Author's Note: Spoilers for season two episode 12. See End Notes for more information.
There are moments in life that are weighted, heavy, and they beg to be addressed. The death in the water was hunting them down, and the insanity on land was closing in on them, but all she felt in that weighted, heavy moment was that she should take a small step. Just one. A step that she had been unwilling to take for days - weeks longer, if she was honest with herself - all because of her intractable and willful nature.
To be fair, he was just as bad.
They'd spoken, however briefly, on the subject only hours before. She could recall in full detail the sorrow and guilt in his voice, the way his eyes closed in remembrance of those they had lost, and of those left behind. Physically, she had patched him up as well as he would let her, but the pain on his face didn't come from anything she could have repaired.
And oh God, did she wish she could have.
Then he spoke two words that twisted up her insides, and caused her breath to hitch. He had thanked her, thanked her, and when her sight met his sharp, clear eyes she knew he'd given ground. He had been clawing away at the wall between them, a wall they were both guilty of erecting, and he'd been offering her a chance to meet him part way.
All she could manage was to walk away.
There had been words choking in her throat, words that she wanted to say, should have said, but that willful pride of hers hadn't released her voice.
You're a good man.
I'm glad it was your ship.
I'm sorry.
Not an apology for the act she committed, the death she had brought about. It was an acknowledgement of the damage she'd caused to them, to whatever tenuous, deep-seated connection that drove them both to new heights of worry and annoyance. It was that connection that eventually dragged her closer to him, like the seductive undertow of a perfect beach. And just like an undertow, she hadn't realized how far out she'd been before return was impossible.
She wasn't sorry for the death.
She never would be.
But for what that death had caused them, she would be forever sorry. She had never wanted to cause him pain, and that day in the officer's mess, with his big speech and his grand talk of holding her accountable, she knew she'd struck him a lower blow than any she could have conjured. She had acted outside his trust, betrayed him and she had witnessed the aftermath; there were no words for what she had felt at the time, because there had been too much anger still present.
But now she understood it.
Standing in that weighted, heavy moment, she knew she should voice her words, should voice the things she never said. Because as she gazed at him, standing firm on his ship but looking to her so weary, she felt the chill of certainty, as if it might be the final time they ever stood in the other's presence. The thought had nearly brought the words to her lips, but there was still something strangling them back down.
It wasn't stubbornness.
It was fear.
A large part of her had spoken out, and it told her that saying goodbye would only cement the certainty of them never meeting again. It told her that by saying the words she wanted so badly to say, she would leave nothing between them. She would be tearing down the wall dividing them entirely, and she didn't know if she could continue walking away from that man without something, anything dragging them back together.
She didn't take that step. Instead, she said nothing, choosing to fill her mind with the sight of him so tall and unwavering, and neglecting the thought that he could be dead in less than an hour. She walked away from him, from them, and told herself as she suffocated on her words that they were both better off not hearing what she wanted to say.
You are a good man.
I'm glad it was your ship.
I am sorry.
Author's End Notes: I apologize for being away for this long, and for missing any reviews. Life took a step to the left for a moment and I needed to get some things in order. As always, I appreciate your reviews and follows and favourites, and I am forever up for prompts.