Dear all,
it has been forever, hasn't it? I am sorry, but, you know, life. I hope at some of you are still interested in this :)
Thanks to those of you who reviewed. Elena - I am so happy that you liked the first part of the previous chapter. I feared most people would just skim over it, but it was super important for me to write about forgiveness and i am so, so happy you recognized the wisdom I wanted to convey :)
So, this chapter. It is not as polished as I would have liked, but anyway. One of the sections may feel a bit out of place, but I wanted to draw parallels between father and son. Anyway. I still have two chapters to go. They will be of a slightly different structure, but I think you will like it. I will do my best to not take an entire month to update, but as you will see, this chapter was one of those you need to write with care.
I hope you will like this, sorry for any grammatical mistakes, and please review? :)
much love, winter.
Sandcastles/The Bars Between Us
Part Three – Forward
Chapter Sixteen
In all honesty, Lincoln was the only one absolutely ecstatic that Bryce was spending the night at his place. It wasn't said out loud, but he had no plans to bring the boy back before the late afternoon at the earliest. He was busy being a father he never was and determined to be the uncle he never thought he would get a chance to be, and he didn't care that much that it was detrimental to his attempts at being a reliable employee.
Bryce was definitely Michael's son, though. He made sure that he had packed his toothbrush and made sure he had extra extra clothes, "just in case". Sara, too, double checked everything, trying and failing to hide how seeing her son's bag packed unnerved her. Michael might not be physically zipping and unzipping the bag, his eyes were in an unwavering focus and his mind kept updating the list of the bag's components. It would be simple, even righteous, for anyone in Lincoln's shoes to interpret the situation as distrust, but after being almost executed more than once, coupled with his innate ability to just not give a fuck, offending Lincoln Burrows was quite an accomplishment.
"You know, my son did live to reach adulthood and is still kicking," he couldn't resist teasing Sara.
"I'm sorry, it's not you," she said, "he's just never been away for a whole night."
"Well, it's what they do, grow up," he sighed, although, if he was as upfront as he prided himself to be, he had not been around enough to claim he knew much more than that. But if there was one thing he knew, it was how to stay alive and keep those around him alive as well.
Finally, the bag was checked enough times and the boy gathered the courage to hug his mom goodbye. Dad told him they would call to say goodnight later in the evening, and with each additional word, Bryce's lips were pressed together with greater force. But just like his dad, he was unwilling to let his face bear any emotion of the negative specter, so when he walked toward the front door holding his uncle's hand, his smile was admirably reassuring.
When Michael got home, Sara had just stepped out of the shower and every lock of her hair was carefully, purposely, tucked under the towel on her head. He probably should have figured it out – given his reputation, absolutely – when she didn't let her hair fall down her shoulders to let the air do away with its dampness; however, her presence alone still rendered any thinking secondary to just looking at her.
So he didn't know about it until their son and Lincoln had gone (together with an overnight bag packed with enough supplies to last them a week) and they were running just slightly late. In a life without her, he would have never allowed himself to be late for just a fraction of these minutes, but back then, he had needed every trivial concern to occupy his mind.
He was in the kitchen, flipping through a book their son had left on the table. It was just one more thing the boy got from his mother, Michael acknowledged smilingly. That the sight of her would take his breath away was an expectation, but the makeup was more conspicuous that he had ever seen it on her. The lips seemed fuller and her eyes appeared lusher. The dress she wore was cut lower and the hem was higher up her thighs than he was used with her – but then again, he had never taken her out before, at least not the way a man was supposed to treat a woman. He appreciated how the dress, so slyly red, embraced her curves, proving to his eyes what his hands discovered every night – that their life together finally started to hide the years of worry that had tired her body.
And her hair, her hair was carefully combed, the curls that always felt so light between his fingers flipped onto her right shoulder. But it wasn't its enticing softness or the radiance it caught under the mundane kitchen light that made his jaw drop.
"You dyed your hair," he managed.
"Well, there is no reason to hide anymore," she shrugged and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, wickedly pleased by the reaction she prompted.
His eyes could usually take everything in with a single glance yet now they stayed on her, like he couldn't quite put together all the pieces into a whole. He was not the kind of man to say it out loud (or at least didn't allow himself to be like that around her), but it seeped through his chivalry that he could hardly wait to make the fabric slip down her body until her skin would be all he could feel beneath his touch. She couldn't decide whether her noticing it meant that his guard around her was finally coming down or was higher up than ever.
He took her to one of those places she had thought she was done frequenting. The lights were dim in that elegant fashion and the small table at which they were seated made it impossible not to be close, in a way not salacious in the slightest. The couples around them were all dressed up, like them, but none seemed to feel as out of place as she did.
Obviously he would choose such a perfect place. It could almost make her believe that they were just like this, too, so perfect in their imperfections rather than broken under their weights. It was a strange sentiment, since this was who they were, now, still, again; their best selves, the glistening of their miracle eclipsing the very reasons why they had needed one.
He had her figured out, of course, always tirelessly, obsessively studying her reactions, smallest movements, like she was one of his blueprints. He wanted tonight to be about them, the version he insisted they were, and he enfolded her fingers with his to bring her attention back to him. If he noticed her disdain of their little decoy, he didn't share it. Maybe all it boiled down to was that she was just cynical while he still nurtured hope, faith.
Sometimes she thought she was being unfair. She had what she would have prayed for if she had thought it possible to have. It felt blasphemous to be anything but happy. Not that she wasn't happy; it was just that sometimes she felt like she was still only a part of his plan. This was what was so unfair about this line of thinking, for if it was a scheme, its only aim was to give her the perfect life. Somehow it escaped his meticulous planning that it wasn't the perfection she was after; all she wanted was him, and too often it seemed like what she got was tailored for her.
She didn't know what made tonight different. Maybe all it came down to was that instead of the solitude of the night, they were surrounded by people. One moment she was telling him about a birthday party their son had been invited to and his eyes followed hers in animation that was only for her. The next time she wanted to lock her eyes with him, it was as if he could not hear her and something she couldn't see kept her out of his eyes' reach. Wherever he was, there wasn't anyone with him, and without the night to disguise it, she saw what Lincoln always tiptoed around when asked how it had been, back when he had ascribed himself to death. Whatever it was, she was certain she wouldn't want to be there. And what she was even surer of, he would not even let her have the choice.
The latter was made screamingly clear when, after the third call of his name, he suddenly snapped out of it. The dead of his eyes was annihilated by that spark of adoration, lie, that he was always so careful to harbor around her, and the ease with which he substituted terror with smile insinuated he didn't do it for the first time.
"Are you okay?" she asked, knowing the answer was an elbow caught playing basketball, nothing when his foot was maimed, and a part where he didn't answer her. He had pleaded her once not to make him lie to her, yet he had nonetheless, countless times since, and right now, it was no exception.
"Of course," his voice was smooth, just like on the days when he still had had to lie to her for reasons so easily excusable.
If the start of the evening was about them, Michael's goal for its remainder was to make her forget about those scarce moments he had been away from her. He made sure their bodies were in continuous contact; if the pads of his fingers couldn't play with hers or caress the insides of her wrists, his knees bumped against hers.
As the night was busy reigning over the world, they were left with the peace to stroll along the Hudson River. He would not let her put any distance between them even if she implored him. His arms were wrapped around her as tightly as though the stars above them were snow about to fall. His lips were on her temple, eyelids, her jaw, rendering any inquiries pointless, since he couldn't answer any more than she wanted him to. Before they had met and every day since they had found each other again, she promised herself to never let this happen, but somehow they were as apart as they were together.
The day before the long-awaited sleepover Lincoln had taken Abigail out for lunch. They usually met for dinner, but it had been a Thursday night and he encouraged her to revive her habit of spending Thursday evenings with her father – for her sake, of course, not Kellerman's. Even though Lincoln had learned to separate his personal and professional life, Kellerman was still in the gray area – and that was Lincoln being generous.
As they had waited for their food, he asked her about the psychology diploma she had almost gotten.
"Yeah, I was a few credits short," she nodded.
"But you could talk to Bryce, right? To see if he's … okay?"
"I wanted to specialize in Asperger's and I can assure you your nephew doesn't have it," she laughed, and of course his ensuing sigh was of the irritated kind, because for Lincoln, if you knew psychology, you knew it without buts. She argued she didn't really know enough about LLI to make any kind of reliable judgements, but he insisted, because it was the most direct way of telling her that he wanted her at his place (okay, his son's) that he was capable of.
It didn't escape Bryce's effortless observation Uncle Lincoln and Aunt Abigail (when he first called her this, her jaw dropped and she shook her head. Uncle Lincoln, on the other hand, didn't skip the beat, nodding, "She is your aunt, Bryce. Don't you let her convince you otherwise.") were nothing like mom and dad. When mom and dad were making dinner together, it was like watching one of those movies Aunt Moni obsessed over. Somehow they each knew just what to do: who was to peel the potatoes or cut the carrots. They didn't need words to let the other know. Sometimes, when mom was the one cutting the vegetables with the big knife Bryce was not allowed to touch, dad stepped right behind her, so close that she didn't need to look over her shoulder to know he was there. Without an exception, she leaned onto his chest and into his arms. He covered her hands with his, and it was an invitation as well as a request. She freed her hands for his, and his fingers caressed hers like they had all the time in the world. As dad picked up the knife instead of mom, she leaned her cheek to his and a smile spread across dad's face.
There was absolutely nothing serene in the air when Uncle Lincoln and Aunt Abigail were in the kitchen, cooking. Maybe Uncle Lincoln saw how his brother always insisted on handling the large knife and deemed it a nice gesture. That might be true, but Aunt Abigail didn't appreciate it at all. First she told him to stop standing so close to her, and when he wouldn't move, she poked him in the ribs with her elbow.
"God damn it, I just don't want you to injure yourself," he barked. Most of the time, Uncle Lincoln remembered not to say bad words, but sometimes it seemed like he didn't even notice them escaping his mouth. The latter usually occurred when Aunt Abigail was around. However, since he was trying, Bryce didn't remind him of his presence.
"I know ways of handling the knife you can't even imagine," she snapped back.
After rubbing the back of his head, Uncle Lincoln declared he was off to the store to get ice cream for after dinner – even though he had told Bryce on the drive over that his freezer was stacked with Ben and Jerry's and that they were going to try each flavor to decide on their favorite one.
Bryce figured his uncle was doing what the boy had been taught in school – that if you were angry, it was best to remove yourself from the situation and count to ten. And since Uncle Lincoln was so gigantic in stature, he guessed he would need to count to a much larger number to calm down.
Later, however, it occurred to Bryce that his uncle hadn't left just out of fear of saying something he would come to regret not too long after. Once the pots were on the stove, Aunt Abigail sat down next to him. Of course she might only want to chat, like aunts usually did, but her shoulders were a bit too tense and the distance between them was a bit too big. She reminded her of the lady he used to talk to in Lille, except that Aunt Abigail didn't wear any perfume and they nibbled at carrots rather than watched the fish of tropical colors swim in the fish tank.
"How are you?" she asked him, or, rather, repeated the question she had posed when he had arrived. He was pretty sure, though, that she wasn't inquiring about the same thing anymore.
"I'm not super hungry, to be honest," he said, laying his arms on the table. He crossed them at his wrists and rested his chin, looking up at her in wait of a clarification he knew was incoming.
"I meant, about being with your dad."
"I know that is what you meant. I'm happy."
"Would you mind saying a bit more?"
Bryce's vocabulary contained more than enough words to comply with her request and had the skill to put them together into chains impressive for his age, but that single word encompassed everything perfectly. So he just shrugged. He did regret his response slightly when she told him that it was okay not to feel fine some days. That just because he was with his dad now, it didn't mean that he would be, or even should be, alright all the time.
"Not being well sometimes is not selfish," she told him.
But Bryce already knew that things did not need to be perfect all the time to be the best. It was a lesson he had learned the previous week when mom was in bed with a bad headache and dad lay next to her, as if believing his presence could fight away any further pain. Mom had done the same thing when it was just the two of them in Lille.
Mom didn't like to take any kind of medication (even though she gave it to the people in her care when they were in pain), opting for cups of tea instead. She always said that the tea he made for her instantly made her feel better, and even though Bryce knew it wasn't exactly true, he still felt good, boiling the water, pouring it over a teabag in a cup and giving it to mom. That day there was a second mug on the table, the one dad always drank from.
Maybe he filled the mug too close to the rim. Maybe it was just one of those things that happen without a reasonable cause; either way, it slid from his hands, breaking into a dozen or so pieces before he could gasp in trepidation.
There were tea stains on his socks and he felt them on his skin, but the image of his father's favorite mug in shards pushed everything else out of his mind. He knew better than picking up the pieces and mopping the floor, but his feet wouldn't move toward his parents' bedroom either. He had not yet thought of an alternative or convinced himself that it was only a cup, without any special drawing or a saying, and just before tears would spill from his eyes, dad came to the kitchen, probably to help him carry the tea mugs. The sight of the mess on the floor halted his steps. Bryce tried to read his face to get an idea of just how angry he was, but the image was becoming increasingly blurry.
"I am so sorry," he managed before his vision turned into shapeless specks of colors that all gravitated toward gray. Dad had never raised his voice at him, much less got mad, but there was a first for everything and Thibaut's father got saw red on occasions much less grave.
Dad stepped closer, not even looking down at his own feet to avoid the sharpness of the shards. His strong arms lifted the boy up and sat him down on the counter.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his hands gently laid on Bryce's shoulders, his eyes following the paths tears were taking down the boy's face. He still didn't care whether he stood in the spilled tea that was minutes away from cooling down.
"It was your favorite mug. You drink from it every morning," Bryce pointed out, deciding it was for the best to just go straight to what he had done.
What he didn't know was that Michael had never realized that one particular cup was so central in his mornings. When it had been only him, he had a routine in place, opening the cupboard every morning and taking out the first mug that was closest to his reach. After finishing his coffee, he washed it and put it back. It wasn't that he would have a special regard for the cup; it was just that when he had bought a set of mugs, this one was the last he had taken out of the box and placed on the lowest of the cupboard shelves.
"It is just a cup," he now told his son while clearing his face of the tears. "I could get a thousand cups just like it. But I can have only one you. I'm not mad. Please don't be upset."
Bryce might see a bit clearer, but he still could not fathom why dad wouldn't be upset.
"I'm really trying to be good."
"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me," dad smiled, and only when the socks were off his feet did Bryce realize just how drenched with tea they were. "I love you; I will love you no matter what."
There was undeniable relief on dad's face when Bryce nodded and pressed his tear-stained face against his chest.
Later, Michael took off all of Sara's clothes, even slower than usual, yet it was not slowly enough to sedate her mind. He was too observant and absolutely knew her too well not to notice how she wasn't already arching into his touch when his lips had barely moved past her collarbone. His mouth still traveled down her body, because this was how it worked for them, sooner or later, their bodies making them oblivious to whatever turmoil seized their minds.
He was kneeling between her legs, his hand caressing the smoothness of her thighs, his cheek resting on her hip. What was usually riveting for him and a tease for her could now be just an accidental touch of two strangers on the subway. Something that didn't work for her would never work for him, so he finally sighed and rolled onto his side next to her. The pad of his index finger ran lazy circles on her naked belly, as though he didn't really take the situation to heart, but she knew better.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said. It was probably unfair to hope for an honest answer since she had never been, and still wasn't, upfront with him when she wasn't fine. Nonetheless, she went, "Are you?"
"I am a little bit disheartened at the moment if I'm honest," he tried, but his voice gave away he didn't think any higher of his attempt than she did.
"You promised to never lie to me. Do you remember that?"
"I'm not lying to you," he said, pretending all she meant was right now. They were brilliant at honesty when the clothes were scattered around the bed, and as they locked eyes, he opted for ignorance.
"Right," she said and flicked his hand off her body. First, she only turned her head away from him so that her welling eyes would escape his noticing; then, aware that he knew anyway, she turned her back to him, as if this exact kind of honesty wasn't the one that kept bringing tears. She reached for the pile of clothes they had been discarding, night after night, never bothering to pick them up in the mornings. She pulled over her head the t-shirt that covered her the most.
"I'm sorry, I just can't do this anymore," she said, stumbling to her feet without allowing herself the merest glance at him. It was so melodramatic she would laugh if it wasn't her doing the walking away, down the hallway, to the living room. The further she got, the more she needed to reaffirm herself this wasn't theatricality. They could not go on like this, with this selective candor that never extended past their sheets. He had to realize it. Perhaps, she wondered as she lay down on the couch that seemed to have no fucking end, he did. Maybe that was why he was so desperate to keep it going, terrified of what she, he, would find underneath their ploy.
Was he afraid that if she knew what he had done, she wouldn't want him around her and Bryce anymore? Or that he would be the one imposing such a restriction upon himself? It was just one in a long string of questions that besieged her thoughts as she watched the city lights, so bright, promising, so alive, yet out of her reach.
If she was petty, she would make herself believe there was a purpose in his wait. He would let her realize that her head couldn't rest as soundly when decorative pillows substituted for his arms and the grayness of the couch could not match the colors of each other's touch. She never really could fight for long, or at all, when he was her opponent, and these nights she had six years of reasons to never leave his side.
She heard the approach of his steps. She expected him to ask her, plead with her to come back to bed, to mouth the apologies always rendered void by kisses that disarmed her. But there was no pair of arms capturing her and no hand tilting her head to remind her of the goodbyes they had each said in their hearts. Without touching her and without words, he lay down next to her. It would be as if he had just gotten home and didn't want to wake her had he not pulled a sheet over their heads.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I spent too many nights away from you to ever do it again. And since you're not coming back to bed, I'm here," he said.
Despite the thin layer of fabric that kept the lights of the world away, she could make out every feature of his face. It didn't escape her how his eyes busied themselves without ever landing on hers, and she guessed he feared she was angry with him. Everything they had gone through – and perhaps especially what they had not – and yet he didn't know that of all the feelings he awoke in her, anger was only brought upon by misunderstandings.
When he finally dared to look at her, his eyes were raw in honesty she couldn't deny even at her worst. His voice dropped to a whisper when he told her he would go if she asked him to. It was the last thing on her mind, of course, so she shook her head and nestled up closer to him. The sigh that left the lips she longed to kiss was imbued with both apology and relief. As disjointed as they were and as warped as it was, together still felt best to both of them.
"In Gila," she started, as though it was possible in this – or any, really – universe that he would forget the quietest word they had ever exchanged, "do you remember how you told me everything? I didn't ask that of you, and I didn't expect it. And now it's been, what, over a month, and you might as well be a stranger to me. It's like I'm back in Fox River, patching together an idea of you from your prison records and the little you tell me."
"In Gila," he said, "I also promised to never lie to you again. That's a promise I am keeping."
"I know you had to keep things from me in Fox River, Michael. But we are not there anymore, and I don't recall you ever explicitly stating you are not there to break your brother out."
Frustration prevailed in his sigh that followed her words, but she kept going.
"Lincoln tells me things, you know. I didn't even know your father turned out to be a good man."
"Lincoln shouldn't be telling you that."
"You think I don't know that? But what choice am I left with? I swear, Michael, sometimes you get this look on your face, total blankness. But only if you think that I am not watching. And I never know whether it's something I said that takes you back, something you overheard or it is just an anniversary of something. And I would ask if it is me, but I know you would just smile it away, even and especially if it was something I said. I want to talk to you, but how can I if I am constantly afraid of saying something that hurts you?
I'm an addict, Michael. I will always be one. And right now, so many times since we found each other… Six years ago, I would use to calm myself down. And I wish I didn't want it anymore, but it's who I am. Just like you. We can't pretend you never did the things you were forced to do. I want to be here for you, like you are for me, all the time. What I'm trying to say is that right now, this, what we have, it is not a relationship. It's just… sex and parenthood. And I am terrified that once it won't be enough anymore, it will be too late to do anything about it."
"Do you really want to hear how I thought I watched them kill you?" he tried to keep his voice intact. But it was just the two of them and the sound of their breathing could not hide the slightest of cracks that crept between his words.
His hand reached for her neck, his eyes feeling the need to check with hers for permission. A part of her hated herself for making him think he required one. She felt his fingertips trace the line that used to be so definite yet never existed, and as light as he kept his touch, its weight labored her breaths.
"Right here," he said, his lips pressed so tightly together she could no longer distinguish them. Tilting his head to the left, he let the pad of his thumb linger where the cut he had once believed had taken her life began – or ended. She was sure he could detail it for her. "They tore your back open, too. For six years, I thought it was my fault. I saw it every time I closed my eyes."
"And you kept replaying it to punish yourself?"
He didn't need to say anything for her to know she was right. Suddenly the air underneath the sheet burned her lungs and she pulled it down their bodies. The imaginary chill of the summer night was the perfect air for what she asked him next.
"Did you ever think about not being here anymore?"
His touch slid off her skin and he increased the distance between them just as she moved closer to him.
"Yes. It was … easier right after it happened. I didn't care what it would take, but they were going to pay for what they did to you. But then, when it was over … it would be easy, to just end everything. But I would be away from the blood on my hands. And I would never do it to LJ, Lincoln. To you. Because I knew you would want me to keep going, because I would want the same for you."
Sara never considered herself to be a jealous woman. It was something she took great pride in, even though in the long nights of winter, when the clock was ticking away the sleep that would not come to her, she sometimes admitted to the candlelight that it was just another harness keeping her from getting too attached, too shattered when the end, so inevitable for a cynic like her, would claim its share.
But she did wonder about a woman that had gotten to know him as a woman rather than as a statuette in his great game of chess. What was it that halted his eyes on her in particular? What was her favorite part of him to caress? And he, did he pretend it was she that he was kissing, or did he finally let go of her when they were together?
He had to wonder, too, if there had ever been anyone else's face fading on her eyelids as she was giving herself over to sleep. In a way, she pondered, these musings may be the most normal thing about them.
"What was she like? The woman you were with?"
She knew what she would have wanted for him, and his words of the spontaneity, of the woman's carefree, giving, overall happy nature filled her with relief.
"I imagine you needed someone like that," she said.
"Lincoln was a big fan," he smiled. He took her hand again, the confidence of his touch buoying her up like only he could, and guided it to a scar on his eyebrow, one of many eventually hidden by time. "I was all bloodied from his fist. I think I broke his nose or something."
"I thought it was a bit more crooked, yeah," she said. She didn't bother pretending to understand the brothers' relationship or explain the wrongs time had lessened. "Why did you end it?"
"Because she would want a family someday, and that was something I only wanted with you," he said without skipping a beat, as if it was the simplest truth that should not leave her with a lump in her throat.
She thought of the lazy mornings he and their son spent in the kitchen, perusing the cookbooks they had bought along with a new bookshelf. How they searched the supermarket aisles to find the ingredients for the exotic recipes they wanted to try out. Her heart swelled just thinking of how gently he sat their son on the counter, how excitedly he set the table for three, sometimes four. Some days the pair sat on the living room floor, the chessboard between them, and he let the boy win, just to see the joy on his face for that second before he called his dad out for cheating. Being a dad came so naturally to him, was so obviously fulfilling that words of how close it had been to never happening sounded ridiculously misplaced.
One couldn't love too much when everything was okay, when the expression came in a form of a kiss bestowed upon you out of the blue or an embrace without a regard of who may witness it. But when things derailed, Michael loved too much. Lincoln was the clearest proof, alive because his brother loved him more than his own life. And then there was her, a woman he had vowed himself to when it was just one in the array of disadvantages. They hadn't shared a single sunrise, yet he remained loyal to what, if they were truthful, only existed in plans, and those plans weren't even the ones inked across his heart.
"So you were just going to be alone for the rest of your life? Was that your plan?"
If a part of him ever realized how asinine this plan was, not a cell in his body believed it. He started shaking his head before she finished her sentence.
"I was never alone, Sara," he told her, laying her hand on his chest to make her feel what every part of him – except for his eyes – had managed to keep hidden in Fox River. "You were always here, with me. I was at peace with being by myself. I knew I loved you and that you loved me. It was enough for me. In many ways, it was more than I ever thought possible before I met you."
His fingers didn't fight as she let go of their hold. They let hers slip away, frozen in the reluctance he wouldn't voice. As soon as she laid her head where her hand had been just moments ago, the life in his hands was rekindled. He kissed the top of her head, then intertwined his fingers in her hair. If she hadn't closed her eyes under his touch, she would see the serenity that reigned over his face as he studied the auburn shade against his pale skin.
"Okay," he eventually said. "We'll talk. But you'll talk to me, too. About Lille."
"I tell you about it all the time," she pointed out.
"About our son, yes. But I want to hear about you. When it was hard for you," he said. A pause ensued, but not for a moment did she think he had no more to say. His hand slid down her arm, far from aimlessly ambling, and he caressed her elbow before she felt the pads of his fingers on the spot that used to deprive her of life while at the same time made it so pervasively bearable. There was no accusation in his voice as he went on, "When you almost let go. When you wished you had never met me. I'm not naive enough to believe you were always okay with it."
She would say that what she had gone through couldn't be compared with his ordeals but realized that it would be prolonging the pattern they had just started to acknowledge. Maybe their time apart really couldn't compare, but it didn't mean it didn't matter equally.
She kissed his cheek in assent. His arms were on the small of her back, unapologetically pressing her closer to him and chivalrously never sneaking under the hem of her attire. If he wanted more than the continuous exchange of gazes, he didn't mention it until she asked him to make love to her.
"Hmmm," he teasingly frowned, tilting his head as if indecisive. "If you ask really nicely, maybe."
She tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of her mouth did nothing to keep in a smile. She moved off him, leaving a tantalizing inch of space between them. Closing her eyes, she remarked that it really could wait until the next day. Yet whatever measure of time he could opt for, tomorrow lay too far ahead in the future for their liking.
Much, much later, they lay in their bed, the clothes once again forlorn on the bedroom floor, their legs soothingly tangled and the sheets in a heap by their feet. They lay close enough long enough for their skins to carry each other's scent and their hearts found a rhythm that worked for both. After the darkness they had both perdured, the night in each other's arms was still too young for them to shut their eyes in the anticipation of the morning. He ran his fingers through her hair to loosen the knots, although they both knew there would be new ones before the earliest light of the waking day.
"Let's go somewhere, together," he suddenly said. She looked up to meet his eyes, and the resolution she found in them surprised her, even more so after he clarified his words. "Just you and me. A few days. A weekend."
"I'm barely functioning when your brother takes our son for a night, and now you want me to ship him off for a week?" she laughed, but there was a disjoint between what left her mouth and what her mind was thinking. There was something enticing about the idea of the morning that was only theirs, not shortened by the work obligations or brightened up by the laughter of their boy. Just thinking of lying in his arms and telling the time from the changing light made her belly burn.
Maybe they could be only a couple in love, just like millions of others yet so distinct in their love. Maybe they needed to try to be one.
She cursed her transparent face when the excitement of his eyes revealed he knew she acquiesced before she put it in words.
"Okay. Where do you want to go?" she asked, and she should absolutely have known he would only shrug.
"Anywhere, as long as you are there," his smile bathed in modesty so completely absent when his hands slid down her back and embraced the curves of her unclothed body. If every movement of his hand sent blood ravaging through his body as well, he hid it much better than her. His breaths remained steady and his eyes lazily intent on her face, while she gave up breathing altogether to hide the ease with which he could have all of her. "A bed would make a nice addition, though."
She should know better than to laugh, but after years of scarce excuses for it, she still indulged.
"Well, that's helpful, Scofield. That excludes, what, Antarctica?"
"I wouldn't even be too sure of that," he said, but it didn't matter, for she was increasingly sure of where they should go. It was not where the waves broke on golden beaches and the sun caressed the skin with urgency matched only by the passion of the lover's lips. Neither would they wander, hand in hand, under the leafy canopy that kept them to themselves only. Maybe a place where gravestones waited for her visit didn't make a good destination for the first romantic getaway; however, she figured that sometimes you have to go back to the start to have a different ending.
To Be Continued
Broughttoyouby:::winter.