Disclaimer: Not mine.
She touched his face lightly, letting her fingers explore it, every line and bump and plane as if committing it to memory so if ever she were to go blind, she could remember him that much better.
Etched into his face were lines of pain, many more than a man should have, even for his years and experience. There were lines of laughter, of joy, at the corners of his eyes, small, yes, but there. The longer lines on his forehead were etched in worry and long hours of thought, of wondering why? How? All the questions his job entailed, and many it didn't. Lines on his cheeks etched in happier times allowed her to picture a smiling, laughing young man, his face smoother than now, not hardened and shaped by cruel tragedies and crueler wives.
She looked at, or rather into, his unguarded eyes, which were painted a hazel color that showed more sorrow and guilt. Resting the palms of her hands on his cheeks, curving her fingers back to touch his ears, her thumbs resting on his cheekbones, she furrowed her brow, trying to fall into his eyes and then his soul. Trying to understand everything that had made him this way, all the things that had gone into etching the face she had just traced with her fingertips. So that she might be able to understand him better. His actions and reactions, words and arguments, humor and sorrow. So that she might take a bit of his painfully evident sadness and slow suffering upon herself so as to lighten his load, give him reason to laugh as he once had.
And while she knew that she could never fully take his burden, she wished that perhaps he could somehow push it to the side more often, if only to allow himself to sleep better.
For that was what she hated the most about loving him. How they could make the most passionate love she had ever known, yet only an hour or so later, he would wake in a panic, eyes scared and darting, searching for the demon that had rent him from sleep, only to find her looking at him with concern and fear radiating in her eyes, her movements. She hated that he would look at her, knowing full well that he could tell her whatever it was that had disturbed his sleep, yet deciding instead to brood on it alone, mull it over in his mind until he rose from the couch, or descended from the roof to dress and head into work early. To face another day of haunted faces that would wake him in a weeks time, if not less.
Tonight, she had just about forced him to stay. She latched onto him until he finally murmured against her hair that he would stay. Even then, she had looked up at him, anger, fear and concern displayed on the smooth contours of her face. She watched as his eyes roved over her face and she wondered what he was thinking. If he knew how much she hurt to see him like this.
"John," she said softly, not quite a whisper, but close to it.
His only response was to gaze at her with those eyes that were both stubborn and resigned to fate.
"Why do you leave?" There was no need for her to elaborate as to what she meant; they both understood, just as they understood what evil was.
For a moment he was silent, returning her sad, pleading stare with one as blank as he could make it. "I don't want what's in my head to be in yours," he finally said, just as soft as she had spoken, only rougher and deeper.
She was stunned into silence, shocked that he had been honest with her the first time through. Wait, she thought, honest is the wrong word. Straightforward would be better. Straightfoward as opposed to the endless circles he could weave. Her brow was furrowed, trying to discern exactly what he might be referring to, but to no avail. Nothing of his pain or thoughts could be seen on his features, save what was usually there, for he held his face as straight and blank as he could. "I deal with the same things you do everyday. It's already in my head."
"No, it's not." He sighed at her obvious misunderstanding and turned his head to the side.
He felt her fingers grasp his chin lightly and turn his head so he faced her once more. "Tell me." Her words held no room for argument or any petty disagreement he might hold.
So he did.
He told her about his father, about his neighbor, about all those major cases, major to him at least, back when he was murder police in Baltimore, his wives and everything else that led right up to coming to New York. That was when he stopped. In the semi-darkness that engulfed the room, she could see something glistening on his face as it rolled down into his hair. Feeling a pang in her chest, she realized that it was a tear. He was crying. He turned his head to the side again, not wanting her to see him crying. And this time, when he made a move to get up, she let him, somehow knowing that he wasn't about to leave her alone. Instead, he padded over to the window, leaning heavily on the windowsill, head bowed.
That was another thing she noticed about him. In his posture stood pride and determination, no matter if he was leaning against something. In the slight slump of his shoulders resided the defeat of one too many cases that were never solved. Carved into his hands, the long, nimble fingers, was his health and caring nature. Despite whatever air he might have, at first look, of not caring, he did. He truly did, which was probably what drove him to such pain. To such sorrow that she knew would always rest inside him, waiting for death to leave and occupy another soul.
She watched him for a moment from her position in bed, waiting for him to continue or show indication that he truly could not proceed with the narration of his life thus far. Or indication that he wanted her, needed her, by his side to continue. Then, he straightened, shoulders set back, facing forward, a new determination consuming him. She listened as he began to speak once more, his voice steady and strong, slightly louder than before, but not by much. Still, she was able to hear him.
When he finished, finally, he turned to face her, his hands in his pajama pockets. "I didn't want you to know all that. I wanted you to be free of the things, the faces, that haunt me. I know you love me, and I know that I could stay instead of leaving you to wonder what it was that had made me go." He paused, looking at her, imagining her face in all its beauty, for the semi-darkness that still permeated the room prevented him from seeing it at this distance, especially without his glasses. "I love you. I don't want you to hurt inside because of me."
He heard her sniff in the darkness and realized she was crying. Walking over, he lay down next to her and held her as she burrowed into his chest, both fighting and accepting the tears that flooded her eyes and dampened her face, as well as his shirt. When at long last, she pulled back from the warmth and security of his chest, she looked at his face, at the lines and bumps and planes. "If anything like what you have just told me plagues you again, tell me. It hurts more when you leave than if you were to stay and tell me what's wrong. I can't help you, or even think of how to help you if I don't know what's wrong. I want to know. Please." She added the last word as a plea, one that she knew he wouldn't easily forget or go against.
"I've no idea why you should wish to know what I wish had never happened."
"For such a smart man, you sure have your dull moments," she said. "I love you. That should be enough explanation, no?"
His eyes roving her face again, he responded, "Yes, I suppose it should."