Title: In the Beginning (1/2)
Universe: London, 1993
Pairing: Joe Carroll/Claire Matthews
Rating: PG
Summary: Since she'd arrived in England three months ago, he was the only native who didn't make her feel like just another stupid American girl.
. . .
Claire was unpacking her suitcase from Ireland when she heard a pair of feet shuffling in the hallway. She looked out, hoping to see Maddie—they hadn't talked yet, and Claire had so much to tell her—but then she saw it was Kat. Her excitement immediately deflated, and she tried to slip back into her room and quickly and as quietly as possible.
"Hey," Kat called out before she could get away. "You're back."
"Yeah," Claire nodded, looking her roommate over. The girl looked like a mess—her hair was disheveled, and there were dark bags under her eyes. Claire toyed with asking what his name was, but she doubted even Kat knew for certain. That made her smile a bit. "Rough night?"
Kat scowled at the insinuation, but didn't answer. She leaned against the wall for support, and when she looked down, Claire saw there her eyes lingered on her suitcase. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with that guy of yours."
Well, duh, we're dating, Claire wanted to reply, but forced herself to hold back. Kat obviously wasn't in a good mood, and Claire knew better than to push her. "Yeah," she answered simply instead. "We have been spending a lot of time together."
"Still haven't slept together yet, have you?" Only Kat could make it sound like an accusation of bad character.
Claire couldn't even hold back the sigh that escaped. "No, Kat," she replied dutifully. "We haven't slept together yet." A second later, she thought better of that response, though, and narrowed her eyes at her roommate. Why the hell did she have to play nice when Kat got unlimited license to act like a bitch all the time? Who cared if she'd had a bad night; there was no reason for her to take her frustration out on other people and wreck their happiness. "And, you know what? I'm fine with that. It's fine that we haven't slept together. It isn't about sex with us, Kat. Not all relationships are like that, you know. He likes me. And I like him." Growing excited, she added—because she hadn't had time to tell anyone yet, and she was dying to tell someone, even if it was Kat— "He took me all the way to Ireland, okay, just to show me these amazing—"
"He took you to Ireland hoping to get laid," Kat interrupted flatly, not caring for whatever else Claire had to say. She threw a withering look to her shocked roommate as she added, "And now I bet he's feeling pretty damn stupid for having wasted so much time on a girl who doesn't put out."
He isn't like that, Claire tried to say, but she couldn't get the words out quick enough, and by the time she could speak, Kat was already gone, headed to the shower.He isn't like that! Claire almost shouted the words after her, but something stopped her.
She sat back and she looked at her suitcase, and a voice in her head asked, Are you sure?
The thought paralyzed her, and for some time she was just sitting there, staring, thinking, spiraling.
"Hey!" Maddie's voice broke through to her, gathering in strength as the other woman made a beeline to her room. "You're back! How was it? I bet Ireland was soromantic. Did you guys get to go to—"
"Can we please not talk about it right now?" Claire interrupted, trying her best to keep her voice level even as it threatened to shake. She loved Maddie most days, but right now—she just couldn't be around such unbridled optimism. "I'm sorry," she hurried to say, seeing the confusion on Maddie's face, "but I just, um, I just really don't want to talk about the trip right now." She took a breath and hated that it caught in her throat. She could already hear her own voice growing hoarse as she asked, "Can we please do this later, Maddie?"
The huge smile that had brightened Maddie's entire face just a minute ago faltered at once and then fell off. Claire looked away as she saw her friend's face darken, and grow concerned. "Oh, no, Claire… What did he do?"
Claire shook her head. She wanted to say he didn't do anything—that he had in fact been so wonderful to her—but she couldn't get the words out. She could hear Kat's voice in her head, and she bit down hard on her lip, focusing on blinking her eyes and breathing normally so she wouldn't break down over a couple insults like a stupid high schooler.
"Come here," Maddie murmured, pulling her into a hug without another word. Grateful, Claire accepted it, and ended up hugging her friend back hard. She hadn't realized how much she'd needed that comfort until just now, and she took refuge in it.
Later, when Joe called and asked if she wanted to come over to his place for dinner, she was outraged that he'd even suggest it after what had happened—but then she remembered that he didn't know. What Kat had said wasn't his fault, and so when he suggested coming by to pick her up that evening, she didn't tell him not to. And she didn't mention what Kat had said. Part of her was worried it might give him the wrong idea.
. . .
"It's not much, just so you know," he warned as they stepped on the creaky wooden stairs that led up to his apartment. "It's a pretty small building. "
"Small is fine, Joe," she replied when they stopped at the fourth floor and he took out his keys. "I wasn't under the impression that you were a millionaire, you know."
"No?" he smiled over at her. "Damn it. And I was trying so hard to cultivate that image."
Despite her lingering bad mood, he still made her crack a smile. "Maybe you shouldn't have said you were a teacher, then. It's almost like saying you're on welfare."
"I always lead with the wrong thing." He shook his head with mock regret, and then pushed open the door, waving her forward.
Her first thought was that there was hardly enough space in this apartment for him to live. It was filled—overfilled—with books and papers and furniture. Everywhere she looked, there was another pile of novels or newspapers or stack of essays.
She could hardly tell what the table looked like in front of the couch, except that it had to be sagging under all the weight, and had probably left indents in the worn old red carpet beneath it. The couch was old, too—worn brown leather, obviously been in use too long—but it was the only thing in the place that was clear of all debris. There were even piles of books by the floor, despite more than one wall being taken up entirely by bookshelves. They were full, too, and looked like they might topple if anyone tried to put anything else in them.
Joe came up beside her and found her staring. "I, um, I tried to clean, but there's not exactly space to put everything away."
Claire shook her head; she didn't care if it was cluttered. She wouldn't have cared if it were dirty. Or if it were a cardboard box. It was where he lived and it fit him.
"I love it," she told him honestly. She picked up a book at random from the coffee table, glancing at the author on the spine. Hemingway. Her eyes flew over the others, catching a couple names: Faulkner, Dickens, Brontë, Cooper… The list went on and on, she knew, and probably never ended. It would take her into obscurity, she was certain, but she was aware that he would know each and every one if she asked.
"It's perfect," she said, setting the book back down carefully, knowing that while it might be one of hundreds for her, but that it was priceless to him. Had she ever stopped to imagine where he might live, this would be it—surrounded by books and work and utterly comfortable among both.
"I'm happy to hear you say that," he murmured. He took her hand, and with a smile and a tug on it, led her through the room. "Come on. You came here for dinner, didn't you? Come on and sit."
Sitting, in fact, was all she ended up doing. She sat at the small table in his tiny kitchen and watched as he finished what he had been preparing earlier and put it in the oven. While it was cooking, he started making a salad, and when she got up to try to help, he steered her back to the chair and told her to wait, saying he wanted to do this for her himself. She sighed, wanting to remind him that he'd done enough for her already, but managed to keep silent gave in. Somehow she always ended up losing arguments with him.
As it turned out, however, the dinner was great. She had to say she was surprised he could actually cook. Part of her had guessed that much of what he'd cleaned up before she came over had been take-out boxes, but maybe not. The lasagna he'd made was delicious. For about an hour as they talked and ate and laughed, she forgot what had been bothering her and just enjoyed her time with him. He was amazing like that, she found—that when they were together, she just forgot everything bad and focused on the good that was him.
When they finished, she insisted on helping with the dishes, and he finally surrendered and let her in. It was calming, peaceful, working side by side with him like that. She felt like she could do it again, maybe even many times, and never be bored or unhappy.
Afterwards, he directed her to the living room, saying they could sit on the couch and have some wine and talk for a bit. She smiled and nodded, wandering into the other room while he fetched a couple of glasses. She explored the books and the papers as she walked around, slowly coming back to herself in the silence of the apartment and a moment alone in it.
Unbidden, Kat's words came floating back to her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to ward them off. She didn't want Kat to ruin this night like she'd ruined this day.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Joe was coming back into the room with a wine bottle and she couldn't hold it in: "Do you want to have sex with me right now?"
He stared at her, frozen, his hand still around the neck of the wine bottle. "Yes," he answered truthfully after the moment of confusion has passed. "I do."
Claire nodded, digesting that. A week ago she would've been happy with that answer. Just a few hours ago, she would've been overjoyed. She would've jumped into his arms without a second thought. But Kat's words were still swimming in her head, and they poisoned everything. "You brought me over here just so you could try and sleep with me." She almost added, Since you failed in Ireland, but even she couldn't say that.
"No, I didn't." She shot him a look and he hurried to explain. "Not… exactly," he admitted with a grimace. "I wanted you to see where I live, that's why I asked you to come here. I've seen where you live; I figured it was only fair. And we're dating—I wanted you to know the kind of place your boyfriend comes from. And… yes," he added somewhat reluctantly, "I was hoping something might happen between us if you came here tonight. I was more than hoping." He tapped his fingers nervously on the neck of the wine bottle. "Are you angry with me?" he ventured quietly.
Not being able to think of anything to say, she just shook her head. It wasn't an answer and they both knew it.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
She took a deep breath. She could feel the story about Kat bubbling to the surface—but she didn't want to dump that on him. She didn't want to sully her memories of Ireland with Kat's stupid insults.
What the fuck did Kat know, anyway? She hadn't even met Joe. She'd just heard about him, and she'd seen Claire come and go, and nothing more than that.
Before she'd talked with Kat, Claire had been seriously contemplating having sex with him. She had wanted it, she truly had. She'd wanted that connection with him—wanted to add another layer to the most comfortable and meaningful relationship she'd ever had in her life. And fuck Kat for trying to ruin that. Fuck Kat for trying to cheapen it.
She looked over at Joe, still standing by the couch, wine bottle clenched in his hands, and she knew she didn't have to tell him about Kat. Kat didn't matter. Because it was just her and him here.
"I'm thinking," she began, pushing away all other thoughts and zeroing in on him8. Again, she looked down at the wine bottle in his hand. But this time she smiled. "I'm thinking that you really must be an idiot, Joe, if you think you actually need to get me drunk to make me want to sleep with you."
And then, before he could say a word, she'd marched across the room and kissed him deeply. For a second, she didn't feel his lips move against hers, and she was scared he'd changed his mind after all—and that maybe by taking charge like this she'd ruined some plan he'd had to start their night together—but then he kissed her back.
His lips were more eager against hers than they'd ever been, and for a second, she was overwhelmed. Before, his kisses had been slow and soft and they'd petered out easily. These were fierce and probing, and she got the idea that, if he had any say, they'd never end. When his tongue slipped into her mouth to taste her more fully, she moaned, her hands moving to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt.
Then she heard the wine bottle hit the floor with a dull Thump, and suddenly his hands were tangled in her hair, pulling her closer and anchoring her to him, and she thought to herself that she had never felt anything so good as his hands buried in her hair, and his lips pressed hard against hers.
It wasn't until later that night, as she was gasping his name and clutching at his bare back and lifting her naked hips to meet his that she found he could make her feel so much better than simply good.
. . .
In the morning, after they woke late, she sat in his small kitchen wearing a borrowed t-shirt of his and watched him make her eggs and toast. When he wasn't looking, she bought the collar of the shirt to her nose and inhaled, smelling his scent. She hoped she could sneak this shirt with her when she left, to keep him close even when he was across the city. She already knew what kind of reception she was going to get, returning in last night's clothes, but maybe having something of his would make the taunts a bit more bearable.
He looked over his shoulder every couple seconds as he cooked, meeting her eye each time before looking away again.
"What?" she finally asked, self-consciously running her hands through her tangled hair and tucking it behind her ears. "Do I look that bad?" They hadn't showered last night—or yet this morning—and she knew she must look like a mess.
"'Bad' is not a word I'd use," he replied with a smile tugging on one side of his mouth as he turned off the stove and grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard.
"Ah, of course…" She shook her head, but couldn't help smile. "Mr. Literature would need something with a bit more… substance. How about loathsome, then? Does that work? Repulsive? Hideous? I vote for hideous, personally."
"I was actually going to say you looked gorgeous," he told her, setting down a plate of eggs in front of her, and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "But repulsive always works, too."
. . .
She had begun spending literally every free moment she had with Joe—to the point that even Maddie was complaining that she never saw Claire anymore. Claire tried to explain—she wanted to spend time with Joe, and she didn't particularly feel like being around Kat—and though Maddie accepted it, Claire could tell she was still upset. She was thinking maybe she'd suggest having dinner with her friend—just the two of them—when Maddie beat her to the punch.
"We're going out tonight," she announced on Friday afternoon. "And you're coming."
Claire shied away immediately, an automatic frown upsetting her face. "Maddie, you know that's not really my thing…"
As usual, Maddie didn't take no for an answer. "I don't care if it's your thing or not. You're coming, Claire."
Claire opened her mouth to argue, but Maddie gave her a look. You know you owe me, her arched eyebrows said, and Claire had to admit that she did. She'd practically left Maddie alone to live with Kat, only coming home at night to sleep—she did owe Maddie. She owed Maddie a good time; a nice night out.
"But…" Something held her back. "What about Kat? Is she coming?"
Maddie grimaced. "She is," she admitted, knowing she couldn't hide it. "Look, I know you two don't get along—"
"That's an understatement," Claire muttered.
"—but Kat promised she'd act like a normal human being. Come on," Maddie bumped her shoulder. "Just one night. Don't you miss us? I know everything's all picture-perfect with Mr. British, but we are still alive back here, you know, you can't just ignore us and hope we'll go away—"
"Maddie, come on! I haven't been ignoring you!"
But Maddie shot her a look so dark Claire had to give in: "Fine," she muttered, feeling more than a little humbled. "I'll come."
Later that night, the time they all got dressed and were heading out, even Claire had to admit she was feeling a bit excited. While she loved spending so much time with Joe, she realized now that she had missed being with the girls, too. She hadn't been out with them in so long.
She and Maddie helped each other pick out what to wear; Kat was at another party and was going to meet them there. Claire didn't mind her absence—in fact, she kind of hoped Kat would stay absent the rest of the night.
But when they walked into the first nightclub, she spotted them immediately, and rushed over.
"Look at you!" Kat called, coming up to Claire with a grin. She let out a big laugh that made Claire wonder just how much she'd drank already. "You look great!"
For a second Claire stared at her—suspended, waiting for the other half. Waiting for the shoe to drop. Waiting for the insult.
But to her surprise, it never came. Kat just grabbed her arm, led her away towards the dance floor, and in seconds, they were in the middle of the mass of bodies, dancing, drinking, losing themselves as the hours passed. Maddie came and went, and out of the corner of her eye, Claire caught her more than once smiling, clearly happy that everyone was getting along again. Claire couldn't even argue—it was nice not to fight. Maybe they could actually put that stupid spat behind them.
When they got thirsty and tired enough, Claire and Kat broke away and made their way through the throngs of people and back to the bar. Kat grinned, hanging onto her arm as she ordered yet another drink. Claire thought about asking Kat what number this was, but she wasn't even sure her roommate could remember. For once, it made her smile instead of frown.
"What are you smiling about?" Kat demanded to know with a laugh, throwing back a shot. It was at least her fifth. At least.
Claire opened her mouth to answer, but Kat beat her to it: "Oh, I know. There's only one thing that makes you smile like that." She leaned against the bar, more for actual support than comfort. "How is the boyfriend?"
"Good," Claire answered quietly, not even trying to hide her smile now. She was genuinely happy—though it wasn't all completely due to Joe. She'd never thought she'd see the day when her and Kat actually got along for any period of time longer than two minutes. But, like a miracle, here it was.
"G-oo-ood," Kat drew out the word, smirking, taking ahold of the other drink she'd ordered. Claire was impressed at how daintily she managed to sip it. "I bet he is good, isn't he?" Her eyebrows rose into arches, her lips curling up suggestively around the glass. "Real good."
Claire wished she could stop the blush that colored her cheeks at the implication, but such a thing was impossible. If it were possible, she would've mastered it so long ago. She tried to turn her head, but Kat caught her.
"Ah-ha! I knew it!" she cackled. "He fucked you good, didn't he?" She grinned, even when Claire's mouth dropped open in silent shock. "Don't bother lying, I can tell. And don't look so offended, Claire! Honestly, you needed a good lay. Loosened you right up!" Her grin widened, her eyebrows jumping, "You know, maybe I should find that man of yours and thank him personally. He's made you so much easier to deal with. He lives nearby, doesn't he?"
There was no room for interpretation in Kat's words, and they hit Claire like a slap in the face, and made her eyes sting.
"It's nothing," Claire bit out when Maddie grabbed her arm to try to stop her on her way to the door. "It's nothing. I just—I can't be around Kat. I thought I could, but I can't. I'm sorry." She ducked out of Maddie's grip and was out the door before her friend could even get a word in edgewise.
She could've walked to Joe's apartment, but she couldn't bear to be alone with Kat's words in her head anymore, or her taunting grin behind her eyes, so she hailed a taxi and begged the driver to go as fast as he could.
Joe sounded exhausted when she buzzed up, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her when she realized how late it was. It was almost two AM; she'd probably woken him up from a dead sleep. But he let her up anyway.
When he opened the door, he stopped still, looking her up and down. It was only then that she remembered what she was wearing—a short, tight-fitting sequined dress that even Maddie had confessed was "a little slutty." Joe whistled a low note, leaning against the doorframe. He suddenly looked a good deal more awake than he'd sounded when she'd first called up as he asked, "Now, why don't you ever dress like this for me?"
Even when she felt like crying, he managed to make her smile, and she reached forward to hug him just for that. "I'm sorry," she whispered, burying her head in his shoulder. "I didn't mean to come so late… Didn't mean to come at all…" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight?" Her voice shook as she asked, and with Kat's words reverberating inside her head like an echo in a cave, she was acutally scared of what he might say.
She needn't be.
"Of course," he murmured at once. He rubbed his hands up and down her back soothingly, and she sank into him, so grateful to have such a caring person to come back to. "Anytime," he added softly, and she knew he meant it.
His voice was so soft, and his hands were so warm, and he made her feel so completely safe that she just let go completely in his arms then. Before she even knew what was happening, she was shaking, crying into his shoulder, and holding onto him as if for dear life. His support didn't waver for even a second.
. . .
She waited until she knew her roommates were in class to move her things out of the dorm. It didn't take too long—she didn't have much, just two large suitcases worth—and within an hour, she had all her things packed and was headed across the city with them.
She wouldn't have moved in with Joe if he hadn't suggested it first. Over the course of that long night, he'd gotten the entire story about Kat, and once he'd heard it all, he offered at once to let her stay with him until she had to go back to the States. Claire was in the middle of saying no—that was way too much time for her to be living on his dime—when he reminded her softly just how much time she actually had left in England.
"It'll only be for half a month, Claire," he told her, hardly meeting her eyes.
The words hit her like a punch to the gut, harder than anything Kat had ever or could ever had said to her. She hadn't thought about her trip back home in months. It had always been so far in the distance, hardly real, barely even on the horizon… "Half a month?" she choked out. "That's it?"
His dark eyes were sad and weary when they looked up at hers. Silently, he nodded. And then, for the second time in twelve hours, she fell apart sobbing into his arms.
. . .
She only had seven days left.
When classes had ended yesterday, the advisors told every student to get out of the dorms and explore as much of the country as they could before their time here was up. Soak up every second, they said. Get outside and go to every place you ever thought about visiting but didn't have a chance to. Now is your chance! See every part of the country you missed out on exploring. Get out, get out, get out!
Instead, she stayed inside with Joe.
They went out occasionally—for groceries, or dinner, or for walks around the parks—but they spent most of their free time together, holed up in his cluttered apartment.
In the mornings, when he didn't have work, they made breakfast together and read for hours. Sitting on opposite sides of his worn-out leather couch, with their legs tangled together in the middle, they traded well-written lines of fiction, or surprising historical facts, and lapsed in and out of a comfortable silence.
Sometimes, she put her book down, crawled into his lap, and asked to him read aloud from whatever classic novel he was studying at the moment. She nestled her head against his neck, closed her eyes, and let his voice fill her ears completely.
Sometimes, he set his book aside, pulled her close against his chest, and requested that she teach him something new about his country. He sat behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, his eyes following along as she detailed the particulars of a certain treaty or map or a monarch's legacy.
During the nights, he read her poetry, sometimes reciting it by heart, as they lay in bed and explored every last inch of each other's bodies. They set about memorizing every dip and blemish, categorizing each other's perfections and imperfections, and locking them all away in their minds. The words he whispered in her ear, or against her skin as he kissed her, were mostly love poems. As they got closer and closer to the day she had to leave, his whispered words got progressively more tragic.
More than a few of them were Poe's life's work. Joe had shown her, over the past couples months, how to see the beauty in the late poet's work. Where before she'd only been able to appreciate the rhyme scheme, she now felt the ache of parted lovers deep in her soul. Now the words stirred her, and hurt her, and sometimes brought tears to her eyes.
But Joe was always there, holding her, kissing her, telling her things would be okay. Telling her they'd see each other again soon. His quiet reassurances were the only thing that kept her from bursting into tears each and every night.
They made love every chance they got, and even though neither of them had said the words yet, she was certain that's what they were doing. She knew now—she'd known for a while—that she loved him.
But still, she couldn't make herself say it aloud. The timing was too terrible. She didn't want to say it now and leave him to think that she'd only done so because she'd been sad or panicked or scared. She wanted to tell him she loved him when things were calm and normal so that they would both know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she knew exactly what she was talking about.
Almost every night, she thought of their trip to Ireland, and wished so badly she had told him how she'd felt when they'd laid by those cliffs together. Because she had felt it then; she had loved him then. Maybe she'd fallen for him weeks before, or maybe she'd fallen for him when she'd first met him, but it didn't matter—that day in Ireland had cinched it for her, and that's what was important.
. . .
He took her personally to the airport on the day she had to fly out. Tears pricked her eyes as they drove out of the city and towards Heathrow. She could hear the planes' engines roar as they took off and landed and flew through the sky, and she shut her eyes, bringing a hand up to soothe her pounding head. From the driver's seat, he reached over and turned up the radio as high as it would go, even though they weren't listening to anything, and then took her hand in his. He didn't need to tell her to squeeze it tight.
She'd spent hours last night crying, and both her eyes and head still ached from all the tears. They hurt even more now when she remembered how he'd cried last night, too. She had never seen a man cry before.
That was how she knew he was telling the truth when, last night, he'd held her in his arms and whispered so softly, "I'm in love with you, Claire."
She wished now that she'd recorded him saying that. She was scared she would forget what he sounded like once she left. She was even more scared that they might not see each other again, and that the love they'd found here would fade away and disappear the moment she went somewhere else.
They'd made plans—oh, they'd made so many plans—but she knew plans were nothing more than fantasies, especially now.
She put her hand to her mouth when she thought that, stifling a sob as they drove. That's what this had been, this trip, him, this perfect year: a fantasy. A wonderful, beautiful, almost unbelievable fantasy. A dream.
He held tight to her hand as they pulled into the airport parking, only letting go for a moment as they both got out, took her luggage inside, and checked it onto her plane. She turned around once her bags disappeared down the conveyor belt, and found him standing by the far windows near the entrance. As she walked back towards him, she could tell he was trying to say something, but nothing was coming to him, and so she just pulled him into a hug, as much for him as for herself.
She remembered seeing couples embracing outside the college's dorms like this—holding tight to one another, their faces buried into each other's shoulders, not saying a word—and she'd always thought them pathetic and attention-seeking. If you were really torn up about a parting, she had thought, you deal with it in private. You don't want people to intrude on your pain if it truly is pain.
But she understood it now. It was done in public because it was the very last chance.
"I don't want to go," she whispered, holding him. And then, after sucking in a breath and squeezing her eyes shut tight, she told him the words she'd wanted to say for so long, but had been too scared to voice aloud: "I'm in love with you, Joe."
She wasn't saying it because he'd swept her off her feet in a foreign land. She wasn't saying it because they'd had sex, or because he'd said it first. She wasn't saying it just because she was leaving.
She was saying it because it was true, and because it was physically hurting her to keep it in.
"I wanted to tell you when we were in Ireland," she whispered, everything pouring out now, "I wanted so badly to tell you then. I'm so sorry. I should have. I should have said it last night. Joe, I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. I'm so fucking sorry."
He shook his head against her shoulder. "Don't apologize," he murmured.
Biting her lip to hold back tears, she asked, "Did you already know?"
"I hoped."
She didn't know why that made it worse, but it did. Wasted time, she thought to herself as tears poured from her eyes as she pressed her head deeper into his shoulder. So much wasted time. Her voice was barely audible when she had enough breath to speak, but they were so close she knew he could hear her anyway. "You can come to America, you know. Evanston isn't much, but we could go to D.C. if you want, once I'm out of school, and see the capital. Or—Or I could take out some books on Poe and we can go to Maryland and Virginia, and walk around Baltimore and Richmond if you want. You can be the one with all the obscure facts and I'll try to keep up." She sniffed, pressing her face closer against his neck. "I'll try so hard."
He held her tighter. "I'd love that, sweetheart."
She lifted her face from his shoulder, wanting to look him in the eyes as she said it this time. She pressed her forehead against his. "I love you."
He leaned forward and kissed her. "I love you too." He kissed her on each cheek, starting to pull back. "You have to go. You'll miss your plane."
"So?" she mumbled, wrapping her arms tighter around him and refusing to budge. "I'll miss my plane. Then I'm stuck here in the country I love with the man I love. How terrible."
"You have to get home," he told her quietly, pulling back to look at her.
She stared up into his eyes, and saw herself reflected there. "I am home," she whispered.
He shut his eyes, but she could see the pain in them. He took a ragged breath before muttering, "You really are trying to make this as difficult as humanly possible, aren't you?"
"Don't blame this on me," she muttered stubbornly. "I wasn't the one going around intruding on lost women's lives."
"I'm never going to regret doing that. I will never regret meeting you."
"Neither will I."
"Go on," he whispered again, gently pulling her arms away and forcing them apart. He picked up her bag, ticket, and passport that she'd all let drop to the floor when they'd hugged. "You have to go, love."
She nodded, taking her things, and forced herself to give him only one last look. If she kissed him now, she knew she'd never stop. If they touched again, she knew she'd never leave. So she just forced a smile, and gave him a little wave, and walked towards Customs, looking back at him over her shoulder all the while until she disappeared around the first corner.
The line to leave the country was short—understandably—and she waited only a couple minutes before being waved forward. She set her purse on the edge of the counter, fumbling for her passport to give to the man in the booth. A piece of paper fell out of it as she was about to hand it over, and she stooped to pick it up. She stared at the paper, one hand suddenly going rigid around her passport.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream
"Miss?" The customs officer interrupted her, bringing her back to reality. He held out his hand. "I need to examine your passport if you're looking to leave the country."
Claire swallowed, keeping the paper and reluctantly handing him the small booklet. While he examined it, she stared down at the note that had been tucked inside, trying to read the words as her hands shook.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented short,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Joe had recited the poem before for her before, and she could hear his voice in her ear as she read it, as if he were still with her. As if they were lying in bed again, with his hands tracing the swoop of her back, his lips brushing across her shoulder blades. Her eyes skimmed over the poem again, this time noticing that there was writing on the other side of the paper. Her chin shook as she turned the paper over. She recognized his flowing cursive at once.
Claire—
Don't ever think it was just a dream.
We will be together again, I promise.
I love you.
Joe
She could hardly hear the customs officer as he asked her the necessary questions, peered at her, and matched the pristine image in the booklet to the red-eyed woman in front of him. She saw him reach for the stamp and was suddenly filled with panic.
What was she thinking, leaving? She couldn't leave. She couldn't go.
She couldn't.
Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to run from here, to go back to Joe's flat, to crawl into bed with him, and never leave.
She wanted to walk with him through the parks and old ruins, feeling his hand warm in hers, and his voice soft in her ear, with his laugh buoying her soul.
She wanted to go back to that street corner two blocks away from Temple Church and get lost again, and be found, and she never, ever wanted to have to leave.
She wanted more time.
But she had none—the customs officer was handing her her passport back, and waving her on—and suddenly she had to move. She had to go. And, for the foreseeable future, there was no coming back.
. . .
. . .
Author's Note: Thank you so, so much for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts! I think I will have a couple more one-shots coming soon from this universe, so keep your eye out if you're interested!
Thank you!