disclaimer: not mine
He is roused by warmth instead of the usual cold: a strip of sunlight has crept across his face. His eyes slowly drag themselves open. Liz is curled up next to him on the couch, fast asleep and still except for the rhythmic motions of her breathing.
They dozed off in a sitting position, leaning into each other. He feels his back protesting but he doesn't move just yet. Her fingers are still curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on, and her right hand is clasped in his. He can't feel her touch anymore because his arm has fallen asleep but their physical entwinedness fills him with a strange, exquisite mix of aching happiness. He watches her for a while, enjoying this rare, unexpected moment of serenity.
So profoundly mundane.
So terribly finite.
With great reluctance, he checks his watch. It's almost 7 a.m.
He shifts, pulling his numb arm free. "Lizzie."
She stirs. Her eyes open and slowly, she looks up at him.
"Good morning," he greets her quietly with a soft smile.
Her drowsy confusion slowly gives way to lucidity and mild awkwardness. Her hand slides off his chest and she pulls away.
But not too far away.
She rests her head against the back of the couch, mirroring him. Watching him. Taking him in. All of a sudden, a lot seems to be going on behind those blue eyes - a heavy mental catalog of everything that has happened, is happening and could happen.
"We need to get going soon," he says.
She nods.
He tilts his head.
But they don't get up.
Her eyes don't leave him. She seems to be waiting for something, something to be said or done, and suddenly he finds he has no idea what that might be. Then he sees it: the faint beginnings of a smile. She caught him again. She's learning to read him and she caught that flicker of uncertainty.
"Breakfast?" he inquires with raised eyebrows and fake nonchalance. He tries but he isn't fooling her. Not here. Not now. The faint upward curl of her lip remains.
"I can't even think about eating," she says.
His gaze shifts. His lips purse, then stretch into a fond smile. "Some of my best memories are food related," he says.
"That's because I've never cooked for you," she remarks.
Surprised, he looks back at her. "It can't be that bad."
"It's worse. Last Thanksgiving I almost killed T…" Her smile falters and dies on her lips along with the rest of the sentence.
They sink into silence. She stares at her hands and he watches her, wishing he could make this easier. But he can't. He shouldn't, either. It will serve her better in the long run. She needs to build up a tolerance.
Liz lets out a small laugh - mirthless and helpless -, shaking her head. "I keep forgetting…" she tries to explain, then peers up.
There's something hard and heavy in his gaze - and no pity. "I know," he says.
The past is like a lost limb. For fleeting moments, it can fool your mind into believing it's still there. It aches, it itches, it lures, it touches, it still is, still yours, but when you reach for it, your fingers clutch cold air.
And you remember.
It's a cruel trick - a clever trap the suffering mind walks into over and over again, sometimes even deliberately. But traps are for dying.
So one day, if you're lucky, you reach out and find something tangible again. Something warm, alive, and real.
A present.
Maybe even a future.
A chance to belong again. And you can begin to forget.
"You can do this, Lizzie." She regards him wordlessly, searching his face. Her eyes continue to question him. "You're like me," he answers with a sort grin, half-teasing, half-reassuring. She doesn't protest this time, which pleases him. "You survive."
"Is that what you do?" she asks. "Survive?" He remains silent. "Right." She sighs, resigned, then rises to her feet. "It's never the whole picture with you, is it?"
He remains seated. "Do you want us to arrive separately?" he asks, changing the topic.
"I have nothing to hide."
He grins, his gaze sliding over her appreciatively. "Clearly," he remarks with a small nod.
The sunlight coming from behind her is making the borrowed shirt she's wearing almost completely transparent. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling the fabric tight, but she doesn't move. She lets him admire her for a few more seconds, waiting until their eyes meet.
He gets to his feet and draws closer. "I meant what I said last night," he says.
"Which part?" she asks.
"Every word," he answers quietly.
"Every word?" she repeats with a hushed tone of playful disbelief, wondering how it is possible to be so intimate with someone without really knowing him. Without actually touching.
"Yes," he confirms. "Three in particular."
Her eyes narrow. She's reluctant. Suspicious. Cautious. "You really shouldn't throw those around," she says. "It's imprudent," she adds, plucking a word from his extensive vocabulary and flinging it back in his face.
"Do you think me imprudent, Lizzie?"
"No," she answers. "You are, however, obsessive, manipulative and, according to the state of Maryland, still married."
He is silent for a long moment, then his gaze flickers to her ring. "So are you," he says, looking back at her, unfazed.
"Your wife's in WITSEC. Has been for 24 years."
He laughs and shakes his head - as if she just told him a great joke. "Yes. It's so… convenient, isn't it? Being relocated to some godforsaken town, well beyond the reach of every friend, relative, and… nosy FBI agent."
"But not yours, right?" she says. His harsh amusement dissolves but he doesn't answer. "Do you know where she is?"
Once again, his answer is silence, then a strange expression crosses his face. She's seen it before but can't quite place it. "Perhaps I'll take you to her one day," he says.
tbc