A/N: Still on hiatus. But I was clearing out my tumblr tags and found a few things I posted there, but haven't published here.
She steps into the conference room, her mind trying to make sense of the numbers on the paper in her hand. He isn't doing well, not as well as she'd like him too; not as well as he could do. She is missing something, she knows she's missing something, but she's too close to him, too involved to see.
"Jan…" But she stops. Something's off. The room is empty, no usual bustle, and shouting; no nervous energy. She checks her watch, maybe, maybe she's lost track of time again; maybe it's past midnight; maybe it's no longer her least favorite day of the year.
9:15.
They should still be here.
At least Cy should be here. But his office is dark. She'll leave the papers on his desk, she'll leave a note, and then she'll head to her room. Run a bath, try to relax, wait it out; celebrate at midnight. Maybe, maybe He will come by. The thought makes her smile and she hates herself for it, for hoping; for needing to hope.
She opens the door, her hand reaching for the light switch and, "SURPISE!" And they're jumping out, from behind the desk, smiling, excited faces. And she must look shocked and taken aback, because she sees panic in Cy's eyes. So she adjusts. She smiles. A wide smile. Empty and airy. All too familiar. And she hugs people, counts to five during each hug, pats their backs with her hand, rests her head on their shoulders. She thanks them, she lies to them; she tells them how happy they've made her – and that, the pretending, it makes them happy.
They drink champagne out of plastic cups, they have cake on paper plates. There's a card. They all signed. Everyone, but him. And he's not there. And it stings. Deep down, buried under self-control and detachment – it stings.
She finishes her drink and makes an excuse – she's tired, she should get some rest; she's getting old after all. And they smile, and no one protests; they go back to their happy chatter. And she doesn't mind; no, because the one person that matters, the one person she wants to see isn't around; isn't there.
She leans into the corner of the elevator, her body suddenly heavy - the realization that she wants him, needs him – overwhelming. And she drags her feet along the carpeted corridor, as she passes identical doors with different numbers. The numbers that hold meaning; because 714, 714 was the first one, and 520, that was the one where they fell asleep together; and in 2080 they woke up in each other's arms. Numbers; her life has turned into numbers.
"Why didn't you tell me?" And she stops in her tracks, leaning against the door frame, before remembering – she has to step in; she doesn't have the luxury to think; time to think.
"I don't tell people about it." She says simply as she closes the door.
"I'm not people." He says, and there's hurt in his voice, but he's trying, trying desperately to keep it from intruding his eyes. And she could argue, push him away; pretend – that he is, that this, that this is nothing; but instead she drops her jacket on the armchair and walks over to him, smiling.
She smiles so rarely.
"You're not." And she kisses him lightly; letting her lips linger on the corner of his. "But I don't celebrate it."
"Why not?" And she could tell him, she could, about the boarding school, and waiting, infinite waiting, for someone to show up; to remember. She could, but she doesn't. Because there's only so much of her soul she can share, she can bare, before she's looking for herself in him; before she's finding herself in his eyes, in his touch; in that crooked smile. Only so much, before he is her existence.
"I hate getting old." And he knows that she's lying, and she knows that he knows. But he just smiles and wraps his arms around her pulling her closer. He kisses her temple, and rests his head on hers, inhaling.
"I like that you are… We're closer in age now." And they both chuckle. It's a running joke. Intimate, spoken between crisp sheets that smell like sex; between heated droplets of water that he kisses off her lips; between the soft caresses and quiet moans.
"Wait with me until it passes?" She murmurs into his chest.
"OK." And he walks over to the bed and kicks his shoes off. He sits and leans against the headboard. He pats the space next to him, and she smiles, before joining him – finding refuge in his arms; solace in the way her body molds so perfectly to his.
"I got you this." He says, and she looks up, her eyes wide.
"Fitz…" And her voice trails off, words suddenly insufficient; superficial. "How did you…?"
"I took it one night when you were sleeping." He says with a small smile, as she takes the photo from his hand.
"You took a photo of me sleeping?" She asks in a quiet voice; louder, louder and it would break. She should be upset, it is reckless, so reckless, but all she feels is warmth, deep down, buried under self-control and detachment; the wonderful warmth.
She turns it around and traces the thin letters – I love today. And it's perfect; it's less than he wants to say, and more than she can handle – but in that moment, it's perfect. He loves her birthday.
She sits on her bedroom floor, years later, looking at the photo, tracing the letters; and she feels the same warmth. Room 305. And she smiles as she puts it back in the box that's resting on her lap. And her hand reaches for another memory, for another feeling.