We'll meet again
don't know where, don't know when
but I know we'll meet again.
He doesn't move for a long time. Not until the last notes of the score tinkle out and the tremor in his hand eases to an unnatural stillness. When he moves, it's to the windows. He pulls the curtains shut, creating a veil between them and the world, blocking out the shadows that threaten to overcome them. A draught crawls under the window and he shivers. The night is cold.
She hasn't moved.
He isn't sure whether to snap her out of it or let her come around herself. At times like this in the past, he was rarely around for the aftermath. He was there for the swelling reds and yellows and blacks of violence and terror and blood. Sometimes, he was around for the relief and celebration after a battle that didn't end in casualty. He was rarely present after a loss. Once or twice, maybe. But when it comes to losses, she's always picked herself up.
Tonight, he wants to be here for her. Except he's barely present in the room himself. His mind is in the past, playing with the images of dark nights in motels and cells and cars and the burn of ropes around his wrists that melt into the hard steel of police handcuffs and all the while the searing guilt that threatens to eat him alive is plaguing him, because this is his fault, he thinks, he could have stopped it, if he was better, if he was quicker, if, if, if...
When she comes back, she brings him with her, the sound of her voice leading him out of the darkness. "It's going to be okay," she says. It's the first sign she's given since the music started that she hasn't slipped into a state of paralysis.
He raises his eyes to meet hers.
"It is," she emphasises. She's trying to convince them both. He nods.
"Of course," he says. "We've managed worse."
She presses her lips in something resembling a smile and nods. He crosses the room and takes her quickly in his arms. She sinks into him, wrapping her arms around him as he pulls her into his chest. He feels her nose against the fabric of his shirt, her forehead pressed to the base of his neck. He knows she can hear his heartbeat, and he wonders if it sounds to her as fast as it feels to him.
He runs his hands along her bare forearms. There are goosebumps tracing her flesh.
The fire is lit and the heating is on, but neither of them can feel warmth during the night.
So will you please say hello
to the folks that I know
tell them I won't be long.