Thank you all for the wonderful comments... you guys are incredible : )
This still takes place in the same room. After Jack the magician and Sam the dreamer, here's Jack the musician. I'll try to post more soon but in the meantime, enjoy!
IV. Musician
He had come as a musician. He wasn't holding a guitar or a violin or playing the piano; he didn't have a flute or even a harmonica− yet he had all the notes and he knew exactly how to arrange them in a perfect tune, knew how to produce a melody that warmed the heart and left you eagerly waiting for more. He was the architect of the most beautiful music in the world; he played the tune in the room, around her, with her, a tune that he whispered into her ears and spoke to her heart.
She couldn't see the score he was using, then realized he was using none, that he was finding the notes as he went along, humming quietly, finding the lows and the highs, composing flawlessly. He sang to her, sang with his gaze and his mouth and his hands; sang to her in a language only he knew and that only she could decipher. It was sad and joyful at the same time, slightly melancholic, his soul in tune with his heart. She followed the song, followed him, followed the notes as they swivelled around the room, reaching the ceiling, the wooden door, gliding along the carpet and filling the air around them both.
It felt surreal, and the dreamer in her wondered why she'd never seen this side of him. He'd come as a dedicated artist and she could tell he really was one, that once delivered of the ropes that bound him to the outside, this was who he truly was, and suddenly, it stopped feeling surreal, it became right. He was the musician and she was playing with him, and it required no effort, because they were already in tune.
This wasn't a stage and they didn't have to perform. This was a refuge− a place where their daily lives could be put in parentheses, a place where his haunted eyes would become joyful because he would hear the notes. A place where she could listen to him without having to be one step away, one glance away, a place where she could come at night and simply… listen to him. The world didn't belong to FBI agents, it didn't belong to girls with unrealizable dreams and men who had a wife− but it belonged to musicians, who created it and shaped it and decorated it at their will.
She could see the trees he was singing about; the leaves and the colors and the birds chipping in the sunlight. She could see the orchard he was depicting− fruits and light and a graveled path with a bench where they could sit. The leaves were falling, twirling in the wind, landing smoothly at their feet. They were yellow and red and green and brown, and she smiled because it reminded her of the colors she'd seen in the clouds. Then he produced a harp− he usually didn't have instruments, but just for this once, his fingers would play over the strings and accompany his voice, and he'd sing a hymn to nature and beauty. She would let the soft breeze caress her skin and hear the whispers of the wind that accompanied a tune that was meant only for them, a tune he had composed thinking about her.
The room came back into focus and she smiled, and he smiled back, because tonight, neither wanted to leave. He'd entered as a musician and he would remain one. He'd play through the night and the next morning, she'd wake up at his side and the notes and the melody and the colored autumn leaves would still be here. And then, when she would open her overnight bag to find a pair of socks and her gun and her badge, she would look down, and wouldn't find her weapon.
Instead, she'd find a harp.