--Sorry—I wanted to finish all of this by Mu's birthday, today (party!) . . . but I only got the 2nd chapter up. . . . But that's because I was working on the third (and I have officially finished the entire last chapter!!—now I just have the write the rest of the story that gets it there!). Sad to say it—this chap is more just "backstory" like with chapter 1—setting it all up, but it's needed backstory! But, in the end . . . it stops at the point I need. --grins--
But, as some of you expressed worries—you must know: I love Mu and Murrue way too much to destroy them and their amazing relationship. So don't worry. . . . much.
Writing this, I kept being reminded of the whole Mu—Murrue—Neo thing . . . I guess it was the "two years" that did me in. I feel very bad for how similar it seems. But—2 years worked perfectly in a timeline! I didn't want it to be too long after the GS war, and the point where I made John "die" worked perfectly in that. ((They never gave Him a date or battle of death, did they? Ah, well. I made my own date up.—yay for fanfiction))
PS . . .this may be a bit late, but, when writing this story, using the name "John" . . . it all seems too out of place. Basically "John" was just a cop out for me since I couldn't think of a suitable name for him . . . one that fit. Should I replace it? Would it be too late? --Keep in mind, if I did end up replacing "John" it would only be changing to "Mark" (yay for obviously English/American names!—though it's really derived from latin) Don't ask me why "Mark" would be a better name than "John" . . . a random thought. But it's probably too late any way.
Chapter Two -- Not Forgotten
His eyes scanned over her with loving intent.
"You haven't changed one bit," he smiled, taking a step forward.—as Murrue took a step back. John froze, eyes stricken as they followed her move. It was then he noticed the fear staring back at him—from those eyes he knew so deeply.
John worked hard on giving himself that understanding, gentle smile—even though all he could feel was his heart tearing.
"Listen . . ." He murmured. "There's a lot to talk about . . . and for you to hear. . . ." He took one step closer. Then two. "Can we please . . . go inside to discuss this?"
Murrue didn't move to answer. She could only stare. Slowly her mind registered his question . . . it somehow pushing through everything else in her thoughts.
She nodded and opened the door . . . leading him in. Murrue kept walking in her small home until she'd reached the other side of the furnished room where one couch lay. She stood before the comforter, choosing not to sit, and instead, watched John as he moved in, face softly content.
It was everything he'd thought it'd be: simple yet oddly elegant at the same time. It fit Murrue perfectly—with exception to the 'simple' part. On the opposite wall of the open room, John's eyes found a small table dressed in many things, but in one corner there stood many frames. Both he and Murrue were too far from them to see the subjects clearly—though both still looked.
He was curious.
"Who are you looking at?" he asked, first to break the silence.
She smiled. He loved her smile, no matter how weak it was.
". . . Old friends."
"Oh!" John lit up, beginning to move closer. "You mean from The—"
She shook her head. He faltered.
Murrue sighed, hugging her arms close to herself as an effort to push some semblance of calmness back into her frayed voice.
"It's harder when it's in the middle of war, I think. . . . To stay connected like that." Pause. "There was this one soldier . . . who was transferred off . . . but we never really got the chance to . . . before it was too late."
"Yes, war is like that. . . ." John's quiet amber eyes turned suddenly joyous. "But then, there are always those you cant not see, right?—Hopefully the number's more than those you can't."
"Yes," she brimmed, returning his smile, mind happily touching upon every soul of the Archangel she'd known, with every one starred in her mind, noted to meet back up with again. It was a very happy thought.
"I brought you these," John ventured in the moment, holding out his prized-picked bouquet. He shrugged his shoulders, flashing a wry grin. "Took me forever to find the perfect ones. And look! Even after two years, I was right. They do fit you perfectly. . . . I only wish I had roses too, but God never thought to make them in blue.—Naturally anyway."
He held them out before him in the 'welcoming hall' of Murrue's home. Even though he brandished the flowers in her obvious sight, Murrue did not move to take them.
". . . What are you doing here, John?" She muttered, silent and stern as she saw the reason for their meeting again—as she saw Him again.
John cracked at the emotion he could see barred away in her eyes. He opened his mouth, but froze, not knowing what to say as Murrue pressed on: "You're dead. We all knew you were dead. So how . . ." When her voice went high, she bit her lip to steady it. ". . . how . . . is this possible?"
"Only one way, Murrue," he tried. "Because the impossible cant be possible, can it? No. I never died."
"But . . . !"
John paused in his answer, flowers finally dropping, un-given, to his side. His eyes surveyed the strong woman before him . . . and the way she suddenly seemed so frail. Gently, he reached out, thick hands sliding onto her shoulders, compassion in his touch.
She inwardly shuddered at the feel.
"Sit, Murrue," he coaxed, softly pressuring her down—his smile easing the movement. "You know you want to. . . . Why fight it?"
She shook at familiarity.
Dark space. Window. Night. Alone. Together.
The two soldiers slipped into silence, but it was a comfortable one. As they stood there, time passing, his hand suddenly drifted away, somehow finding its way into hers.
"W-what?" She flushed at the contact.
"Shh, Murrue," he coaxed, softly pressing his lips to her hand—his smile turning her even redder. "You know you want to. . . . Why fight it?"
"I'm not fighting anything," she countered, freeing her hand from his.
"Oh, really?" he wondered aloud, part breathlessly wry. It didn't matter—not as he leaned in, only to touch her lips with his.
Murrue collapsed into the couch, suddenly realizing how much she'd needed the support.
"There. Better, right?" John smiled, taking a step back to survey his work. "And don't bother offering me a chair, either, Murrue—You should remember that I always like to stand."
"Yes, I remember that," she returned quietly, still lost in memories, smile playing upon those lips.
John smiled too. His face hardened, though, when he realized what he had to say, though he knew its reaction.
"That day . . ." He brought up quietly. It was as low as his voice could go, but Murrue still heard it, heart immediately wrenched at that particular memory.
"I've gone over it, over and over again, in my mind—many times since then," he breathed. "And I figured it out. That battle . . . that day . . . was a hectic one. Explosions left and right—it must have been hard to keep track of them all."
Murrue nodded in numbed agreement.
She remembered watching the battle on the screen set in the hangar.—She wasn't up in the Bridge that day. She had no idea of what was really happening outside the ship . . . other than the occasional, vague word.
"Well, basically, my Armor . . . got badly damaged. Not enough to explode it, but . . . I had reason to want to dock again.—simply. Understand what I'm saying? I couldn't return to the ship. . . . It was too heavily under fire—It wouldn't have been able to take me in. So I asked to land inside another allied ship . . . and they said yes. I docked, got out—ran to the Bridge. I asked if there was any way to get in contact with you guys, but . . . they said they'd already tried—and that communications had been knocked out—Maybe from all the fire you'd taken? Well, it took awhile for repairs to be made on both sides—and I couldn't just return unannounced either . . . so I had to wait. Longest two days and nine hours of my life."
John paused and took a breath. He shifted his position a bit, him leaning on the big chair's arm. Murrue stayed silent.
"But, when I finally get back aboard, the one person I wanted to see most—No, the only person I needed to see . . . wasn't there. You'd been transferred in the time before I got back.—'Urgently needed somewhere,' they said. . . . The captain had told me about . . ." John paused to choose his words. " . . what the ship had thought about the final outcome of the battle." Pause. "It was obvious you still believed that. I tried—I did—to get a hold of you. But that transfer . . . You'd been moved to some Top Secret thing—and it became a waste even to try after that.
"But I did. I kept trying, Murrue . . . for the rest of the war—just to find out where you were. Once it was over, of course, they told me one sentence and nothing more. 'Lieutenant Commander Murrue Ramius was assigned to work with the development of the new warship Archangel, though her whereabouts now are unknown. Good-bye.' Which, as we both know, is just military top brass speech for 'She's on the Archangel, Dimwit.'" He stopped to breathe, faintly laughing at the memory.
"Wow . . . the Archangel. And you were promoted quite a bit too. But, you, an officer on the Archangel. The rogue ship Archangel. . . ."
"Captain," she muttered, quiet from her seat. John perked his ears.
"Hm?"
"Captain of 'the rogue ship Archangel.' . . . Me."
"Don't lie, Murrue," John laughed. "—C'mon, you? We both know you've never had what it takes. . . . Especially of such a ship. It may have been a rogue but . . ."
"It's true, John," she defended, that familiar stern and commanding tone coming through the weakness. "All the higher officers were KIA before we even launched. I was Captain the entire time."
He swallowed beneath the new heat.
"Really . . ." John muttered for a moment, to acknowledge the idea, then—"Where was I? Oh yes," He clapped his hands together. "After the war."
Murrue flinched at the dismissal.
"After the war," he continued, new grin on his boyish face, "I ran to that house of yours from before. I had the address from when you wrote it down for me, remember? I went there . . . but there was nothing left. . . ."
He stopped, eyes passing over her waiting for a reaction. None.
"Ahem—For the past year I haven't stopped looking either. Finally, a few months back, I got a break. I found out that you were here in Orb, alive and well—that you had survived the war and that you were even working for Morgenroete. But, even that wasn't much of a help. It still took me forever to track down where—and then find your name, address and number. It's a lot harder than you'd think, Murrue," he laughed for a moment before turning towards her, grim. "But, if I could, in the end, find you—that means anybody could if they cared enough. I suggest you get those changed."
"I plan to," she muttered in return, quiet beneath her voice.
"Anyway—that was exactly one week ago from today!" He pronounced proudly, as if the time meant something. "And now, here I am, standing before you. Even after two years.—That answer everything?"
"Not . . . everything. But . . ." Murrue searched for the weak word. ". . . enough?" She glanced up to see him looking at her again—studying. "What?"
"I'm glad," John sighed with all his heart. "To see you again. Just this moment alone makes up for the past two years. And to think I felt like giving up sometimes."
His blatant emotion shook her . . . but she couldn't tell how. Was she scared?—or was she moved? Or . . .
Murrue's face twisted in the dark thought—which, in turn, shook him. All at once, her former lover lost that familiar strength and returned with the young, awkward worry.
"Wait—you are happy I'm back, right?" He wondered aloud, completely fearful. His thoughts flickered back to the un-given flowers.
Murrue, though, had to laugh at his worry. She suppressed it into a soft giggle.
"Of course, John." Her voice was airy—as if she'd been the one speaking non-stop. "Even more than that."
It was true.
This man she had longed after and mourned for, for two years, had finally returned to her. She was indescribably ecstatic. But that didn't explain . . . the painful pulse beating in with that joy. That came from some'thing' else. "I was just . . . surprised," she explained. "Even though I'd been wishing it—I never thought it'd come true. . . . To me, it seemed more like another dream."
John dashed his attention over Murrue, studying how she sat on the couch alone. Face turned away and arms cradled as she spoke tenderly. He had the insane urge to sit down beside her . . . but his would-be space was already taken away. For a quick moment, John despised the flowers he'd bought.
But it was of no real worry.
In one swift motion, using some new and hidden energy, the bouquet was soon off the couch and into John's arms. Grinning in half-hearted annoyance, he inspected them.
"Look, Murrue.—Brand new and they're already on the verge of wilting," he sighed. ". . . I'll go get some water for them.—You wait right here!" And he was off. John disappeared from the open room through the only other doorway—guessing the kitchen's placement.
Murrue made the beginning moves to follow him, but instead fell back into the cushion—fearing the strength of her legs. They betrayed her façade. Her hard eyes lost their hold for a moment and, strained, rushed to blink away the emotion of her heart.
". . . You've come too late, John," she murmured painfully. "I have to tell him that. I . . ."
------
Meanwhile, John fluttered about Murrue's kitchen—opening about every small door he could find until he placed where the vases were kept. Before he found them, however, his short attention was taken away again.
His curious, dazed eyes washed over his love's quaint kitchen. It was in they same style as everything else he'd seen so far.—Simple, yet . . .bestowing-ly beautiful in its own way.
Light washed in from large bay windows, encasing everything with it's mid-afternoon peak. There were two other doorways off the kitchen—both open—and John could see a bedroom on one side and another random room on the other side. That was it—from what he could see—not a big mansion, but it worked.
What drew his attention most . . . was the center, where everything met—Kitchen, doors, sunlight and all. In the epicenter of it all there was a simple circular table, cleared of everything . . . except one small vase and a handful of day-old blooms.
Slowly he lowered the bouquet he'd been fawning onto the counter. John stared at it for a moment, it laying there before him. A singular pale petal was ripe to fall.
Though it was always understood to him that Murrue was a flower person . . . he couldn't see her rummaging through a garden—maybe not even her own—to pick random flowers in the hopes of a thin bouquet she could then display, almost proudly, on the kitchen table—especially in something that looked more like an empty jar instead of a vase. John couldn't see Murrue doing that . . . for herself.
------
When John stepped from the kitchen doorway, Murrue was still sitting down, turned away on the couch. His grin had made some cracks, but when he spoke, his voice had only changed in volume.
"Sorry . . . I couldn't find a vase. But it's okay—since you already have flowers to look at. . . ." Murrue seized up. He shrugged, resting himself back against the chair again. ". . . I didn't realize. If I'd known, I would have brought something different."
Nothing.
The cracks in his grin spread even farther.
". . . I was right. I'm glad, Murrue."
"Hm?"
"There's someone else—in lack of a better term—with you. Right?" It finally shattered. But his face, everything . . . was still so kind, so loving . . . but steeped in . . .
"To be honest . . ."
. . . regret.
John 'laughed'. ". . . I guess I already knew."
"What?" Murrue finally forced herself to her feet—eyes wide at her previous lover's knowledge of him. She'd thought—
He forced a swallow, trying hard to keep his voice as usual—not the higher octave it wanted to jump into—which was quite difficult. The man swayed on his feet, turning around in a slow pacing.
". . . When you answered the phone this morning . . . you sounded so happy. You sounded just the way you did, before, with me. I guess I knew there was no way that you couldn't be with somebody.—I mean, you are you, after all."
His words shot through her, momentarily making her wince. The pain was short lived, however. Though his words alone seemed distant or cold, his voice while speaking them . . . was anything but.
Murrue wanted, so much at that moment, to open her mouth and ask 'Then why are you here?'—but she didn't. She could only smile back, if somewhat weakly.
"That's right."
"Then who is it?" He wondered. "Who is it, Murrue, who you love so much? Who is it that's able to put that smile in your eyes or that tender purr in your voice?"
There was a moment of silence, his amorous observations echoing.
"Like I'd tell you his name, John," Murrue partially laughed, eyes brimming with thought. "Haven't you read any books since the war? Don't you know what happens?" she teased.
"It's okay, Murrue," he chuckled back in return. "I'm not jealous.—Just curious. You can tell me. I swear."
Murrue couldn't not stare at him . . . with that honest, open face.
"I came here knowing what might happen. It's understandable." John assured—still pacing. "You thought I was dead. . . . that I could never come back. And it's been two years since then. . . .—Honestly, I think I would have been surprised if you had waited for something so impossible for that long . . ." he swallowed, wetting his ever-drying throat.
"Who is it, Murrue? Who is this man who loves you now as much as I always have?"
He was sincere. She knew that.
But it was still so hard for her . . . there was still that ominous black cloud hanging atop her thoughts.
She couldn't outright say it. So, she mumbled it indistinctively beneath her airy breath.
"Mu . . ."
Just forming his name with her lips formed a smile. John leaned closer and struggled with what she didn't want him to hear. Even so, he could just make out sounds: ". . . Mmhu . . . LahFuh—"
"LaFlaga?" He shot suddenly, standing straight, eyes wide. His brain took the pieces and jumped ahead. "Mu LaFlaga, The Hawk of Endymion?—Him?"
As he stared blankly at her, she stared right back.
"You know him . . . ?" she gasped, color drained from her face.
"He's a soldier, Murrue," he pressed, the true depth of his voice finally returning. "'Best of the Naturals' when flying, they all said. 'Best pilot the EA's had in years!' was the agreement. And don't forget, he's 'the only one of the Armor pilots left who knows what he's doing.' . . ." John couldn't hold back his scoff. "I thought he died."
"He did . . . if you were following Earth Forces records." Murrue ventured carefully, frame still shaken from the . . . surprise. All the strength and warmth she'd spent so long to return . . . was gone already. "Here, now, he's very much alive."
Ahe trembled on her feet, taking a step closer. "John?" At her voice, he blinked, stretching his face out with his hands.
"Oh, sorry," he muttered, suddenly tired. "It's just . . . I wasn't expecting a name I'd actually know."
"Me neither."
John's young face showed its age as it looked out to Murrue—though his eyes painfully drifted elsewhere.
"So . . . this is it? Are you really with Endymion now?—Are you really just going to let us slip away?" His colored eyes focused back on her now—but softened, as they were greeted with her image.
John started moving forward, straight, deliberate steps to move himself before Murrue. When he got there, and their faces were less than a few inches apart . . . he sighed at the mixed look he saw looking back.
She was so close, he could wrap her close in a matter of movements—and he wanted so much to—yet he chose not. Not then. There would be no mutual comfort in it then. . . .
"It may be cliché," he started roughly, staring into her eyes. "—but . . . I still love you, Murrue. I love you the same way, or even more so, than how much I did two years ago. Does that mean nothing now?"
His amber eyes shattered their hold.
"John . . ." Murrue breathed—unable to do much else.
Though her heart was disgusted by it, her body was reacting completely to just how close he was now. She couldn't breathe—evenly, at least—her lungs moving in sync with only the hard off-beating rage of her heart. Part of her angrily repelled the need she had to lean closer to him—to just fall forward . . . But that was only part of her.
Through it all, her mind stayed so busy beneath the sudden taxing, it became lost in tearing confusion.
"I . . .—"
One quick rapt on the front door and Murrue's hard beating heart jumped past her throat.
"Mu!" She gasped, knowing that quick habit of his anywhere. John's eyes widened, hearing her soft exclamation.
Murrue's front door suddenly swung open then, it letting even more light in onto the two.
"Murrue!" He called grinning. "Sorry!—I forgot my k—"
He froze in the doorway. His startled eyes dashed over the scene—a man, a woman, and a discarded bouquet of blue flowers—and with each flash his eyes became all the more confused.
Mu blinked, taking in the familiar details around him as his hand slid numbly from door-handle.
John spun from facing stunned Murrue to looking straight at the stocky man in the doorway.
"You?!" John growled in realization, face suddenly dark and sharp as it recognized the man. "You're the—?!"
Mu held himself from taking a step back beneath the surprise of change.
That kid . . . from the flower shop . . . ?
AN: Since I have about 70 percent of chapter 3 done already . . . heh—prepare to see it up very soon. Yay! I honestly don't know how long this'll go . . . but I know how it'll end. Seriously, though—I wanted to have it all done for today . . . PS--What's your opinion now? Hmmm? I'd really like to know If I'm doing him okay--'cause it's obvious he's not 'perfect'. . . .