This is the first fic I've written for any fandom, and I apologize if it's a bit rough around the edges - I haven't really written fiction in what feels like a lifetime...so please bear with me :)
They'd been sitting up on the roof for almost an hour. After their conversation, she had been reluctant to go back downstairs to see the others, so she had dragged him over to one of the old chairs and was currently curled up in his lap.
She hadn't spoken a word since she last whispered okay. She was too caught up in a whirlwind of her own thoughts. Throughout the day, with each new gambling revelation, she had found herself worrying more and more about what kind of holes her street rat used to hide away in. She never realised how bad the problem was. He never let on too much, and she never cared too much either because his attitude towards it was never that serious.
But now, she couldn't believe how well a sarcastic comment or a stupid joke had managed to dilute the severity of a $700 loss over the years. She can't stop herself from wondering how long it might take for it to become $7,000, or $70,000, or daddy losing a mortgage payment.
Their payment. Their home.
She was afraid for the night that he would go to the poker table instead of their kitchen table. She panicked at the thought of the sun rising on his body broken in an alleyway instead of on his body in bed with her. She was terrified that one day he would hold the cards closer to his chest than he would hold her in his heart.
When they started dating, she had offered up a piece of herself, and she didn't want to watch him gamble it away. But when he made his promise (made his last monster bet), she believed him (and she believed in him) and she didn't want to prove herself wrong. To find that she had misplaced her faith and trust again. To be reminded that people only let you down.
As the night grows darker (and the stars seem to disappear) she can feel the doubt growing in her mind by the second, and she doesn't know what she needs to hear to quell this fear for their future bubbling up in her stomach, because she doesn't know how this is supposed to go.
She gazes up at him (looking for she doesn't even know what) and it's like he can read the question in her eyes, so he leans down to whisper the answer in her ear.
I love you.
In 1 day she'll throw open the windows of his apartment and let the sun stream in, shining a spotlight on years of bad habits and uncontrolled impulses. Together they'll clean out his apartment.
They'll throw away the bookie numbers and the scratch cards; the racing forms and sports scores. Each scribble of a statistic or calculated prediction on a scrap of paper will be destroyed. They'll even delete his internet history.
Once it's all gone she might be able to breathe a little easier.
Once it's all gone he'll look at her and tell her that the rush he gets from loving her is better than winning any race at the track. She'll pull him in close and with a small smirk tell him to prove it.
But the smile won't dissolve the fear in her eyes.
In 15 days, while looking for the TV remote he'll find a betting slip in the crevice of his couch cushions. When his fingers brush against it he'll feel an unwelcome longing slam into him like punch from a thug.
He'll remember just how easy it would be to give in to the impulse. Like the compulsion to take his next breath. Like the way his heart still fiercely pumps life around his body without him thinking about it. Only now it will feel like his heart is bursting with desire, ready to pump a familiar and deadly fire through his veins instead.
And it will be so overwhelming.
And he'll be afraid to do anything because he could do anything. So he'll stand there for a few minutes (hours, days) until the phone rings and she tells him that she's left the garage and she'll be at his apartment soon.
The smile he will hear in her voice will extinguish the flames in his blood and he will take the betting slip and go to start a different fire. He'll find matches in a draw in his kitchen and ignite the slip like he's reaffirming his promise. He'll drop it into the sink and watch it burn (the way he used to watch his pay checks burn.)
The slam of the front door minutes later will clear his mind of the smoke; let him breathe in clean air.
He'll go and find her by the door in the living room, say hello with a searing kiss, and fall into her, letting her touch, her voice, the way her body fits against his remind him why he won't fold: because no compulsion comes easier than loving her.
In 94 days he'll come home to find a message from an old bookie on his answering machine, and her crying in his bed.
Before he will be able to make to the edge of the bed she'll throw a pillow into his chest to keep him away (and she'll wish she had something harder so he would know just how much it hurts.)
He'll stumble back, tripping over sweetheart, you don't understand on the way as venom drips out of her mouth. He will feel his chest tightening and tears flood his own eyes as he watches the way she is hurting, knowing that it's inadvertently at his hands.
He won't blame her for the way her fear has forced her to jump to conclusions, but he won't be able to do anything but watch her scream through her tears until she becomes nothing but silence, collapsing against the headboard once the anger has curled up on itself and the tears have drowned her tongue.
When it happens, he'll rush to her side and try to hold her, press gentle lips to damp cheeks; let the truth bleed from his mouth in the form of soft kisses telling her that he didn't give in because he loves her.
But she will say, not more than gambling (and it will break his heart the way the words will come out of her mouth: quiet and sharp and empty.)
He'll promise through choked sobs and shaky breaths that he loves her more than anything. He'll swear, God as my witness, that he didn't gamble. That he didn't think twice about risking her when that bookie on the phone offered him a seat at a high stakes table.
He'll ask her if she believes him, but she'll refuse to look at him. So he'll cup her face in his hands and gently guide her gaze up to his.
After what will feel like a lifetime, she'll finally look up into earnest eyes.
And she'll believe him.
In 182 days Walter and Cabe will be in the hospital, Paige and Ralph by their sides. Sylvester will be alone at home, still trying to piece it all together. And the two of them will be abandoned in the garage.
The stroke of midnight will make the whole garage feel smaller. Everything will feel smaller (including his resolve.)
The stress will build up inside him and there'll be no place for it to go. He'll feel a need spark through him that will start at the tips of his fingers and rush through his body so fast he'll start to shake; his heart will become the epicentre of an earthquake comprised of detrimental urges prepped and ready to destroy his whole world.
So he'll turn to his world and take her in his arms.
They'll guide each other over to the red couch and collapse into a tangle of heartbeats and bodies wrapped tightly around each other.
She'll let him hold her, run his hands through her hair, fingertips across her skin, putting the fire in his body to good use. He'll use her body as a map of reminders as to why his history is behind him, of why he's traveling in the other direction.
In an effort to distract him from his own mind, her tongue will spin tales of her childhood into the darkness (because she was always less afraid of her own words when she couldn't see them) and he'll find comfort in her soft confessions, take each one of the secrets she's willing to give him, and use them to heal his own patchwork heart.
She'll continue to talk, him sitting audience to the soothing timbre of her voice as he counts all the ways he thinks she's beautiful (she's so smart and capable and fun) instead of counting out poker chips, or counting cards in a grimy corner.
As the minutes tick over into hours, the sounds of their eventual laughter mixing together will make the night seem a little brighter, the room a little bigger. Make him feel a little stronger.
And in the early hours of the morning, once he is calm and still, they'll slowly stand up and begin to make their way home. But before they make it out of the garage, he'll gently crowd her against the door frame, press his lips against hers, and kiss her like his life depends on it.
Because he's pretty sure it does.
In 297 days she'll be in her apartment alone, wondering why he isn't there. Wondering why he hasn't even called. Because he always calls.
She'll sit on her couch and watch her phone (and watch the door) in favour of watching the 90s TV show marathon that is always on at 2am.
She will stupidly let her thoughts wander to the worst case scenario (because for them it always felt like it was going to be worst case) and her twisted mind will form pictures of him at marathon betting sessions - pictures that she normally reserved for her nightmares.
After an hour of worrying, he'll fall through her door, skin crawling with bright lights and dark rooms and painful memories; sharp voices and melodies still whirling in his mind.
(To her, he'll look like a hollow sort of broken. Like tired eyes and remorse. Like confusion and terror because he still doesn't know how he ended up there.)
In the darkness his eyes will find hers and he'll tell her he didn't. (But he'll hate himself a little for the way that he wanted to. For the sickening way that being there felt like coming home. Because he knows that the only place he wants to call home anymore is her.)
Everything else she feels will be overpowered by relief. Tears will rim her eyes and she won't be able to help the way she runs across the room to throw herself into his arms.
Pressed up against each other he will feel the ache of her heart, her tears on his shirt as she buries her face into his chest. She'll cry harder when she smells cheap whiskey on him, the kind she knows they sell at his favourite joint (and even though he never took a single sip, it will linger on him because nothing is more potent than regret.)
Dressed in the blue glow of the television he'll press his lips to her forehead and mumble I'm sorry, I love you. She'll squeeze him tight in response (tighter than any bookies have ever tried to squeeze him for money), and he'll just pray that she'll never want to let go.
In 365 days he'll sweep her into his arms and dance her around his kitchen because he made it a year, sweetheart. He'll spin her in circles (the way he used to watch a roulette wheel spin round and round and round) and she'll laugh and smile a smile that will make it all worth it. She'll tell him I'm so proud of you and he'll say I did it for you, I love you.
And she might even say it back.
But she'll still worry. Sometimes she'll worry on the good days and the stressful days. She'll worry on the days he's traveling without her or the nights when he's lying in bed asleep next to her.
But the rug will be stable.
And his arms will feel secure.
And she will be happy.
Right now on the roof, all they have are the ashes of betting slips and the beginning of his promise. They have her head resting on his chest, his arms pulling her close and holding her tight, and they have the echo of his words ringing in her heart.
I love you.
(And right now? That's all she needs.)
If you want, you can find me on tumblr (dramatictendency)
Thanks for reading xx