"And from your lips she drew an hallelujah."

---

The trail of littlest breadcrumbs starts with the extra cup of coffee.

Then, the occasional scrutinizing looks, which later evolve and get articulated in "Are you okays?" and the unnecessary reassurances that take the various forms of "You're going to be fine", "You're not alone in this" and here's the kicker, "I care about you".

It's one thing to think it.

But to say it aloud?

You've always had an uncanny degree of self-awareness even as a child, which makes you adept at reading people but also makes you resistant to self-denial and deception. You know it's a disservice to yourself if you were to lie, pretend: your initial investment in this was nothing more than self-preservation. They wanted access to Walter. You were just the key, to be discarded once the door was open.

But then, door opened, you let loose the biggest crumb, made the stupidest move you can make (how's that genius IQ working for you?): you stuck around.

Not only that.

You tolerate (very) early morning wake-up calls (you are not a morning person as Walter will attest to).

You do weird favors for her (you wish it was naughty as it sounds).

You went on a sting operation with her so you could keep her safe (nevermind that the shady guys you were meeting with had guns and a gene-altering, monster-transforming bio-weapon to boot).

You sold yourself to Nina Sharp for information to save a life but, more importantly (and you would admit to it if it didn't sound so pathetic), to give her birthday a shade of happy.

You stood in between her and the bat-serpent-tiger.

You came back and stayed, while the bomb ticked away.

You held her when she was all but throwing herself off the cliff of sanity.

There's no telling what you'll do next. Just that you will do something. It's a habit now.

Yes, just like ordering that extra cup of coffee. Black with no sugar.

Self-aware that you are, you know changes like these are insidious and often the most dangerous kind, because they begin in trickles, in increments so laughingly small that you overlook them, think them insignificant. And it's precisely because you think they don't matter that they elude your usually astute defenses, slip into the uncharted terrain of your unconscious and there, like mold on deliciously moist bread, they multiply and spread.

The aftermath: what was once unthinkable suddenly becomes reflex, second nature.

There may be hope for this world class, card-carrying cynic (frustrated romantic) just yet.