Title: The Past Is Past
Summary: She looked relaxed and happy and envy filled him.
A/N: Not quite sure what this is…I needed to write and nothing came to mind. Hence…..this. Hm. Probably far more angsty than it needs to be but I felt in the mood to write moody + atmospheric but not for my favourite couple. This may get deleted.
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He'd heard the laugh first of all, then the sarcastic comment that came afterwards (it always did).
Her tone, that Chicagoan drawl, was so distinctive (implanted on his memory, printed and refusing to fade) that he could recognise it even after all the years that had passed by him, by them, by their remains of a relationship.
He should have known it was a bad idea; returning to places left behind long ago always was. But there was a conference (not important to the team - he'd volunteered and they all knew why) and it was here and so was she and the hundreds of reasons why he shouldn't go drifted from his mind. He'd boarded the plane (a smile to the air hostess, awkwardly eating the sole allocated snack his trip afforded him) unsure of what he expected, what he wanted to gain from reminding himself of what he'd lost.
The meeting had been even less than expected – accounts and billings and systems whose names he couldn't care enough to remember. She hadn't been there (he was almost glad – it meant he didn't see the pity that would have been evident – pity for him and his hopes that had turned to dust) and he was back at the airport, less than twenty fours later than when he'd arrived. He navigated the crowds with an irritation he didn't realise he bore – he seemed to encounter every tourist possible, along with their towers of suitcases – he veered into a generic bookstore that seemed relatively quiet and dodging yet another vacationer with a obscene amount of luggage, he headed to what appeared to be the biography section. His eyes cast over the titles, he barely comprehended the names or the people whose life stories he briefly glanced over – he picked up one ("The Story of Harry Houdini") and sneered, setting it back down with a thud and childishly hiding it behind a volume about an SAS military sniper.
And then.
He'd hoped he'd imagined it (again) and that the odds were so unlikely (3,000,546,444 to 1; he'd worked it out one evening when he was unable to sleep and thinking too much of her) that it was impossible. But yet, he'd sidled around the next bookcase and his eyes found her in a moment (and he hated himself for the man he'd become, watching her, if only for a second) Her hair was secured in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on her head; she was clearly looking intently at the stacks of books in front of her, searching for something (not him) Thankfully, whatever had caused that laugh had left her alone for a moment as she perused the shelves (he refused to think of the aforementioned person to have been Him - he couldn't have seen them like that - content and safe and together) She looked relaxed and happy and envy filled him. He returned to his prior position, hidden behind biographies (letters F to L) grabbed a non-descript tome and decided to plot his hasty exit, only to turn into Her, face to face.
If he could say her one thing of their accidental encounter, it would be that she recovered well from the shock of seeing him. There was the briefest flicker of surprise that flashed over her face which disappeared as fast as it had arrived.
"Marcus!" Her voice was too happy, too relaxed, too indifferent..
"Hey." Husky voiced, he replied and realised that there was nothing to say, nothing that would make this okay (for him) and nothing that he would be able to take from this and finally say done.
There was a moment of awkwardness - her gaze fell to the floor and he wanted to scream to break the tension. She looked back up, her eyes warm and full of something (they shined and he knew it wasn't because of him) "How are you?" She asked and it was genuine – he hated himself more now for cursing her so many times. It was never supposed to be like this, he wanted to tell her, ever.
"I'm good." (He lied and she knew) "Back here for a meeting. Uh, you?"
She had the grace for a slight blush to creep onto her face, "Yes, we're…I'm….good." The correction wasn't necessary – he knew. Gossip spread in the bureau like wildfire and whether he wanted to hear it or not (he didn't) he had been updated on her changed marital status years ago.
"I heard you guys got married." He hadn't realise the words had left his mouth until he saw her curt nod, the slight shock (and the smile she tried to hard to suppress) appear on her face.
"Er, yeah…" She nodded, "Almost three years." Three years and I've been happy without you.
He'd noticed something in the corner of his eye and a grin (unashamed and brighter than he'd seen) appeared on her face and she leant down; he watched her rise back to standing, a small child encased in her strong arms. "Hey sweetie…." Her tough, no-nonsense tone took a variation that he'd never imagined her to use. Her eyes lit up as she fussed over the girl in her arms and he saw both of them in the toddler and something in him (memories, hope) died.
The little girl (all dark hair and with those eyes like her father, all dungarees and excitement) looked at him warily, retreating back into her mother's embrace. "Dadda said to come find you. Plane go soon." The toddler settled into her position resting on her mother's hip, still watching him with what he imagined was childlike suspicion.
"Okay," She smiled, watching her daughter as if it were only the two of them in the world, "This is…my friend Marcus." She indicated towards him – he tried to appreciate the gesture ("friend) but he felt hollow and empty and needed to get away. "Marcus, this is Hannah." Her voice was so affectionate, so maternal that it almost felled him. And it had been Him (with no plan, no security, nothing) that lived this with her.
"Hi." He tried to appear happy, normal, okay. Hannah seemingly believed him no more than he believed himself – she watched him cautiously. "Can't believe you had a kid." His voice sounded wistful and he couldn't stop. Can't believe it was with him.
Hannah giggled suddenly, out of nowhere and he envied her innocence. "Going to be big sister." Hannah tapped Teresa's stomach with a grin, "Bump is a boy."
He'd barely had time to react when a figure imposed into the little sphere where nothing made sense and this future was supposed to belong to him. "Marcus." Jane's voice was polite and courteous and Marcus disliked him even more for that. Jane looked younger (freer)– he wore jeans and a smart shirt which he was sure that Jane wore because Teresa liked it (his mind flooded with images of domesticity and laundry and their house, full of their pictures and their life and future) Hannah leaned from her mother's arms to squeeze her father and it was all so goddamn perfect and not his happy ending. "It's been a long time." Jane said simply, absent of malice or dislike. He'd got her, after all.
There was no response to make, no quip that would make this any less of what it was – the victor and the vanquished. "Yes, it has." He replied simply.
How's life treating you? What have you been doing? Insincere questions remained unasked and for that he was grateful. How have you survived without her in your life?
"I better go." He said suddenly, pretending to look at his watch – a lie none of them would acknowledge. He rapidly extricated himself, sans any awkward goodbyes, from their bubble that left him struggling for air (four years, he told himself and tried to remember he had a life in those years but it was pale and shallow) and he heard their conversation as he left the bookstore.
"Ah, this is what I was looking for…." How her voice was still light and carefree. She was living her life now, memories of them long gone, their encounter nothing more than a brief interlude of remembering past moments.
"Houdini?" He matched her tone, gleeful and weightless. "My favourite."
He left and tried not to look back.
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