twisted wants.
She was a grieving mother and he should not think of her like that right now.
He cleared his throat, pulling up a chair as she settled into bed. He watched with a small smile as she pressed her face against the blue pillows, stroking a plush toy monkey that Ryan knew must've been Joey's favorite. He wondered sadly what the little boy was clutching for comfort now, pending he was still alive.
"Comfortable?" Ryan asked, setting down the chair and throwing his jacket over the back before sitting down.
Claire shook her head, looking over at him. "No."
He winced, moving the chair closer as he apologized. "I'm sorry. I know nothing could feel remotely comfortable right now with Joey gone." He sighed, wishing he had better news for her, or more sincere optimism. "I just hope you know that—"
"It isn't that," she interrupted, shaking her head. Her curly hair rustled against the pillowcases and fell across her face. When he closed his eyes for a moment, he could remember the way her hair used to obscure her face when she woke up in the morning. He missed being able to reach over and tuck it behind her ear for her. She did it herself now, as she should.
"Then what is it?" He wondered, watching her intently. If the disappearance of her son wasn't the thing bothering her so much, what was making her so uncomfortable?
Claire didn't answer. Instead, she looked up at him from among the pillows, "Will you come over here?"
He smiled, looking between them. He sat only about two feet away from her. "I am over here."
"No, I meant…" She blinked slowly, and he watched as she rubbed her lips together, apparently thinking of what to say. Her next words made his entire body go rigid, and caused his already-frail heart to beat faster and faster. "Will you lie with me?"
He stared at her, dumbstruck, but she didn't back down in the wake of his reaction. She didn't look away or rescind her words. She just stared in his eyes, and they silently pleaded with him. He wondered if she knew just how difficult it was for him to say no to her when she looked at him like that. He wondered if she knew how long he'd wanted her to appear at his apartment, and ask that very question.
"Ryan, please," she whispered, "you're the only one who makes me feel safe."
He couldn't do anything except continue to stare at her, speechless. His battered heart seemed to be rising in his throat, trying to escape through his mouth. He pressed his lips together, swallowing forcefully. He knew if he opened his mouth, so many things would come out that he wouldn't be able to take back. Things he should never say—never feel—especially at a time like this.
Without a word, he got slowly to his feet. He watched the hope light up her eyes; her entire body shifted upwards with his as he moved… and then it all came crashing down for her as he walked towards the door.
"Ryan, I—"
He knew she was going to call out and plead with him to come back, ask him to please, please stay with her, but he wouldn't let her get that far. He shut the door and turned back around to face her before she could even protest to the fact that he was leaving.
He couldn't leave her. Not now. Not ever again.
He still wasn't sure how he'd managed to leave in the first place, all those years ago. How had he been so stupid as to let her go? Yes, she didn't deserve him, and yes, he had only been keeping her stuck in the past, but still… She had made him happier than any other woman ever had. He should've stayed with her because of that, consequences be damned.
In the eight years since he'd left, he hadn't thought about any other women except her. He hadn't wanted any other women. And he still didn't. Still, all he wanted was her. All he ever wanted was her.
Ryan stood on the far side of the room, staring across its width to meet her eyes. He wondered if she knew that, if she could guess just by looking at him. She was always so good at guessing, at deducing what he was feeling and thinking. She'd always been good at that, ever since they'd met.
He wished he could look into her eyes and read her as easily as she could read him. He had a morbid curiosity about her life these past eight years; about whom she'd spent it with and what she'd done. He hated to think about it, but he supposed he shouldn't be surprised if he learned she'd moved on. That's what he'd wanted for her in the first place, right? That's why he'd left her so abruptly, so coldly—because he'd wanted her to forget him and find someone else, someone better. She deserved someone better.
She was sitting up now, and staring back at him across the room. He tried not to let her gaze root him to the spot, and after a few seconds, he finally managed to cross the room again. He hesitated for the shortest moment, barely meeting her eyes, before joining her on the small, narrow bed. It could barely fit one person, let alone two, but he didn't want to think about how close their bodies would have to press together to fit on the bed right now. All that mattered was that he was making her feel safe when no one else could.
To his surprise, she didn't lie down with her back facing his. Instead, she laid down facing him, her head resting against the pillow she'd pressed beneath her face earlier. Her nose was less than three inches from his, and he tried not to remember the last time they'd been this close. It was eight years ago, he reminded himself over and over again. It was eight years in the past, and therefore it didn't matter anymore. She'd probably forgotten, anyway.
When she opened her mouth and spoke, though, she proved his assumptions false and simultaneously shocked him so much that he couldn't move a muscle afterwards. He wasn't even sure he drew a breath or felt his heart beat as he listened to her speak.
"I haven't been with anyone else since I was last with you, Ryan."
She stared at a spot below his face as she spoke, which was surprising. He looked her dead in the eyes—stunned—but she didn't meet his. He swallowed, struggling for words. What was there to say to that? Ryan Hardy licked his lips, wracking his brain for an appropriate response.
"Claire," he whispered, his throat suddenly very dry and his voice low, "I…"
"I just want you to know," she interrupted softly, looking over at him now, "that I still think about you, Ryan. You left eight years ago, but that doesn't mean you disappeared without a trace." He could see the tired sadness and the early traces of tears filling her eyes as she stared over at him. She sounded so defeated, so unlike the strong, fierce woman he was used to. The woman he'd… grown to care very much about.
It hurt to think that all it took to make this once-defiant woman's unwavering resolve crumble was to snatch her only son away from her.
He watched as she stared at him. Under his unblinking gaze, she licked her lips nervously. "I, I just wanted to tell you so that you knew…" Her words petered out, unable to continue. One of her hands shifted at her side, and Ryan watched it jerk towards him before returning to her side. It seemed like she'd wanted to touch him but thought better of it at the last second. "If… If you ever wanted…" Her voice trailed off in a desperate, lonely whisper.
Though he knew he was hurting her by doing so, he couldn't help but push away. He propped himself up against the pillows, resting his back against them instead of his head. He could see the hurt flash through her eyes as he put more distance between them, but he couldn't slide back down beside her again. He knew what that would lead to. He knew what that 'if' was about. He knew what it was suggesting.
"Nothing can happen between us right now, Claire," he told her quietly, laying down the rule like it was already a law. And it was. It was a law; to him, at least. He wouldn't repeat his earlier mistakes and pull her back into the past all over again. He wouldn't keep holding her back from moving forward, moving on. She deserved her own life, untainted by Joe, the killings, and him. Ryan Hardy could only get rid of one of those factors, he knew, and if the best he could do for her was leave again, then he would.
"But don't you want it to?" She whispered, looking into his eyes even as he struggled to look away. He could feel her moving closer to him, seeking his comfort and warmth… "Don't you want something to happen, Ryan? Don't you… still want me?"
Of course I still want you. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better than to say them. If he did, things would be ruined forever. If he did, there was no turning back.
A very large part of him wanted to say it, wanted to do it, and never wanted to look back. A very large part of him wanted her so badly that he hadn't been able to think of anything but her in nearly a decade. He wondered how she could be so perceptive about some things, but so obtuse about others. Wasn't it clear to her—of all people—that she was the only person he wanted? Over the years, it had slowly been made clear that she was the only person he'd ever want.
With great difficulty, he resisted that desire that was threatening to overwhelm him. He reminded himself that she was in shock, and depressed, and grieving. They shouldn't be doing this ever, but they certainly shouldn't be doing it while she was coping with the recent loss of her baby son. Giving into temptation would not bring that little boy back home alive.
"You should go to sleep," he told her quietly, ignoring her answer while also trying to ignore the hurt that flashed in her eyes.
She looked at him for a moment more, appearing to want to say more, but eventually she turned away, rolling on her side so her back faced his. He bit back a sigh, trying not to be angry with himself. This is what he'd wanted, wasn't it? This was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Then why did it make him feel so terrible, and make her so upset?
He swallowed, staring at the back of her head and shoulders. Her dirty-blonde hair tumbled down her back in a curly and now severely unkempt tumble. He felt the sudden urge to run his hands through her hair; to reach out and pull her familiar body against his.
He blinked, wondering if she would still feel familiar after nearly ten years.
She didn't look exactly the same—her hairstyle ands some of her makeup had changed over the years—but behind all that, she was still Claire. (He refused to think of her as his Claire. She wasn't his Claire. Not anymore. He wondered, sadly, if she ever had been.) The important things about her would never change—the way she listened, the way she understood, the way she could still manage to trust him the way she did even after Joe… She was still and would probably always be the woman he'd known more intimately than any other in his entire life. They'd shared things with one another that neither had ever told another person before.
They both knew no one else would or could ever understand.
In those first few months, she told him how Joe still haunted her dreams, even after he'd been put away. She'd been terrified that he would escape and make a beeline for her, killing her the first chance he got. Even when she was awake, and the dreams had faded somewhat, he didn't leave her alone. He stalked her everywhere she went; she saw him at the grocery store and on the sidewalk and behind the teller's window at the bank. She'd tell Ryan afterwards that she had felt her start literally stop beating in her chest for those first few seconds that she spotted him, before his features melted away and another person took his place. She'd then immediately apologize, having realized a moment too late what she'd said and how Ryan would take it. Her hand would then drift across his chest, caressing the obvious protrusion that marked the exact spot where his feeble heart lay, miraculously still managing to beat about seventy times a minute. She'd bend over and press a kiss to the flat, firm skin stretched above his pacemaker and he knew in that moment how happy she was that he'd lived, survived, when he could have so easily become another one of Joe's victims.
In turn, he had told her all that haunted him. Joe had appeared in his dreams, too, but more often it was Sarah—and each and every time he was too late, just a moment too late, and he had to watch her die on the floor of her sorority house with that knife shoved into her abdomen, unable to do anything. Joe never killed him in his dreams, because dying wasn't what Ryan feared. What was worse was living with it—living the way he was living now. Knowing that he'd let more girls die because he hadn't caught Joe fast enough. Knowing that he hadn't noticed how evil he was from the moment he'd met him. Knowing that he'd left Claire and Joey alone with him when he could have turned on them both in a second and massacred them as brutally as he had with those college girls. Claire would always touch him—hold his hand, cup his cheek, rub his shoulder—and tell him quietly that it wasn't his fault. It really wasn't. She hadn't seen who Joe really was, either, and she was the one who'd lived in the same house as him, slept in the same bed. She'd made a baby with a monster and she hadn't even known. She'd looked into Joe's eyes as they'd made love—or whatever it had been—and hadn't been suspicious for even a moment.
They'd both made mistakes, terrible mistakes, but they were both somehow able to find solace and comfort in one another. They each knew how the guilt felt; they each knew that no one else understood. And so they fell into something together, something that felt so good and so right at the time, but haunted them both to this day as badly as the memory—and now the reality—of Joe haunted them after they learned what he truly was.
Barely wasting a moment for thought, Ryan reached out tentatively now, placing his hand on her shoulder. He could feel her stiffen beneath his touch, and just as he was about to withdraw his hand, she put hers on top of it. He didn't move his hand as she slipped her knuckles between his, twining their fingers together. A silent minute passed before she spoke.
"You'll stay with me tonight?" She whispered quietly, never moving or turning to look at his face.
He nodded. "Yes, I'll stay."
He heard her relieved exhale, and he closed his eyes at the sound. He missed hearing her breathe. He missed hearing her voice and holding her hand and lying next to her in bed. He couldn't believe it'd been eight years.
"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly with hers. Their knuckles pressed against one another's painfully, but neither complained nor let go.
He swallowed roughly at the thanks, nodding in reply as if thinking she could see him and understand. He had no idea what to say, and so he never said anything at all.
Hours later, when he finally managed to exhaust himself enough to reel in his wandering mind, she had fallen asleep. He could tell because, even though he wasn't facing her, he could hear the soft, even rhythm of her breathing, and he could see her chest and stomach move as she inhaled and exhaled slowly.
He blinked steadily down at her, feeling his eyes grow cloudy along with his brain. He knew sleep was overtaking him—as it should; it was nearly three in the morning. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He had something he had to say. He didn't care if she was awake or asleep, really. He just needed to say it, needed to put it out there so it didn't boil up inside him any longer. Actually, now that he thought about it, it was better that she was asleep. This way, he could say his piece and be done with it, and not have to deal with the consequence he'd already decided were against his private law.
Ryan shifted slowly on the bed. His body had grown sore and ever more tired from holding the same rigid position for hours (he hadn't wanted to move for fear of waking her). His hand was still laced with hers, and so he rubbed his thumb softly against her shoulder as he repositioned himself on the bed, trying to convince himself this was the right thing to do. After a few seconds, he gave up thinking, and simply leaned forward. As he did so, his nostrils were filled with that familiar scent—her perfume. He smiled reflexively, pleasantly surprised that she hadn't changed it in the last eight years. He'd always loved the way she smelled; tonight was no exception despite all that had happened.
Slowly, he bent down and pressed his lips against the top of the back of her head in a soft kiss. Into her hair, he whispered four soft words, "I've missed you, Claire," and let his lips linger for a moment too long.
He closed his eyes, inhaling her scent as he slowly pulled away. It wastrue—he had missed her. For years and years he had missed her, and he hated that this is what it had taken for the two of them to see one another again. Death stacked upon death and still he failed to tell her the truth. He didn't know how to say it. He didn't even know if he should say it—after eight years of silence, it was probably better to let a relationship fall apart on schedule than force it back into existence with a desperate declaration, no matter how much he felt he needed to say it.
He was happy she was asleep. He knew it would've been a terrible idea for this to have happened while she was awake. Her son had just been kidnapped and her ex-husband was indirectly—and directly—murdering people again. …And Ryan had made her go speak to him; something he promised her years ago that she'd never have to do again. He shut his eyes, resting his head back on the pillow behind him. He never should have made her go in there with Joe. He never should have done so many things. His mind filled and overflowed with all his past mistakes, and for the next twenty minutes, he was aware of nothing but the bombardment of his own faults and missteps assaulting his brain.
They were so consuming, so distracting, that he didn't feel a light pressure on his hand when her fingers brushed against and lightly squeezed his. He didn't hear the way her body rustled against the sheets or the sound of her voice when she spoke.
It was hours and hours later, after he'd finally fallen asleep and then woken up that he realized her words hadn't been a dream or a figment of his imagination like he'd first assumed. By the time he realized she'd actually said them, he was back at the prison again, talking with Joe.
I've missed you too, Ryan. So much.
Ryan blinked, staring across the metal table at Joe. Was he imagining that knowing look in the killer's eyes that accompanied his always-sinister smile? Ryan struggled not to let it show on his face as he studied the man sitting across from him. Joe couldn't know—not what he was thinking or what had happened last night. He couldn't. He hadn't been there last night; no one was except Claire. No one else had heard.
Ryan cleared his throat loudly, searching his mind for a question to throw at Joe to distract him before Joe started picking at his brain. Ryan knew he had to pull himself together. He was going crazy—Joe didn't know anything. He was just trying to get under Ryan's skin like always, and Ryan knew he couldn't let him, especially not now that he had something to hide. If Joe found an in, Ryan knew from experience that he'd be unstoppable until he learned what he wanted to know.
Ryan was still wracking his brain for something to say when Joe's voice cut through his frenzied thoughts.
"Did you have a nice time with Claire last night?"
Ryan's head snapped up at the question, and he was met with Joe's taunting grin. It made his blood boil and his stomach twist in knots. He didn't know if he was more scared or angry. He reminded himself that Joe hadn't been there and hadn't heard anything. "What are you talking about?" He snapped, trying not to let his fear seep into his tone or behavior. He knew Joe would spot it in a second and capitalize on the emotion.
The convict merely shrugged. "I'm talking about exactly what you think I'm talking about. You and Claire. I was simply asking if you enjoyed yourself last night..." He tilted his head to the side. "Or am I not allowed to ask questions? Have the rules changed again? They're so damn complicated; I keep forgetting."
Ryan pressed his lips together and jumped to his feet to head to the door. He didn't trust himself enough right now to stay in the room and not launch himself across the table again to break some more of Joe's bones. He had to get out of that confined room before he committed another crime—or let something else slip.
He had almost made it to the door, but Joe was faster. He was always faster.
"Let me ask you... Are you happy, in a way, that I've started causing trouble again?" Ryan could see Joe's reflection smile in the glass of the door. The convict shrugged, and his expression remained pleasant, unperturbed. "After all, you probably would've never spoken to Claire again if my antics hadn't forced you two back into each other's lives..." His smile widened to a shark-like grin. "I suppose that makes me a matchmaker of sorts, doesn't it? Tell me, Ryan, have I done a good job with you two?" He propped his chin up with a hand, barely seeming to feel the metal of the handcuff that had to be cutting into his skin.
"I wasn't sure at first, you know. I didn't think you'd actually do it. I mean, we were married, her and I. I thought you'd at least have a modicum of restraint when it came to married women."
"You were divorced." The words were out of Ryan's mouth before he even knew what he was saying. He wanted to punch himself. Hadn't he told himself a thousand times not to rise to Carroll's bait? It only made things worse; never better. As if in confirmation of that thought, Joe's shark-like grin widened in the reflection of the door.
"Ah," he sighed, "we were by then, weren't we?" He paused, lowering the hand that had been supporting his chin and folding his hands together. "But you didn't wait very long after the separation was official, did you?" He smirked, tilting his head to the side to catch Ryan's eye in the glass. "To be honest, I'm surprised you didn't take her in the judge's chambers when you heard."
Ryan felt his entire body bristle. He wanted to tell Joe to shut up, but he knew it was no use. It would only make him talk more. Ryan knew he should leave, but he couldn't. He couldn't step away. He hated that, even now, Carroll could captivate him so much that he couldn't step away, even if it meant saving himself from torture.
"But..." Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan spotted Joe studying his fingernails, casually examining them for dirt as he spoke. "I suppose the kitchen table works the same as a desk, doesn't it? Same height and all."
Ryan could feel his heart beating so fast in his chest he felt like he'd just run up ten flights of stairs. He knew he had to calm down. Not only to deal with Joe, but because of his heart. He wasn't allowed to get worked up like this; the doctors had told him that a thousand times. "I don't know what you're talking about," he managed. He tried to sound convincingly nonchalant, but his voice sounded dry and nervous even to his own ears.
"Oh, you don't, do you?" Ryan didn't need to glance at Joe's reflection in the glass to know he was grinning. He knew this was the most fun the convict had had since he'd choked his ex-wife yesterday. "Let me refresh your memory... You'd been at court that day—and seen me, remember? I waved, but you didn't wave back—and then you stopped at Claire's new house afterwards, to tell her what she'd missed that day..." He clicked his tongue. "Slow on the uptake, aren't you, my friend? She had to practically order you to kiss her. She'd been waiting weeks for you to make a move; how hadn't you seen that?"
Ryan closed his eyes. He didn't need Joe to tell him. He remembered. I'm very sure,she'd said, with that beautiful smile on her face. I've been sure for a long time.
"I have to hand it to you, Ryan. You certainly don't waste time once you're sure of your purpose. I supposed I should've expected nothing less, after how you dealt with me, but, well, I guess I overestimated you when it comes to your romantic exploits." He frowned. "Honestly, though, what sort of man doesn't even show the woman the courtesy of a comfortable bed for the first time together?" He snorted, shaking his head. "You just went at it, right there, right on the kitchen table. I suppose I should be grateful you made it further than the floorboards beneath your feet..." He cocked his head to the side, reconsidering. "On second thought, maybe the floor would've been better. Easier to clean, at least." He grinned. "You two made an awful mess on that nice, shiny new table, from what my other friends tell me."
Ryan reached out a hand, putting it on top of the doorknob to steady himself. He wondered if it was possible to be so angry that he passed out. He shut his eyes. Slow down. Calm down. Remember your pulse. He didn't understand how Joe could know all of this. He had thought at the beginning that Joe was guessing—he was good at picking out the most likely probability and exploiting a person's emotions—but he was being too detailed now to just be guessing.
Someone had seen him and Claire together that first time and told Joe about it. Ryan processed this slowly, digesting it… It made his entire body shake—in both anger and fear. How long had Joe's followers been watching them? What else had they seen? Everything? Had every private, intimate moment between him and Claire been watched, studied, and now exploited? Ryan could feel bile rising in his throat at the thought and he suddenly felt like throwing up.
"Oh, have I upset you?" Joe's cloyingly sweet voice called out to him, somehow audible even over the blood rushing through his head and the deafening sound of his too-fast heartbeat. "I hadn't meant to, Ryan. Honestly. I just thought... Well, you and I are friends, aren't we? And friends have common interests that they share."
Ryan swallowed roughly, trying not to think of her. He hoped she was safe. If she was harmed—or worse—while he was stuck here in the standoff of wills with Joe, he would never forgive himself.
"Tell me," Joe mused, "how has it been without her these past eight years? Did you ever catch yourself, alone at night, reaching for the phone? How many times did you start to call her only to hang up before she could answer? How many nights did you lie awake, thinking about what would happen if she were lying beside you?"
Ryan didn't answer. He knew unanswered questions only made Joe angrier, and more persistent, but he honestly couldn't speak. He had expected Joe to have his followers watch over Claire, yes, and Sarah, too… He knew he should have recognized himself as Joe's primary target, and he had, on some level, but witnessing his own life being intruded upon by Joe's cult so methodically and closely was so much worse than he had ever expected.
And what made it all the more terrible was that he knew Joe was only getting started.
"Will you say hello to Claire for me when you see her after this?" Joe asked, leaning forward over the table. Unable to look away, Ryan met his eye in the glass. "Give her a kiss, too, and be sure to hold her tight." Joe grinned, happily but with a dark twist to it. "It's a dangerous world out there, Agent Hardy. You never know which day might be your last." The right side of his mouth tipped up higher than his left. "Or hers."
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Author's Note: So the ending to this fic turned out A LOT different than I first had planned. This was supposed to be a rather light fic—not exactly happy, but certainly not dark at the end like it ended up. Originally, I just had it ending with Ryan and Claire falling asleep beside one another. I'm still not sure how I feel the last scene. I would love to hear your thoughts—does it fit or no?
Thank you all very much for reading. Reviews would be greatly appreciated, for this was my first foray into writing for both Claire and Ryan, and Joe, and The Following as a fandom. I hope this first attempt wasn't too terrible. Again, thank you for reading.
If you would like to see my inspiration for this fic, please delete the spaces in the following link and visit my LJ, fais2688 . livejournal .com, and send me a friend request. :)