No. 5

The days turn into weeks and months, bleeding on through. I still see the end-is-nigh man - he's offering more and more one-word responses to my persistent questions, which is good, right? He has the symptoms of childhood neglect, though. Sometimes I catch him staring at my palm when I gesture with my hands while talking, a muscle jumping in the corner of his eye.

Adrian lets me stay at the penthouse after a night when I fall asleep mid-patrol. He never tells me to leave and I stop asking permission to sleep by him each night. I begin to feel less like an intruder and more at home with every day that passes. It's the feeling of security, I tell myself. Not the soft chuckle I hear from down the hall when I sing in the shower, not the way I stare at his back in the morning when he's in the bathroom brushing his teeth (because he has a really nice back, I'll admit), not the way he preaches animatedly about a vegan lifestyle and cooks all our meals and eats tofu and lentils and kale for snack, not the way he stares at me each night when he thinks I can't see him out of the corner of my eye.

Not how we go to sleep on opposite sides of the bed and wake up tangled in each other's arms, basking in the warmth of another human being.

Today, though, when I wake up in the morning the space beside me is empty.

Light is filtering through a thin open sliver where the curtain just barely meets the wall's edge. The heavy comforter is so warm and I blink slowly, twisting on the bed. Smacking my lips, I grab his pillow and bury my face in it, inhaling the smell of his shampoo and the scent that was so…Adrian.

He hadn't slept here in days, hasn't gone on patrol for some time, and I've stayed behind as well just to keep him company. When he's at the office I sit on the futon at the far side of his desk, grading psych papers and doing my own research. He kisses me goodnight before I head upstairs at 12, promising that he'll be there soon, but he never comes to bed. Sometimes I'll wake up at five or six to see him coming out of the shower or changing into new clothes. The new and growing clean-energy project, a small notion that he's started on – obviously an important prospect, certainly bringing hope to the war going on – it's working him down, a feat that I thought would have been impossible. My hand slides up and down the cold side of the bed as I muse over this problem, and I make a humph-ing noise, rolling onto my back. It's Saturday morning and I don't want to get up – not yet.

A loud crash from somewhere in the penthouse jolts me from my reverie. There's soft, angry muttering and I hear another dull crash.

"God!" Adrian's voice, very clear now. I jolt out of bed, rubbing at the gooseflesh rising on my cold forearms as I stand on the cold carpet. Once I've rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I follow the sound towards the living room.

The mirror in the hallway is shattered, large spiky shards of glass littering the wood flooring. My reflection catches in a particularly large piece of glass as I gingerly tiptoe by and walk over to the entrance, where I pause, my sleep-filled mind attempting to take in the sight before me.

It's too bright, first of all, and I squint in the sudden whiteness. As my vision adjusts, Adrian stands up from the couch. He walks over to his desk, grabbing a stack of papers, schematic sketches and folders in one hand – I notice the bright smear of crimson he leaves on them when he tosses them hard into the recycling bin. The left collar of his shirt is popped upwards, and his hair, normally neatly kept and combed, is disheveled and strands of it are falling into his eyes.

"It's all worthless!"

One hand goes up to shove his hair from his face and I wince when the cut on his palm bloodies the pale skin on his forehead. I walk over and grab his arm, pulling him down onto the settee. "Come on, take a break."

He glares at me as I head for the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kid out of the mirror cabinet. I take a deep breath as I walk back and sit down on the cushions next to him, taking his right hand and uncurling his fist.

A soft gasp escapes me as I survey the damage; a shallow gash sliced diagonally across his palm. The cut, made by the glass, is relatively clean, and I can't see any shards caught in it. The smell of iron is heavy in the air and I take out the bottle of saline, unscrewing the cap and liberally pouring it on his wound. His hand jerks a little against mine but when I look up, he's staring in the direction of the window to our right, his gaze distant and indifferent. The red water splashes onto the stone tiles and he looks downward.

"Don't worry, we can clean it up later." I reach for some cotton and the roll of gauze. Pressing the cotton down on the still-bleeding wound, I use my other hand to peel the elastic gauze open.

His hand replaces mine, applying pressure to his hand as I tear off around two feet of gauze. He still sits there, his face blank as I wrap his hand up. I sigh when I finish, pulling his left hand into mine so that I'm holding both his hands.

"Adrian, you have to…you have to take better care of yourself. I'm not always gonna be around to patch you up." I joke, but he still says nothing, staring at the blood on the floor. "C'mon. It's not the end of the world any time soon." Not even as America and Russia get closer and closer to nuclear war. I sigh.

He says something, then, so quietly that I almost don't hear it but for the iciness in his tone. "Why are you still here?"

"What?" My brow furrows as I look up at him.

"Half the world doesn't even know who you are, much less who you are to me. You don't even…understand what I'm trying to accomplish here." The shadows under his eyes give his face a hollow, starved look. His blue eyes are dim, his voice derisive. "What am I to you, a bedwarmer for those long, cold nights? Is it a good fuck you're chasing after?"

"Excuse me?!" My mind tells me that it's his sleep deprivation talking, that he doesn't mean it. But it still hurts. After these two years, is this what he truly thinks?

"You heard me, Madeline."

The back of my hand connects hard with his cheek and his face twists to the side, mouth dropping open. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room. His skin is rapidly reddening along his cheekbone when he turns back to look at me, and I can't for the life of me understand the expression on his face – anger or sadness.

"Fuck you, Adrian. You think I don't care about you? You think that I don't love you?!" My voice is turning shrill, and I feel my nose twitch as tears fill my eyes. "God damn it!"

He stares wordlessly at me, his injured hand going up to touch his face, fingertips grazing over the swelling skin. I cover my mouth with my hand as I begin to cry. I can barely breathe – my body is shaking.

"Christ, Adrian. I…I love you." I sniff wetly, another sob escaping me mid-sentence as I wipe at my eyes. "I love you so much."

When he still doesn't speak, I feel my heart break. "Say something. Please." I bite my lip and feel a fresh wave of tears slide down my cheeks – my throat is raw from crying. "If…If you really…don't want me. I can – I can leave." After several long, painful seconds, I stand, looking away from him. Maybe we were over.

"Please, Lena. Wait." Adrian grabs my arm and pulls me down to sit beside him. His fingers brush against my eyelashes, wiping my tears away. When I unintentionally lean into his touch, his mouth curves into a regretful smile. His voice is decidedly soft, almost a whisper.

"You…you are worth more than I deserve. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry… for making you cry." He exhales, trying to find words to better explain. "I have always been alone. I've almost forgotten what it was like to…" He looks into my eyes, hand still cupping my face, and for a moment I see a young man who is tired and hurt, who doesn't know how he can save anyone anymore. "Lena, I've almost forgotten what it was like to have someone who…wanted to take care of me. Forgive me, my love."

Sadness overwhelms my soul and I settle closer to him, my arms wrapping around his broad frame. For a moment the situation makes me almost laugh. When had our roles changed – evened out, perhaps? This beautiful, powerful man – who sees the darkness in the night and doesn't look back, who has never turned away from me, has never judged me for what I've done, who has been my partner for so long. We've brought down criminal empires together, carried each other home more times than we could count. His fingers are still shaking, and something aches in my heart when his hand slides down, touches my quivering jaw so tentatively, as though he isn't sure I'm real.

I take his hand from my face and squeeze it. "Adrian, you'll never feel alone again. For as long as…" I smile, reaching up with my other hand to push his hair out of his eyes. His lips part a little. "For as long as I am alive. I swear."

He kisses the corner of my mouth, so strangely shy, and my hand tightens around his, not wanting ever to let go again.

(later, he tells me about a young boy from Germany who was too smart for his own good, and the feeling of standing at the grave of both his parents at seventeen years old. It's not easy for any of us, never is.)

(but we have each other to hold on to.)