He doesn't touch her, because she was never supposed to be there.
Those tired eyes, long locks of deep brown and hesitant hand movements were never supposed to be there.
When he emerges from the basement—hair drenched in sweat and arms throbbing, but not sore—he sees her rise from her position at the desk. His mouth sets into a frown, but she doesn't turn to face him like he expects her to. She hardly even acknowledges his presence and barely glances at the rotary phone on the table; it's been a surprisingly slow day today, considering everything that has been happening.
It feels calm.
Worick is with some of his clients. Of course it's calm.
She walks across the room, her strides long and frantic. She stops at the door with a pause and leans her back against the frame. Her eyes are distant.
He blinks.
He takes a few steps towards her unmoving figure. She gazes directly at him, but he knows that she isn't truly looking at him. It isn't long until she is an arm's length distance away.
She doesn't say a thing and her arms are still at her side.
Past demons, he figures. He knows a thing or two about that.
She looks at him with a start when his hand lands roughly on her left shoulder.
Nicolas! she says, blinking rapidly, her eyes clearing.
He signs with his other hand, Something wrong?
Her lips form a thin line. She reaches up and touches his arm, gently releasing his grasp of her shoulder. She looks down, then up again and smiles at him.
No, it's nothing. Nothing's wrong, the words tumble out of her mouth, he sees.
He lets out a simple grunt in response.
He isn't sure when, but she's gotten closer to him. He berates himself for letting his guard down, even for just a second, even if it's just her.
He doesn't like being this close to people. Not when there isn't some sort of weapon between them.
Their noses are almost touching and her eyes flicker.
Her lips move and he feels her breath on his.
Berry? he reads. No, Barry, he realizes. He remembers those syllables she used to always mouth, and the man associated with them. He remembers her walking the shadows, with her tired eyes and long locks of deep brown that were never supposed to be there.
Her hands are trembling like she can't open the bottle, can't relax, can't just take a pill to make it all go away.
They rest on his chest and he sees them tremble, feels them tremble.
He clears his throat and repeats aloud, Somethin' wrong?
She quickly pulls her arms back.
Sorry. Troubles, mine, her hands shake.
Past demons, he thinks. He knows a thing or two about that; though not hers. And, well, his demons don't (shouldn't, really) matter to her.
They don't really understand each other.
After all, her signing is as fragmented as ever, he tells himself.
Still, he brings her shaking hands into his and they're smooth, not as scarred as his, and cold.
She breathes, gazes into his eyes and he feels her fingers grip his firmly. Slowly, she moves to rest her head against the side of his neck. She has to lean down slightly; her height matches his when she wears her heels. He feels her hair sticking to the sweat on his neck.
He touches her, because she is there.
A/N:
Originally this was supposed to be more romantic, but I decided against it since there's a lot of vagueness with their backgrounds. Uhh, yeah, hope this wasn't total shit; thanks for reading!