Thank you guys so much for all your reviews. Here is chapter 2! Please review if you can. I love to hear your thoughts.
Silence. Just that. Complete silence.
She looks beautiful. Her hair is longer, her eyes are wide open. A vision.
His hand moves on its own accord, wants confirmation, wants something, and he knows she'll vanish in a second, disappear from beneath his fingertips, but then there's contact, skin against skin, and he's staring and staring and staring, closes his eyes to force himself back into reality, he can still feel her, and when he finally opens them again she is still right in front of him and his voice sounds foreign and far away and his mind is finally giving in, this is it, this is real.
And then he hears it.
Red.
And something breaks.
It's a chemical reaction, the way he moves towards her, it's magnetic and urgent and so, so human, closer, always closer, oh my god, pulling and tugging, Lizzie, the way he crushes her to him, to feel her, to breathe her in, to finally believe it and accept it, you're alive, with no room between them, you're alive, and she's clinging to him, something to hold on to, fistfuls of his shirt and her face buried in his neck, she's waited for so long, the relief almost unbearable now, his heartbeat against her chest, and you, I do love you, she'll finally be able to tell him. She'll never let him go again.
He whispers her name over and over, has missed the sound of it, the sweetness of it, and he's afraid to release her, to put even a bit of distance between them, it might still be a dream, his mind is capable of extraordinary things, and he can survive a lot, but not this, not again. She's the only one that can save him.
He feels her pull away from him then, after mere minutes, after an eternity, he can't tell anymore, has lost all concept of time because she's here, she's here, and nothing else could possibly matter now. His head is bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, and he needs time to regain his composure but her hands are moving up his neck now, come to rest just above his jaw, testing, tracing, he looks tired, she thinks, he looks exhausted, and she tilts up his head then, makes him look at her, Raymond, and his eyes are just how she remembers them, I'm okay, they're kind and warm and loving.
"Talk to me," she says.
It's an easy request but he can't, he just can't, he's struggling with all of it and he doesn't know where to begin.
One thing he can offer. A simple phrase. A sigh, aching and wistful.
"I missed you."
He's making tea.
There are two empty cups in front of him and the water is boiling and he's perfectly still. His hands are grasping the counter almost violently, searching for something solid, something to steady himself, because she is alive and healthy and in the next room, and he is scared of the moment the realization finally hits him with full force, the moment he knows without a shred of doubt that a life without her is a thing of the past, a terrible thing, a vicious thing. They have so much to discuss and he wants to know what happened, needs to know, of course he does, but it's secondary because it doesn't make a difference and there'll be time, he hopes, he hasn't asked her yet, can barely even look at her without reaching for her, every contact replacing the memory of her lifeless hand resting against his cheek. It's all he's known for months, the image haunting him and there was a woman I loved.
He carries the cups into the living room and places them on the table in front of the fireplace, doesn't see or hear her and no, she has to be somewhere, anywhere. Quietly he calls for her, doesn't want to wake Agnes, and then it clicks, of course, Agnes, and he walks towards his bedroom and sees her then, the beautiful girl in her arms, asleep and content, and he knows that nothing could ever possibly compare to the sight in front of him. He's invisible to them, doesn't dare to interrupt their moment, just leans against the doorframe instead and stays there, observes and savors. When she notices him, she smiles and nods, invites him in because he's saved them both over and over and over, thank you, she says, and he shakes his head in response. She wonders if he'll ever accept her gratitude, even now. I have done nothing for you, except he has, he has done everything for them, has grieved and fought and sacrificed, has guaranteed her safety and well-being, has been a father to her daughter. She'll be strong for him, knows he needs time, but he has her now, has her love and loyalty and trust, and she'll make him understand soon enough. She wants to rediscover him, wants to make him see that she meant it, the apologies, her admission, as unfinished as it might have been. He must have felt it. She's sure of that, too.
He kisses her temple and lingers there, soft sounds and closed eyes, and tea is ready whenever you feel like it.
She stops him before he leaves the room.
"Stay with us."
This is familiar.
He's pictured this many times, escapes to it when the need for comfort becomes too strong, the warmth of her, her presence, it's how he survived after she was gone, but the reality of it almost destroys him. She looks at him differently now, as if she's finally arrived, as if she couldn't have handled their separation much longer, and to acknowledge it is one thing, but to accept it is another, and he is still working on the latter. He's so accustomed to not let his emotions take over, to be rational, to not hope for something better, not hope for her, and then she spoke those finals words to him and everything shattered.
And he knew. Has carried the burden ever since. Has wasted so much time.
You are going to have that. A chance at keeping his promise after all.
The bed is spacious but she stays close, her daughter resting between them, sleeping peacefully still, it's perfect, he thinks, so achingly perfect. She watches as the little girl shifts towards him, seeking his warmth and protection, and he's so gentle with her, makes sure she's alright and smiles down at her.
"As beautiful as your mother," she hears him say. A statement, as if it's the only fact he's sure of.
And she moves towards him, their noses touching now, her forehead against his, and this is everything, something that makes it all worth it, to feel safe, to feel loved, her child and him. With her fingertips tracing the lines on his face, committing every detail to memory and storing it away, the secrets, the hurt, the suffering, every line a new story, a step towards healing. With his sanguine eyes watching her, all wonder and awe, my life, a future in front of him, my heart, and a lightness he can't quite grasp now, the grief gone, and hope, just hope. A home, a family.
"Would you like me to explain?" she asks.
He's so close to breaking. Just wants her with him.
"Tomorrow, Lizzie. Tomorrow." It's all he can manage.
"Okay."
His lips are soft when she kisses him. A promise. Certainty.
It's as it should be.