She knew he was blind. He'd told her. And perhaps that's why there were no sassy, nasty jokes as he came wandering into the vault for the first time since he'd lost his sight. There was a bag of Chinese takeaway in his hands. He wandered towards her, listening to the sound of the piano as she played for him. It was eerily silent, otherwise.
"Planning on handling me like fine China, are we?" he suddenly asked, if only to shatter the uneasy silence between them. By now, they were always chatting away about monsters or past adventures, or tossing playful, snide remarks at one another.
"I didn't know what I could say, or couldn't," she said honestly. "How are you?"
Now that surprised him. Did she genuinely care about his well-being, or was she being a sarcastic arsehole? It was a bit difficult to tell at times.
There was no laugh or chuckle to follow up her words, however, which was telling enough.
"I'm fine," he lied so easily, which she always saw through. He was like an open book to her, no matter which face he wore. And much to his own disadvantage and dismay, she knew those cheeks, those eyes, the curl of that lip. She had seventy or more years to memorize every possible, beautiful expression he could possibly wear.
"Did my hair this morning without burning myself with a curling iron," he teased, offering her a silly grin — his own way of lightening the mood between them.
At his joke, she finally laughed softly. She waited for him to come over, fingers typing away at a keypad to lower the plasma field. She descended the few steps, coming to a full-stop in front of him. His head tilted, hazy eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban's.
As gently as possible, she lifted her fingers to his face. She was tempted to stroke his cheek, to offer him some comfort, but she wasn't sure how welcome it would be. Instead of caressing his warm, tempting skin, she slipped the pair of sunglasses from his nose, whispering softly to him.
"You don't have to hide with me. Please don't."
She tucked his sunglasses away with care, making sure not to let them get scratched as she placed them in his pocket. He closed his eyes, feeling more than a bit self-conscious in her presence. A bit at a loss, too.
He didn't speak for a long moment and she found herself sighing quietly.
"I want to trust you," he whispered quietly, his eyes pointed towards her but neither blinking nor seeing. And it was a shame. Truly. He missed the way her gaze flickered about his features, a warm expression on her face. She loved him. And if he could see her, he would have known in that moment.
"I just want you to give me a reason to trust you," he added a tick or so later, his voice still lowered and tentative. Almost timid in nature, really. But then again — everything with the two of them, lately, tended to be iffy.
In the darkness, without any light to guide him, he reached out for her on impulse. Something about it — seeing him so vulnerable — broke her in a way that she hadn't known was possible. She snatched up his chilly hand, warming it between both of hers and tenderly guiding him over towards the sofa.
There were years where they hadn't spoken a single word, times when she'd gone berserk with angry tirades about being locked up and useless, and there were also times that she chose to let him see the softer side of her. Moments when words became too heavy a burden to bear. Moments when two old friends could sit and talk. Talk of storms they'd weathered, talk of the good days they were children together, talk of their families…
And it was always in those moments, in the deepest parts of his hearts, in his very soul, that he knew she was worth all the trouble. There were very few beings in the Universe that were well and truly damned, utterly evil and wholly terrible. She wasn't among such a handful.
She was pure, at times. She was herself. Sassy, funny, but always, always with a hope for a brighter future by his side. He felt that from her — constantly. There was a new sense of benevolence that occasionally reared its curious head. She wanted to be more. She wanted to be by his side.
Suddenly it all seemed worth it.
She guided him over to the sofa, gently sitting down beside him and digging around in the takeaway bag for utensils and whatnot. Out came a few boxes and he listened rather intently as she opened his for him. A pledge of good faith, perhaps.
"Not poisoning me, are you?" he asked, teasing her with a gentle, subtle grin.
That earned a laugh from Missy, who was currently opening her own box as well, chopsticks in hand. She cast a look of longing his way before teasingly responding, "I wouldn't be so obvious if I had plans to kill you, Theta."
The name touched something inside of him, something deep and buried away, and he found himself at a loss for a moment. Instead of trying to find the right words, he chose to begin eating and take his time with chow mein.
"If I was going to kill you," he started to say, although she was joking, "it would be in a rather… fun way. Something amusing. Something unheard of. I do like to make my mark that way."
His eyes, hazy and glossed over, went rolling despite himself. He finished chewing before speaking. "You aren't as clever as you think, Missy. Why do you think I keep… stopping you, every time you try to do something witty and clever? You're too clever, sometimes. Leave clever to me. That's mine. Clever and smug are mine."
That banter is what he had missed.
"You think so, do you?" She laughed after saying that. For a moment, he simply stared — unseeing — and then a smile found his lips. It was genuine, lingering. He wished he could see, more than anything, and she came over to have a seat closer by him.
"What're you doing?" he asked, a bit alarmed by the change in position and her sudden body heat. Their thighs brushed and she patted his knee for a moment before daring to speak. "Nothing," she said defensively. "I just… wanted to be closer."
There wasn't a manipulative undertone. She didn't seem to have an ulterior motive.
They went years and years without talking. Words weren't necessarily needed. They went months fighting. They went hours staring one another down. It had been a long time, in the eyes of most, that she'd been stuck in the vault, under lock and key and under his eye and protection. But they'd also gone months talking, consoling, and rekindling their friendship.
For a moment, he said nothing. Words were lost on such an act of intimacy and care. The worst part — he wanted her close. He was so tired of losing. Losing his impossible girl, a woman he couldn't even remember now, losing his wife, losing, losing, losing.
But he hadn't lost her. Not yet, anyway.
If anything, he gained their friendship. He wanted to believe in that, but she was a hard nut to crack. He wanted to trust, wanted to love. Wanted to forgive.
But he couldn't trust her. All he wanted was for her to give him a reason to trust her. To show him that she wasn't such a lost cause. That it was worth something.
After finishing his meal, he sat back with a bottle of Pepsi and sipped thoughtfully at it. He didn't even hear her set her takeaway box aside. Not until she was touching his face, really — and by then he was quite startled.
"Can I do something?" she asked softly, her voice a mere, soft Scottish lilt.
He didn't immediately answer. In truth, he was reeling from her touch. "What do you want to do? Not going to stab me with a chopstick, are you?"
If anything, they both chuckled — even if it was a brief, momentary worry of his. All thoughts ceased, however, the moment her lips brushed his. It was tender and gentle, and he dare say, even a bit loving. He didn't known how to respond.
He lingered there, which thoroughly surprised her. She expected him to draw away, to pull back and dramatically wipe at his lips or ask if she'd gone completely bananas. Her fingers slipped into his wild curls, tugging tenderly, and she whispered softly to him. "I like your hair like this," she told him. "It suits you. Long, unruly."
His hand trailed to her lower back, drawing her up against him as he took the initiative and made quite a decision. That he wanted this — very much — and he was going to take chance on her and see where it went. For her. Perhaps he owed her that much.
And there they sat, on the sofa in the vault, playfully kissing and holding one another. They nibbled and cradled and grasped. And everything in that moment felt so right. As if it had led up to that moment for years and years. It felt good.
"I want to be good," she whispered a few minutes later, as they lay there together holding each other close. He was caressing her back and she was practically purring for him. "I want to be good for you, Theta. Just watch me. I can be more than my past."
He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, murmuring after. "You don't have to be defined by your past, Kos," he said quietly. "All that matters is now. Here and now."
A few moments passed before he said, "Stand in the eye of the hurricane often enough, calm or not, and you'll eventually be swept away." Wise words. They seemed to fit the moment. She was his storm and he'd been swept away so many years ago. When they were children, really. Children who wanted to see the stars together. He was sick of fighting it. His hearts were hers. "I've been swept away," he added a tick later, voice lowered and filled with emotion.
Deep into the darkness he'd go for her. He could only hope that she would do the same for him. But judging by the tenderness in her kisses, and in the way she held him, she absolutely would.