Happy Birthday missDuncan - I hope you have a lovely day :)
And thank you Joodiff, for the beta and the encouragement.
I own none of it.
Just Because
...
It's grey, dull; the weather wild and turbulent. A world of cold, gloomy misery and sullen, fierce anger stretches out before him; an intense storm obscuring and overpowering the peace of a cheerful spring afternoon.
Inside it isn't much better; warmer, but just as dark and subdued. The big, modern kitchen a characterless place of clean lines, granite counters and a sea of stainless steel.
Efficiency and heavy, soulless quiet.
The stillness of a graveyard.
A house that is not a home.
He leans against the frame of the big window, watches odd patterns of light flit across the landscape.
Heavy clouds blanket everything, damping down the natural illumination. The occasional flash of hot, seething lightning arcs through the sky, savage and brutal in its blinding fury, but only momentary in its existence. It's accompanied by the explosive, grinding clash of thunder, a sound so close and so loud that the glass rattles and the lingering, irritable grumbles echo through the house like the long-ago squabbles and endless, angry bickering.
Mostly though, it just rains.
Heavy, raging torrents that lash at the windows, the fat droplets thundering and hammering against the glass, driven by the violent force of imperiously gusting winds that whistle and howl, tearing at anything and everything in their path.
Standing as he is, quietly staring out into the abandoned, empty square of long, thick grass and the tall, leafy surround of overgrown bushes and trees, the most he can make out is a sea of blurred, heavily obscured dark green and a hint of brown in only the vaguest shape of his garden shed.
The goal post and its decaying netting are invisible through the driving, pulsing pressure of the rain; there is only the image in his mind, a sharp and bitter reminder of memories and opportunities that have slipped by, forever lost in the twisted black hole that is the past and its overwhelming abundance of mistakes and regrets.
The tiniest flash of black, white and electric blue tumbles past the window; a magpie swooping desperately in the storm, trying not to be overcome and washed away.
Just another casualty of the universe.
He wonders if it is the same one that he shares the crumbs from his toast with every morning. Probably, it won't be there tomorrow. That's a shame – he rather likes it. Likes the daring impudence of the bird as it edges closer and closer each day to steal the tiny morsels from his plate. Likes the bold gleam of audacity in its eye as it considers him before wolfing down its treat.
Another thing gone from his life.
A low grumble builds overhead, is swallowed into a deafening, rolling crash. If he squints hard enough, he can just find the yellow blur of a patch of daffodils he planted years ago; flattened by wind and rain, they have somehow survived years of neglect, stubbornly showing themselves every spring, preening in the weak rays of early sunlight.
A dash of colour, something to look forward to; a flash of persistence to hope for.
They too will be thoroughly battered and bruised by the mighty power of the storm.
He sighs heavily, shifts his weight from one foot to the other; pushes half-heartedly at the encroaching pessimistic gloom.
Lightening flickers, eerie light filling the room. The surfaces illuminate, a monochromatic gleam before his eyes.
A line of half remembered poetry from his schoolboy days.
I wandered lonely as a cloud…
His skin prickles, the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He shivers, feeling an invisible, non-existent cold wash over him, goose bumps prickling uncomfortably across his skin.
Outside in the rain a child plays, laughing and shouting as he kicks hard. A patchwork of moving black and white polygons, the ripple of the net as it captures its prey and the joyful, exuberant celebration of the little boy.
He blinks, squints through the rain. Looks again.
There's no one there.
There never is.
Not anymore.
Only old memories; tired and bitter thoughts.
Behind him steam rushes and hot, bubbling water gurgles. A hollow click echoes as the kettle switches off. Sounds so ordinary, so much a part of his world that they are oddly, peripherally comforting.
A dash of warmth against the pervading cold.
He abandons the window, tries to do the same with his thoughts. Dwelling will not change anything. He's learned that, over the years. Slowly, indeed, but surely.
There's a soft rustle of cardboard as he opens the box, the contents whispering quietly as they move inside. He breathes deeply, consciously relaxing his mind, his body.
It's not black tea he is brewing, but something that's a disconcerting shade that sits somewhere between hot pink and brilliant red. One teabag in each cup; hot water poured slowly over the top. It's mechanical movement, easy and free of concentration.
It's not his colour, definitely, but it is welcome colour in this dreary world.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The cold tap is loose again – an intolerable imperfection. Anger rises in a brief, rolling wave. Teeth clenching, he fights it back.
In through his nose and hold, out slowly through his mouth. Repeat. Repeat again.
He should fetch tools from the garage, fix it before it gets worse. He might not though – the sound… is faintly soothing. Out of place, definitely, but… soothing. It's out of the norm, a new change. And maybe that's a good thing.
The warm scent of the infusing leaves drifts into the air, works its way into his nostrils. Subtle fruit, something berry-ish. He inhales again; slowly, deeply. Relaxes as newer memories are triggered. Wonderful memories.
Memories untainted by the bitterness.
The teaspoon clinks, stainless steel against chunky ceramic as he remembers.
Warmth and laughter. Sparkling blue eyes that promise anything, everything.
Slow, but steady healing. Natural, unaffected happiness.
Heated, blazing desire; sensual, consuming passion.
Acceptance. Understanding.
Quiet, wordless moments. Unguarded moments where anything can be shared and nothing is judged. Where knots are untangled and scars are soothed with the balm of tenderness and compassion.
Companionship, with all its breath-taking facets.
And a smile he would move mountains just to glimpse.
He lifts the tag, watches as the bag revolves slowly at the end of the string. Droplets tumble into the water, causing ripples across the surface of the mug. They expand outwards, reaching and growing as they go.
Love.
It's wondrous, and exciting. Confusing too, sometimes, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. Any of it.
Not even the strange tea.
Another flash – no thunder this time – and the steam hovering in the air almost glitters, appears far more dense and foggy than it really is.
Pursing his lips he blows softly, watches the fog drift away.
He stares down at the mugs, at the brilliant pools of fuchsia resting quietly on his sombre granite counter. A splash of vivid colour in a cold, dreary world.
He blinks, sees a dash of wicked laughter in dancing sapphire eyes, and smiles.
…
She's sitting at the dining table, head down over her notebook as her pen scratches away, an indecipherable trail of handwriting following in its wake.
The laptop glows softly, the muted light washing over her, soaking into her and revealing fingertips stained with ink.
One hand holds her place in a book; the pen cap is caught between her teeth. Strands of hair that have been repetitively brushed aside are in charming disarray; she is clearly lost – deep in thought somewhere far away.
It's an arresting sight, one that warms his heart, makes his chest tight with emotion.
It's a touch of normality, of everyday life.
Understated, yet glorious.
He pauses by the door to watch her, study her. It's not something he's tired of yet. Doesn't think he ever will. There's just… something… about her. Something he can't put his finger on, has never known before.
Something that calms him and settles him. By turns excites him, rouses him; challenges and provokes him. It's arcane and mysterious, this thing, and it calls to him, is answered by something deep inside him.
He can't name it, doesn't think he needs to.
And that's okay.
He can live with it.
Wants to, even.
She's concentrating, doesn't look up. But her smile – the one that arcs naturally, easily across her lips as he moves closer, puts the mugs down – is for him, and him alone. So too is the way she blindly but accurately reaches for his hand, fingers curling around his and squeezing lightly.
Thunder crashes, the aggressive anger of the storm reverberating through the room. Brilliant white light burns for a mere second, and then vanishes just as quick.
She caps her pen, slides off her glasses and sips the offered tea. Murmurs a gentle thanks.
"You nearly done?" he asks, voice soft.
She shakes her head, sighs a quiet, regretful, "No." Stretches her aching neck, wincing at the stab of pain.
His hands settle on her shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle. She groans softly as he encounters tension, kneads it carefully, methodically.
She's warm, alive. Relaxing slowly under his touch.
Her head leans back against his chest and she looks up at him. The smile is still there, the one that's only his. And her eyes – that cheerful, vivid blue – they are smiling at him too.
"Take a break?" he suggests. "Come and sit with me?"
She is curious. "Why?"
He shrugs. Has no answer. At least, not one he wants to give. "Just… because." His hand reaches for hers. She takes it, follows him to the sofa. Settles beside him and tucks herself beneath his arm.
He breathes slowly, steadily, no longer conscious of the effort. Absorbs her scent, the heat of her body. Feels the rise and fall of her chest, watches the curve of her brows as she frowns into her mug, still thinking. Always thinking.
But for the storm, it's quiet again, he muses. And this time it's gentle, peaceful. Soothing even.
She fits seamlessly against him, and into his life. He thinks they are like two mismatched halves of a whole; impossibly different, yet still improbably paired.
She shifts slightly, her slender, delicate fingers tracing over his, highlighting yet another difference – she is tiny, he is not. Yet he feels ridiculously, incredibly protected by her. Sometimes. Maybe.
In these moments.
He would fight for her, die for her. Do anything to protect her. Without a shadow of a doubt. In their other world he already has; fought for her, protected her. Been prepared to die for her.
In this one he hasn't needed to, but the sentiment remains the same. He would. In a heartbeat.
Only…
He doesn't need to. Not here.
Here the facades, the leadership roles; the professional opinions, the arguments… they all fall away. Here they are stripped bare; just the bones of who they are, what they are, and how much they mean to each other. Here there is no imposed artifice, no need to build barriers. No constraints of rank and propriety.
Here, they can simply be.
It's a balance. One he's never had before.
It's… reassuring. Calming. Possibly even good for him.
The shadows on the walls have moved and the tea is gone, elapsing with his thoughts. Grace slowly stirs, her movement easy and fluid as she puts the mugs aside and settles on his lap, facing him.
Her arms link behind his neck, her thumb unhurriedly but deliberately following the curve of his ear. Her eyes are darker now, unreadable in the failing light.
"Why?" she asks again, still inquisitive, yet tender. There is no pressure in her tone, only affection and honesty, and he loves her for it.
His hands settle on her waist, his fingers fiddling with a loose strand of thread as he contemplates her question, no specific answer available. It's not a feeling he can verbalise, not something he can adequately express. Instead he pulls her closer, folds her into his arms against his chest, luxuriating in the comforting pressure of her weight settling against him, the softness of her skin brushing against his own, and the warm, soothing heat that reminds him how very real it all is.
He relishes the way she moves slightly, tucks herself into his body. His eyes wander, picking out the familiar details in the helix of her ear, the line of her jaw. Her sweater is askew, the sleeve lost part way down her arm and exposing the constellation of freckles that disguise the top of a long, thin, faded childhood scar. The story is a funny one and a rush of memory, heated and erotic, tugs at him as he traces the length of the mark in his mind, remembers finding it for the first time.
He rests his head against her hair, closes his eyes in pleasure. Feels her heart beating under his questing palm, the infinitely tender way she nuzzles his neck, her lips the softest, lightest caress. The scent of her skin, her hair and perfume; it blends together and seeps into his consciousness as he inhales, weaving its way into his senses and capturing them like a drug. His ears pick up the steady rhythm of her breathing, a sound he searches for in the darkness of the night when dreams trouble him and he cannot sleep.
This is why.
Because it's quiet. Peaceful. Because the effortless simplicity of the moment means more to him that he could ever express.
Because the little things, the mundane, trivial things – those are the harshest reminder when they are missing. The bigger void is over time consumed by the entirety of the smaller lost moments. The daily rituals, the tiny, boring formalities that make the world turn and life go on – they mean so much more when shared with someone else.
When shared with her.
The storm is still raging, the wind is still howling; the clouds still angry and dark. But here, here in this still, quiet room there is an oasis of calm.
The clock ticks, deep and rhythmic, countered by the softer whisper of her breath and his. Her hair is the lightest tickle against his closed eye, and the heat of her palm reassuring against his neck as her thumb strokes a leisurely path along his jaw.
The glass crackles, raindrops smacking heavily against the panes; loud and staccato, yet a strangely comfortable, relaxing background tune. The water may be lashing and flooding down, but there is still something steady about it. Something that is almost musical.
They stay quiet, reflective. He savours the moment, feeling her sigh against his skin, her arms tightening fractionally more around him as her body sinks even closer. Enjoying the way she melts entirely against him.
"This is why, Grace," he whispers in her ear.
She stirs; sits up and gazes silently at him. He feels as though she is staring straight into his soul, reading everything that is stirring there.
Something around his heart loosens; he feels knots and tangles ease. In her eyes he can see a riot of emotions, a world of vibrant promises – she is the colour and the beauty that has been missing from his life. The laughter and the mischief, the flash of chaos in his ordered, functional space.
She is alive, where he was only existing.
Was.
Her fingers fiddle with his collar, absently playing as she continues to watch him, intensely focused on the moment.
She tilts her head, steals a kiss. Her lips quick, but soft against his before she pulls away again, leaving him instantly wanting more.
His arms twine around her, refusing to let her go and she smiles at him in response, her eyes gleaming, telling him she knows exactly what he's thinking. Gentle fingers stoke his hair, her thumb brushing over his temple as her mouth finds his again, this time deliberately lingering. Her lips graze over his, her arms sliding firmly around his neck. It's a kiss that's thoroughly, enticingly slow. Decadently lazy and unhurried, yet filled with the exquisitely quiet power of love and affection.
A tangle of emotions, thoughts and feelings explode inside him – like liquid colours thrown together and merging into a glorious abstract behind his eyes. It's an assault of the most intoxicating kind on his senses, like a drug, a natural high.
It's not a kiss designed to send them tumbling down that hot, inviting road of desire and want and need, but rather a confirmation of their emotional connection, a promise from the heart. It's a kiss that says I love you, and I understand.
She stays snuggled in his arms for a while longer, but then slips from his lap, getting slowly, regretfully to her feet. He misses her instantly, catches her hand before she can move, squeezing her fingers gently. The smile she gives him is like a sinking sun; still radiating warmth as it sets on that moment, but promising the beauty of the next.
He watches her return to the table and settle again to her work before getting to his own feet and moving quietly to the window. The frame beneath his shoulder is cold as he leans there, staring out and thinking.
It's still a grim and furious battle, the storm continuing to rage – any remaining daffodils now lost to the darkened sky and the fading of the day. Nothing is visible, the light too low and gloomy. Turning away, he flicks a switch, bathing the room in the soft glow of the overhead lamps. It picks out the hues and shades in furniture and books, reflecting off the leafy plant that simply appeared one day not too long ago; the fronds slip slowly through his fingers, causing a ripple along the branches and a corresponding glimmer of a dozen different greens. The colours catch his eye, momentarily fascinate him.
He can see too a hint of deep red where her slippers are poking out from under the coffee table and the teal stripe of a cardigan casually tossed over the back of a chair. A mismatched mug rests over the fireplace, abandoned by accident in a moment of deep thought.
A little chaos, a touch of character.
Evidence of life.
Paper rustles, the laptop glows; her pen scratches across the surface of the page, ink oozing into her skin. He's got another somewhere.
She thanks him as he hands over the replacement, her gaze soft and amused as he finds his own fingers smeared with cobalt blue. Dropping a kiss against her hair, he gathers the mugs and heads for the kitchen to wash them, the drip of the tap making him smile.
Thunder booms and lightning flashes, but he spares only the most cursory of glances towards the window.
Outside it is still grey and dark; a world of gloomy misery and sullen, tempestuous anger.
But inside… inside there is colour.