A/N: How much do I love Cole? THIS MUCH.
She takes him home. As she drives, she sneaks glances at him now and then, sidelong looks, afraid to break the silence. He's staring out the window, and she can't read his expression. How does he feel about this, this being stuck in 2015? She can't really believe that he could regret the loss of his real life, but who is she to know? He's been through a lot since he started his mission. He's been through a lot since he was a boy, since she found him on the swings. Her heart twists a little, awkwardly, erratically, to think of that sweet-eyed boy.
He turns to look at her and catches her eyeing him, and his mouth twitches into a smile as though he can't help himself.
"We should talk," he says.
Cassie heaves a deep breath, and grips the steering wheel more firmly in both hands. White-knuckled.
"Yes," she says, voice heavy with portent. "We should."
"About dinner," says Cole, cutting her dramatics off at the root, and when she looks at him again he's grinning, that loose and easy grin that she's only seen a handful of times, inviting her to respond in kind. She faces front again, and smiles at a stop light.
"There are other foods in the world beside cheeseburgers, Cole," she says, and he shakes his head.
"Believe it when I see it," he tells her. Which sounds like a challenge.
"We have a lot to do," she says, notwithstanding that. "We've got so much to figure out, still. What's our next move?"
"Eating," says Cole. "Drive-thru if you want." He sounds a little hopeful.
"But—"
"Not tonight, Cassie."
She makes a right turn.
"Alright," she says. "If you're sure."
She takes him home: because he has nowhere else to go, for one thing, and because she wants him there, wants him there a little fiercely. He needs to come home and clean up and eat and sleep and she will take care of him. She reaches out to take his hand again, and he lets her willingly, folding his fingers around his and putting his other hand on top.
"You must be exhausted," she says.
"Never too tired to eat." She doesn't think that's true, but she's not going to question it.
She squeezes his hand.
"You're here now," she says, because she can barely believe it. He looks down at her hand, wrapped in both of his.
"Here," Cole says. "Now."
He follows her closely as she unlocks the door. There wasn't much point to locking it, of course— her windows are nothing but dark tarps taped over the gaping holes where glass used to be, and it would be the simplest thing in the world to break in. But old habits die hard.
"We shouldn't stay here," she says. "I'll get us a hotel room."
"I want to see," he says.
He follows her into the front room, stands for a moment with his hands at his sides and regards the marks on the floor, the eye of the blast. It throbs like a migraine to Cassie, and she can't imagine how he feels. But he seems curiously disassociated, somehow; he's standing right there beside her, but she can see in his eyes that he has gone somewhere else.
She clears her throat.
"The upstairs is fine," she says. "I guess we'll be safe enough if I lock the stairwell door. We'll get a hotel tomorrow." She takes his hand and leads him towards the stairs. "Go and take a shower. I'll make something to eat and it'll be ready when you get out."
He pretends to sniffle a little and says, "That's the most beautiful sentence I've ever heard," as he drops her hand and heads for the stairs. She can't catch a glimpse of his eyes before he leaves. She wonders if he's come back yet, from wherever— whenever— he goes. She thinks briefly of calling after him, asking him if he will shave— just for the novelty— but decides against it. Let him make up his mind what he wants to look like.
She makes him spaghetti, with a jar of sauce because it's easier, quicker. She doesn't imagine he'll linger long enough in the shower to give her time to make anything from scratch. She makes three trips up the stairs— with wine and glasses, with bottles of water, and finally with the pasta. A one-course meal. She doesn't think he'll complain. There's cheese for on top.
He's still in the shower. She goes down for another couple bottles of wine, double-checks that she has— pointlessly— locked the door, and returns up the stairs. She locks the stairwell door behind her, and tries to feel safe, but the feeling eludes her. She can't remember it, she thinks, that's probably the problem. Maybe she wouldn't recognize it.
He's left a few changes of clothes here over the past several trips, and she takes him a clean shirt, soft grey trousers, underwear. He tells her to come in immediately when she knocks on the door.
He hasn't shaved, as it turns out, and she's briefly filled with a sense of disappointment. She thinks he'd look very young underneath the stubble, even younger than he looks with it. But would she know him? She would, she thinks— she's seen him as a child, and there again that now-familiar heart-twist. There's a towel wrapped around his waist but all she can see is the scars on his torso, his arms and shoulders— bullet holes. Knife wounds. Angry arcs of a violent past.
She averts her eyes and hands him the clothes.
"Dinner's ready."
His eyes glow.
"I'll hurry," he says, and she half expects him to drop the towel and start dressing with her still standing there. But he doesn't, just stands and waits politely as she leaves. It's all of forty-five seconds before he emerges, though, still tugging down his shirt. His hair is wet and clings to his forehead. She makes a grandiose gesture in the direction of the sitting room, where the spaghetti is on the little table in front of the sofa.
"Go ahead," she says.
"You too?"
"I need a shower more than I need the food, at this point. Go eat. I'll be fast."
He looks at her a little uncertainly but heads for the sitting room. She takes her pajamas in with her and closes the door, and stands and breathes in the steam for a moment.
She has promised to be fast but she can't help but linger in the hot water, letting it undo the knots in her muscles, wash away the blood. She's not crying, though. Crying would be ludicrous. They're doing all they can. They'll get through this somehow.
Cole is here with her. She can't cry when he's right outside the door.
She can't help it, though— her eyes well up a little when she emerges into the sitting room and finds that he has been waiting for her, patiently. She can't speak, can only look at him.
He gives an embarrassed little shrug.
"Needed the company more than I needed the food," he says.
They sit beside each other on the little sofa, and they eat, and they drink, and it takes all of two bites before Cole declares spaghetti to be his new favorite thing. She laughs and eats and drinks and talks and puts aside the fact that, all protestations to the contrary, he is in fact looking at her as though she is his new favorite thing— old favorite thing? She doesn't know what the proper terminology is. She saw him as a child this afternoon, and here he is beside her as an adult, and the really ludicrous thing is— or maybe it makes the most sense, in the end— both versions make her heart twist within her as though something is trying to get out. She knows that she is looking at him with a softness that is undeniable and impossible to ignore. She can't stop. Cole has made her soft. She feels as though something is growing, as though she could sprout and flower.
He's looking down.
She adjusts her robe a little, self-consciously.
"What?"
"Your legs," he says, staring a little. "They look so smooth."
"Ought to be, with my lotion budget," she says, and takes another drink from her wineglass. "You look like you've never seen a woman with shaved legs before."
"Not really a major concern after the apocalypse," he says.
"Oh." She's quiet for a moment, then lifts her feet and puts them in his lap, over his lap, shuffles down and sideways a little till her back is against the arm of the couch and she's stretched out over it. His hands are on her immediately, before she can think about the wisdom of what she has done, and he runs his palms down her calves, trailing his fingertips afterwards. He shakes his head and sucks in a breath and Cassie can't look away from him.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"Don't be sorry. Why are you sorry?" He sounds a little angry, a little wounded, and he follows it up with, "Is that what this is? Is this pity?"
"No."
"Because if it is," says Cole, tracing his fingers up the back of her leg, "I'll take it."
"It's not pity. It's— an error in judgement, maybe." But she doesn't move. She feels hypnotized now, and everything is far away except for herself, and Cole. "I'm sorry, I— I can't quite believe that you're actually here. That you're staying here."
"I'm not going anywhere," says Cole, "ever." He slides his arms under her leg, palms flat and fingers splayed, and lifts it toward him. It looks a little weird— his bare forearms wrapped around her bare leg— and it feels a little weird. The arch of her foot is pressed against his bicep, and it's like standing on a rock. He is unyielding. He turns toward her and rests his cheek against the bare skin of her leg, and closes his eyes.
She wants to laugh, but opts not to. Probably wise, she congratulates herself. Besides, in order to laugh you need to be able to breathe, and breathing is proving a little difficult at the moment.
"Good," she says, breathlessly.
She reaches over and runs a hand through his hair, clean now and soft and smelling like her own shampoo, and he gives her a look of disbelief, as though he is not now half wrapped around her leg with his lips just under the dimple of her patella and the fingers of his right hand making slow circles in the hollow of her knee. Something unknown— nerves or giddiness or panic— loosens her mouth.
"The world is wonderful," she says, "2015 is wonderful. I mean apart from having to try and prevent the apocalypse, and losing your friends and loved ones to terrifying strangers who need to get more sunshine. Apart from that. The world is full of good things. This should never end."
"Preaching to the choir," he mutters against her knee, and she panic-laughs, a high-pitched thing that she regrets immediately. But he doesn't seem to notice, he is wrapped up in her, wrapped up around her, and she sits forward and pulls her legs back and when she is done with that, they are practically nose to nose.
He looks away first, and she lets out a breath.
"What?"
"I thought you were going to kiss me or something," she says, laughing.
He glances at her, looks embarrassed, briefly, looks away from her. "I— I want to. I do. But." His eyes are on hers again. He lifts a hand to touch her hair and shies away at the last moment. "But I want—"
"What, Cole," she says, gently. "What do you want?"
"I want you to be happy," he says, finally, closing his eyes. "You're sad now, with— everything. If I kiss you, I want you to be happy. It's—" He makes a face. "Stupid."
She's silent long enough that he finally opens his eyes to look at her, and she smiles at him.
"I am happy," she says. "Even with— everything. I'm happy that you're here."
But he still doesn't kiss her. Maybe he doesn't believe her. She wonders how she can convince him when the lights flicker and dim, just slightly, and they both send hunted glances upward, as though someone's calling him home.
"No," says Cassie, but she says it under her breath, and she hopes at first that he doesn't notice, that he hasn't heard. But he heaves a sigh after a moment, and she can feel him relax.
"No," he agrees. He rubs his eyes with both hands. "We've got a lot to do tomorrow."
"Yes," she says. Save the world. Figure us out. Which one is going to be more difficult? "We should go to bed."
"I'll tell ya, becoming a living paradox really takes it out of a guy."
"Come on." She stands up, takes his hand and tugs him up beside her. "I hope you don't snore."
He gives a half-hearted glance at the sofa, she notices, but doesn't even protest as she leads him toward her bedroom. The bed is plenty big enough for them both. They won't even have to cuddle. She directs him to the right side of the bed, meanders around it to the other and pulls down the covers.
"What are you going to do about it, if I do?"
"Don't test me, Mr. Cole."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She pauses in the act of fluffing her pillow and looks at him. "What do you dream about?"
"Usually I try not to. I dunno." He shrugs, sits down on the bed. "You, maybe." A shy, guarded glance upwards at her. "That alright?"
She hesitates, then smiles.
"That's alright," she says. "That's fine by me."
There's a little restraint, a little awkwardness as they settle down side by side, but once she turns off the bedside lamp and everything is dark around them, she feels that she can breathe. He's disappeared into the darkness— the way he always disappears— and the only flickers in the light are when she closes her eyes. She thinks about sunshine. She thinks about the world ending, and beginning again. She stops thinking.
She must be dreaming. Good things are happening— the good things she has promised Cole still exist, here in her time. There is sunshine and life and meadows instead of woods, brooks instead of oceans, and here she is in her bed and someone is leaned over her, and his hair brushes her cheek.
"This is a good dream," she murmurs.
"Happy?" whispers the darkness.
She doesn't speak, only nods, but he's close enough, he can feel it. He puts his mouth on hers, and there's sunshine and life and meadows and brooks there, too, the echoes of them— she can hear them calling like years from the past, like everything that happened to turn her into who she is. She lets it be, lets it grow and flower, and twines around him like ivy.
"This is a dream," she tells him.
"This is a good dream," says Cole.