.

.

0

The heat of the sun was pleasantly warm against his skin as he stood watching Liz peg their clothes to the line. She'd already called out to him, promising retribution if he didn't come over and help her, but he risked her wrath so he could stay where he was and simply admire the view.

Sometimes he wanted to smack himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, because surely this feeling of domesticity wasn't real.

When they had woken up in the hospital weak, ill, but alive, there really wasn't any going back for them. They'd never actually spoken about their mutual decision, partly because he certainly wasn't capable of deep and meaningful conversation beyond a certain point without resorting to some sort of deprecating joke, and partly because he was certain that Liz, despite her open nature, never really forgave him for the personal snub of his rejection.

But despite the lack of words to reaffirm it, they knew.

In hindsight, he knew his kneejerk reaction to Reddington's little intervention had been ignorant and short-sighted. After Don had spent that very first night with her, Reddington had confronted him about his budding relationship before a single day had even passed. Of course, he hadn't outright said anything in regards to Liz, but his antagonising word choice rang true. It didn't seem to matter what his heart was saying, and no matter how many times he repeated to himself that Red would never come between him and another woman ever again, he couldn't hide from the logic in his words.

Could he really involve himself with this woman, knowing the risks and inevitabilities of their work? Did he truly believe that they'd both come out of this unscathed and able to live that standard dream of a happy family and the white picket fence?

At the time, he didn't.

(He still didn't.)

But then, Don hadn't realised that he'd destroyed his own chance at happiness and hurt Liz in the process. Keeping his distance had been the hardest thing he'd had to do, returning to a cold civility that he hardly remembered from when they'd first met. It must have said something disparaging about his character that he had to face the inevitability of death for him to realise letting an opportunity go on the basis of what-ifs was an opportunity wasted.

Even now, it was all just a little bit too surreal. They were way past the stage of relearning the art of bed sharing, yet waking up to the warmth of another body still hit too close to home with how lonely their line of work could be. Sharing the burden of cooking, cleaning and case files all felt a little too good to be true, sometimes.

"Hey, if you're planning on staying over there I'll just leave your clothes in the basket and let them go mouldy," She said, though her glare was short lived and harmless.

Her hair was piled up in a mess atop her head, showing off her neck to the perfumed spring air. Even with it well past midday, she was still dressed in the singlet and cotton bottoms she'd worn to bed the night before, typical of a lazy Sunday whenever they had one. She looked so perfectly mussed and relaxed that it was always a little hard to believe that this woman could be so stern when put in a suit. He admired the Liz from work, but he was in love with the one he saw before him.

He also loved just how thin her shirt was.

"Might be worth it," He teased, "It's too good a view to pass up from here."

She tutted in reproach and flung a freshly washed sock at him. He kept his smile to himself as he picked the sock up and walked over to her, ready to receive the cluster of pegs she was holding out for him.

It really was hard to believe this was all happening.

Even with the long months growing longer, they still faced the lasting effects of their imprisonment; he internalised everything while Liz was more vocal in venting her fears to the world and Don had yet to figure out which method was working out best. Just as his leg would be a constant reminder of the reason he owed his life to Reddington, their eleven day isolation had left its mark on every single day and it was not something one forgot.

The months that followed their release had beenfull of medical scares, more so on his side of the field than Liz's. His body hadn't returned to a balanced homeostasis quite as quick as anyone would have liked, spiralling to a point that where there was fear he'd have to be tacked to a dialysis machine. Thankfully things started to improve, but he kept a strict diet to prevent any further degeneration. That meant no more late night fried chicken runs and Liz making sure he didn't eat too many of the salted peanuts he liked so much.

But despite the lingering health effects, it was the little things, incongruous yet inconsequential, that made him wonder what it really meant to recover from trauma. Reaching to hold her hand had evolved to so much more than just a sign of affection. She made a habit of leaving the light on in the ensuite during the night, the glow piercing the darkness through the crack underneath the door.

He kept the windows open when it rained.

Though, in all seriousness, Don felt the strangest part about it had been when Liz found peace and rediscovered herself through gardening. It was a luxurious hobby that their unforgiving work schedule hardly accommodated, but when they had a moment to themselves she would be outside, tending to the small plot of flowerbeds that bordered the porch. She really did have a knack for it, though Donald's thumb was far purpler from stabbing himself with a trowel than it ever would be green.

At one point, she had become so obsessed over perfecting her garden that she would stay up late into the night, digging away in the dark. They hadn't been officially living together then, but when he had woken up in the middle of the night to find her shuffling in the dirt of the backyard like a clumsy burglar, it had lead to its inevitable arguments.

Despite the frustrations it had created between them, he never loved it quite as much until spring had arrived and the daffodils were breaching their final months while the pansies and foxglove had begun to bloom in clusters of bursting colour. The soft blush of pinks and purples contrasted against the warmth of the yellows and he could forgive her for the many hours she'd spent buried in the dirt.

He still drew the line at hanging pots, though (his head was target enough without her putting more obstacles for him to navigate, for god's sake.)

And while he well knew that he was hardly the most romantic fellow in the world, there was something about seeing her stand there with a warm smile against a backdrop of flowers that tickled a place inside him he'd long forgotten existed.

"Less staring, more pegging, please."

"Yes, dear."

.

.

.

Years later, she'd admit to him that gardening helped to remind her that she'd never be boxed inside a room ever again, and the world was just outside their back door and the sun was still shining.

For the sake of sentimentality, he tastefully ignored the comment she made about his hair being bright enough to replace the sun entirely.

Oh, the things he did for this woman.

.

.

A/N: I don't actually know if the above mentioned flowers grow well in any kind of American environment, though I'm almost certain they probably would. Not that I think anyone would be judging me on any kind of horticultural level.

And so, this be the end (I think). I wanted to end on a lighter note, and with uni starting back in three days and my laptop still AWOL, I also wanted to get it out now.

I hope you enjoyed this little journey I've taken you on, and despite my often blatant ignorance of basic grammar rules, I thank you all for your positive comments and feedback!