The door swings open to bloodshot eyes and a ravaged expression. A maelstrom of emotion rushes past the figure as he sways and she can almost swear she feels it as it flies by.
She does feel the cold that emanates from his rain soaked form. It chills.
Neither speaks, him unable, her unwilling.
Something inside her snaps; be it fear or resolve or compassion, she knows not. All she knows is that she is pulling the bewildered man inside her apartment, shutting the door behind him and leading him like a small child to the couch.
(She knows him, knows what will come after this lostness. Once it has past, the rage and anger and pain will strike and he will retreat, just as he does on his day devoted solely to the dead. He will lash and hiss and bite at any hand that approaches, no matter the intent. He will snarl like a beast in a cage, because his heart is strong and radiant and never deserves to be stepped on.
This heart does not know what to do with a stepped on heart, so it turns primal in a defense, where it will do its best to rebuild shattered walls even as they crumble around it.
Part of her fears the rage that is to come, the deep pit of blackness that will swallow him for a time. It burns and hurts her on the inside as well, to see her friend, her comfort, her shoulder, to be this way.
But the rest of her is glad. Because if there is no rage, there will only be a piece of tape on oozing wounds that cannot heal until the bile is released.)
She sits him down, throwing a blanket around his almost but not quite trembling shoulders and tucking it firmly around his body. Inside, she is fighting against the instinct to hug, to make some sort of contact, but she knows him. Knows she cannot help until the truth comes out and the anger bubbles free.
Instead, she gets hot chocolate for both of them, because it's the middle of the night and coffee will do no good for either. And she waits.
He must be the first to speak or speak he will never do.
She waits. Sips patiently at her steaming mug and watching him like a hawk until he takes that first mouthful. Hiding a smile behind her mug as she sees the warmth take affect, she sits before him on the coffee table, knees not quite touching.
(She knows that when the time arises, she will be bitten the most painfully by the darkness that will ooze. She will withstand the venom, however, just as he withstood her fire the handful of times it was she who exploded. It will hurt both of them.
Just as it will help both as well.)
Slowly, the shivering dwindles along with the contents of their mugs. Gently, she takes the ceramic from his tensed fingers, sets it aside, and takes his hands.
Finally, he meets her gaze and the response in her gut is instantaneous when she spots the water pooling in his eyes. She refuses to show any outwardly reaction though.
Wait.
"Gail cheated on me."
It's a statement. It's a plea. It's a broken croak from a kicked heart.
The instinctive denial rises in her throat.
It is quickly and effectively crushed by the way his jaw clenches and his lower lip trembles as the reality once again strikes home. His head bows and rests on the their joined hands.
And that's when he begins to cry.
She can feel the warm tears as they run over their fingers and palms, and her own slip down her cheeks, unbidden, to splash on the floor. As she grieves with him, it occurs to her that she is also crying for herself, what she has lost as well as what she could have lost earlier that very day.
In all honesty, she is truly surprised at how he has maintained this far, even if it doesn't appear so. Because this man, this soldier, loves unconditionally, even when it has the potential to hurt.
(What she doesn't know, is that part of that love for ice has died, scorched away by flames, a minute fissure in that supposed bond. And that fissure helps now to ease the pain of the surprise stab.)
He cries silently, body tense and valiant in order to contain the sobs, and she cries with him, for a long time. When he stops, it's sudden and he straightens to stare at her with bloodshot and dazed eyes.
"Andy," he whispers, "I don't know what to do."
She has to force herself to breath and she summons courage from deep inside. "You move forward. Don't look back. Grieve. Do what you have to. But don't hide away." She takes another breath before finishing. "Nick, I'm right here and I won't let you hide."
This is her vow to him, her steadfast promise, the strongest thing she can offer.
He searches her face, finds that fire that lurks, and nods once.
A silence stretches between them. Then a flicker of the boyishness she has come to adore appears and he asks slyly, "What kind of ice cream do you have?"
All she can do is giggle at the question as she swipes first at her own eyes, clearing away the cooling tear tracks, and then thumbs away his as well. The barest hint of a smile appears then, but its missed as she stands and heads to her freezer.
It doesn't fade, even as the swirl of emotion still burbling fights for control.
So they eat ice cream until they both feel a bit sick and watch late night television. There are no laughs tonight, but that's okay. Eventually, Andy sees the exhaustion creeping in and leads Nick gently but firmly to her bed, despite his halfhearted and tired refusals.
She makes him get in, pulls the covers up to his chest and tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she is sleeping on the couch.
It's a testament to how tired he is that he doesn't even put up the token argument. Instead he mumbles something unintelligible that Andy takes as a thank you, and slips beneath the waves of slumber.
She slides from the room with one last glance at his sleeping form cast in shadows, before shutting the door lightly behind her. Sighing deeply, she rests her head against the wood for a brief moment, eyes shut tight, as she does her best to reorganize her thoughts.
Then she turns and walks away, back to the brightly lit living room where she cleans a up as best she can before turning out all but the dim kitchen lights and settling onto her couch with a book. Sadness coats her movements, but she ignores it as best she can. She opens the pages, but the words blur and all she can think of is the blonde who managed to dent something beautiful.
There are some things that will have to be dealt with in the morning.
The book is quickly set aside when her eyelids begin to droop, and, on a bolt of sleep deprived inspiration, she rises. Heads back to her bedroom and slips inside silently. Stretches out on the far side of the bed, several feet of space between her and the soldier. There she falls asleep, on top of the covers, still dressed, but ready to defend.
She tumbles into sleep with the tiniest of smiles on her face.
This started as a small drabble. It ran from me.
It's still running, so I have no idea what'll become of it.
My reward for finishing this was a cupcake.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed my cupcake.