He didn't chase after her that day.
He didn't seek her out the next.
They saw each other at meals around Anna's table, but they didn't speak. Will was sure Ravi and his wife noticed the tension, but they had the good sense not to mention it.
Will stayed away from the bunker for two days, knowing she wouldn't respond well to him hovering—still, he hated that he worried what she might do if he wasn't there.
She'd told him she wasn't suicidal, but every single one of his instincts screamed for him to not let her out of his sight.
He avoided her for two days, almost as if to spite himself. But he would have been foolish if he thought he could avoid her forever.
On the third day, he found her sitting on the rock wall outside of town. He'd been on his way to walk the edge of the bubble with Josie, taking the usual readings, but he waved her on when he spied the lone figure poised on the dilapidated barrier.
She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, warding off the constant chill that never changed. Sitting as she was, her posture was as regal as it ever was—but it couldn't hide the wan visage she wore from his sharp gaze.
He hesitated for a moment, worried about how she might not appreciate his presence—but only for a moment. She looked at him briefly when he sat down beside her, before returning her gaze the rolling meadows beyond.
It wasn't their rooftop parapet, but it would do in a pinch.
"I apologize for what I said in the bunker," she said softly.
Will looked at her in surprise. He hadn't expected an apology. He hadn't really expected her to say much anything to him. He wasn't even sure what she was apologizing for—the occasion was so rare, it knocked him off his course.
But a moment later, he realized that her gaze was averted. Studiously so, he noticed, despite the fact she was trying to make it look like she was surveying the landscape. The detachment in her eyes gave him all the clarity he needed.
She was distancing herself, putting up walls which, if left unchallenged, would soon be as solid as the rocks they sat on. She was sorry for having confiding in him in the first place, for letting him in.
She was pulling away.
"Don't you dare."
His voice was hard, and she glanced at him in surprise. She was wary; the flat expression in her eyes hit him hard, but the rock in his gut refused to let him falter for even a second.
"Don't even think about hiding from me," he told her, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. "I might have overreacted, and I may not understand exactly where you're coming from… But I am not going to let you bury this."
She averted her gaze then, her brow furrowing in the slightest of pouts.
"I'm glad you told me," he finished.
Her gaze lowered, darkening at his words. Her hands twitched the blanket higher over her shoulders, before her fingers began to pluck at the fraying edges.
"I am certainly regretting it, however." The admission was brutal in its honesty.
Will winced. "Magnus—"
"Don't lie to me Will. You've been worrying nonstop these past few days, haven't you? Wondering how I might harm myself in your absence?"
He sighed; considering he'd only just been cursing himself for falling into that very trap, he couldn't deny the accusation. "So I might've been concerned—"
She scoffed in both snide victory and derision, and his temper flared reflexively, as did his volume.
"Well, what the hell did you think was going to happen, Magnus? You drop a bomb like that, and then amscray before I even have a chance to wrap my brain around it!"
She didn't answer, her jaw stubborn set against any retort she had brewing inside.
"Do you really want to know what I was thinking when you started saying all that crap?" he demanded.
"That I was depressed, emotionally unstable, a danger to myself—"
"Wrong," he cut in. "Dead wrong." He paused, running a hand over his eyes as exhaustion washed over him.
"I wasn't thinking anything, because I was terrified out of my freaking mind."
Her features softened, but she didn't meet his gaze. He pushed on anyways.
"Hearing you talk like that… It scared me, Magnus. And to be honest, I felt blind-sided."
"I didn't mean for—"
"I know. You're my friend, I should've seen it. But I didn't. I knew you were hurting, but… I didn't know you were struggling like this." He bowed his head, and closed his eyes against the guilt stealing over him. "I had no idea, and I should have seen it—"
He was silenced by a warm touch against his arm, and he looked down to find her hand curling around his wrist. She was gentle, and the detachment in her eyes had given way to empathy.
"I should have realized it would be too much for you to handle," she said softly. "It's not fair to you, and it was wrong of me—"
"No, Magnus, it wasn't wrong," he countered brusquely. "And it's not fair to you to ask you keep all that to yourself."
Her gaze lowered, blinking heavily. She looked… tired.
"I know that, in your position, you feel the need to hide things, for the sake of the people working under you. And the fact that you're so personally invested in all of us only puts more pressure on you to hide your own pain to spare the rest of us."
She didn't say anything, but he knew that he'd hit the nail on the head by the way her shoulder hunched ever so slightly, as though trying to deflect his analysis.
"But none of that excuses me for not noticing it," he continued. "For not expecting it. I'm your friend, and the one person on the team who's most qualified to help you."
Her lips parted to protest, but he waved her off. "And before you tell me you don't need help, just let me point out that you didn't say what you did because it happened to come up in casual conversation."
She didn't bother to refute it, and he took it as a cue to continue. He did.
"For whatever reason, on some level you felt you needed to tell me. Whether it's because those thoughts frighten you, or you felt the need to prepare me, it doesn't matter. Because both scenarios still scare me."
A shadow of guilt flickered across her gaze and he put a hand on her shoulder. "I overreacted before, but I stand by what I said— I'm glad you told me."
He held her gaze, until her lips pressed into a barely-there smile that didn't come close to touching her eyes. Instinctively, his grip on her shoulder firmed reassuringly. After a moment more, he released her, bringing his hands back to his lap as they turned back to stare at the hills.
"You know," he said eventually, "a normal psychiatrist would have just listened. Hemmed and hmmed and nodded like a bobble-head."
She exhaled a huff of air—almost a laugh.
"I think we've decided long ago that normal is well outside the purview of your job description."
He mirrored the smirk playing at her lips for a split second, before he sobered once more.
"I won't accept these feelings you're having as normal, or understandable, Magnus. I won't. I can't. And I know," he continued, before she could interject, "that it might still come down to the fact that I'll have to continue your work without you. It's a possibility—maybe even a likelihood, at the rate we're going."
It was a thought he'd been having for a long time. Off and on in the first year, then flaring at certain events—like the death of Ashley, the beetle incident, Praxis… Nonstop for the past three days. And the idea of continuing on without Magnus made him sick to his stomach.
Indignation bubbled up too, joining the churning melee.
He was pissed that she would leave him to handle everything, after only three years of practice. It might have felt like a lifetime, but it certainly wasn't. And for her, it'd been barely a blip on the radar. He had barely been a blip on the radar.
What was it about him that made it so easy for her to consider leaving? Hell, even Barney—the protégée dead from something cute, fluffy, and radioactive—had decades with her before his fingernails had started falling off.
Didn't he get the same consideration?
But thinking she was selfish only reminded him how selfish he himself was being. It wasn't about him. It was about her. For once, it would be about her and her alone—not the Sanctuary, not the Abnormal world, not the planet.
Just her.
He had to make her see that death was not the way out of the dark spiral Ashley's death had thrown her life into.
Finally, he met her gaze, trapping her attention with more ease than he expected. She'd been watching him, he realized, while he sank into his own thoughts. A good sign, he thought.
"I've already killed you once, Magnus."
Their gaze held firm—he didn't blink, and neither did she.
"I'm not going to do it again." His head tilted, begging her to understand. "You hear me?"
Silence followed, but for the first time in days it wasn't awkward or tense. The warmth that stole over her eyes laced the quiet of the constant afternoon, and the discomfort between them evaporated.
He let the silence continue, because he sensed that his point, his plea, had hit home.
Their eyes turned back to the pastoral painted out in front of them, and for the first time in days he could breathe a little easier. He felt her shift where she sat, letting their shoulders brush as she made herself comfortable.
And if she ended up a little bit closer than she'd been a moment before, he wasn't about to complain.
Then, her hand sought his, her fingers interlacing with his. He curled his palm around hers in response, reflexively welcoming the warm touch. Together, their hands rested on his thigh, the contact reassuring and desperately needed—by both of them.
A moment later, her voice drifted gently across the periphery of his senses.
"I hear."
The shadow still lingered in her eyes when they went in for dinner, and Will knew it was far from being over. But he was reassured that they were okay.
The rest would come later.
