Wheeler was waiting for the kettle to boil when Linka burst into the kitchen, wearing nothing but his Planeteer t-shirt. The hemline hung long around her thighs. She caught sight of him and stopped immediately, relief flooding her face.
"I thought you had gone," she said worriedly, crossing the cold kitchen tiles to wrap her arms around his waist.
"No," he murmured, hugging her back. "Sorry. I needed caffeine."
She smiled up at him and he kissed her gently. "I like your t-shirt," he said.
She gave an embarrassed laugh. "It was on the floor. I was in a hurry. I had to see if you were here..."
He nodded and kissed her again, his arms circling her slender waist to hold her tightly. The kettle clicked off and he looked at it, but made no move to let go of her.
"I think you need your hands to make your tea, Yankee," she whispered.
He chuckled and held her a little tighter. The t-shirt rode up a little, high on the backs of her thighs, and he slipped his hands beneath it, her skin warm and smooth.
"I'd rather use my hands for something else," he murmured.
"Bozhe moy."
He laughed, and she smiled at him, delighted at the light-hearted noise he had just made. He lifted her gently and sat her on the edge of the sink. Before he could kiss her, though, she winced.
"Oh, Linka, I'm sorry," he said, dipping his forehead against her chest. He felt her chin on the top of his head and her arms came around him.
"Nyet, it is not so bad," she whispered.
"It was too rough, and fast," he said, holding her tightly. "I didn't want to hurt you like that, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."
She simply shook her head and hugged him, her fingers winding into his hair.
Linka's hair was still wet from her shower, and she was wearing jeans and an old New York Mets t-shirt he had dug out of his closet for her. She was chewing her lip and watching the media coverage of the recent mudslides the other Planeteers had been dealing with.
"We should go back," he muttered, shifting his eyes from her to the television. "They probably need our help."
"Not until you are ready to go back to work," she answered, reaching across and finding his hand without shifting her gaze. "They understand. Ma-Ti can still get in touch if they need Captain Planet."
He nodded quietly, but he felt anxious. Was he ready to go back to work? Right now, here in the lounge room with Linka beside him, he felt okay. But dealing with all the pressure and danger and sadness that came with being a Planeteer sometimes... Would he ever feel strong enough to go back to it?
The past few days told him he wasn't strong enough for anything. He was deeply ashamed of his behaviour and mindset. He wasn't even sure if he'd grieved properly – and he felt guilty, as though he hadn't dedicated enough of his time to thinking about his mother. Rather, he'd tried to forget everything. Truth be told, he'd probably thought more about his father during the past few days.
"We should eat something," she murmured suddenly. "I have only just realised we have barely eaten over the past few days."
"I don't think there's any food here," he said. "Let's go out."
She nodded in agreement, and turned the television off. "Let me change my shirt."
"No, don't," he said, grinning and wrapping his arms around her to keep her close. "You look cute, dressed as a Mets fan."
"Why is it not Yankees?" she asked, raising her eyebrow at him.
"Hey, I've known the Mets for almost twenty-four years," he said. "I've only known you for six, so don't think you can change me now."
She giggled. "Da, okay. Now let me up."
"No, come on." He tugged at her hand and dragged her to the door. "Let's go now. You look beautiful."
She sighed and rolled her eyes, but followed him, clutching to his hand and smiling as he chatted about baseball, his voice echoing slightly in the bare stairwell.
He led her to a café, booths and tables filled with students in jeans and t-shirts, and people who had wandered out for their lunch break. He had ordered a burger and fries and she'd ordered soup and a sandwich, and they ate and chattered quietly, avoiding the serious subjects they had dealt with over the past few days and instead choosing to stick to lighter, fluffier subjects that weighed nothing and could simply float easily in the air between them.
"Favourite colour," he demanded.
"Blue."
"Why?"
"It is my turn to ask a question," she accused. "You are jumping about and taking my turn."
"No, it's part of the same question," he clarified. He watched as she stole a french-fry off his plate.
She sighed and blew her hair out of her face. "It is the colour of the sky, and the ocean, and your eyes," she said. "Now it is my turn to ask something."
He fluttered his eyelashes at her and she laughed.
"What is your favourite dessert?"
"Brownies and ice-cream," he said immediately. "Ma makes these –"
He paused, suddenly, and she caught a flash of grief behind his eyes.
"Oh, Wheeler, I am sorry, I –"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Don't. Um – Ma – my mom used to make these great brownies. She'd only do it on special occasions, you know, and her excuse was she didn't want me to get too used to them or they wouldn't be special any more." He smiled sadly, and gave a short laugh. "Man, they were great. I guess I'll never get to eat them again."
"You cannot make them?"
"No idea how to." He grinned again, though he still looked a little sad. "Guess they're gone forever."
"Perhaps she left a recipe somewhere."
He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess she did. If I can find it, I'll try and make them for you – but they still won't be as good as hers were."
She smiled.
"What's your favourite dessert?" he asked her.
"Nyet, I cannot choose just one," she said, shaking her head.
He laughed. "You have to. The rules of the game say so."
"There are no rules," she accused.
"There are now. Name a dessert."
She sighed, and thought hard. "Khalva," she said slowly, and after what seemed a long time. "My grandmother made it for me often."
"What is it?" he asked.
"It is a custard dish," she said. "I could make it for you, I think. There are not many ingredients. But I also like sweet blini – we used to eat them to celebrate spring coming." She smiled at the memory. "I think I enjoyed the celebration of spring more than I did the blini, though. Khalva is my favourite."
She took another fry from his plate. "What was your favourite subject at school?"
"I hated school."
"That does not answer my question," she said, nudging him with her foot.
He sighed, and thought for a moment. "Phys Ed," he said.
"That is sports, da?"
"Yeah. And you? What was your favourite subject?"
"I had many," she said, smiling when he made a face. "I enjoyed mathematics and biology the most. And music, of course. And languages. And literature!"
"You're such a brain," he said, wrinkling his nose. "How long exactly before you get sick of me and run off to find yourself a smarter guy?"
She laughed and shook her head, pulling his hand across the table to hold it in both her own. "Never," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure. I know sometimes I make you think I do not care for you, Wheeler, but I do."
He smiled. "Yeah?"
She leaned across the table suddenly, and pulled him in and kissed him. "I love you," she said.
He sighed and slumped slightly, his forehead against hers. "I love you too. And I couldn't stand it if you – if you left me..." He trailed off and shook his head. I'd die.
"I will not leave you," she whispered, taking his hand. "I know this has been hard, Yankee, but it will get better. I promise."
He nodded and squeezed her hand. "I know." He raised his eyes to hers. "I'm so sorry about the way I acted... I didn't know what to do, and drinking just seemed so easy..."
"Shh," she whispered, shaking her head. "I know. But I also knew it would not last, Wheeler. You are not the man your father was."
"I threw a glass at you," he groaned, dropping his eyes again and resting his forehead against his free hand.
She shivered at the memory. "Da, I know. But it did not hurt me."
"It could have," he moaned. "It could have taken your eye out, or scarred you for life, or killed you, if it'd hit you a certain way..."
"I am fine," she soothed. "I am okay."
"I'm not," he whispered. "I'm never going to be okay with what I did to you over these past few days."
"Grief makes us do strange things," she said. "You were not yourself. I do not consider that Wheeler to be you."
He let out a short, explosive sigh, and smiled, and kissed her hand. "I don't deserve you." He looked up at her sadly. "It was me," he said. "I guess my weaknesses are more obvious than I'd like them to be."
"Well, next time, do not trust alcohol to hold you up," she said, her voice firm and clear. "Let it be me. Da?"
"Yeah, okay." He kissed the ends of her fingers, tracing their slender lengths and caressing her skin lightly.
She settled herself slightly, and he smiled at her sitting opposite him, her hair falling from the loose ponytail, his Mets shirt several sizes too big for her.
"Now, Yankee," she said, using a tone that indicated the subject of the past few days was closed. "What is your favourite chocolate bar?"