MCA #1, Friday Evening
The thing about cooking dinner for Clare, even in this new apartment that she'd never been to, was how quickly everything fell into place. As he usually did at home, he sat her at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, a CD of jazz playing softly in the other room. He could chop things for the stew he had planned while they talked.
He missed Alba, but he could halfway imagine she was asleep, or not born yet, or -- anyplace but in Chicago while he and her mother were here. Because that reality was just sad.
"So," he said, twirling the knife a bit before bringing it down and swiping it through the roast he was cutting into neat chunks, "what's Alba figured out since she turned 2? I have no doubt she's the best artist in her daycare."
Clare
Clare had resisted snooping through every drawer in the apartment; it had taken some willpower, but she prided herself in hindsight at not behaving like the twenty year-old who had peeked in Henry's medicine cabinet the first time they'd spent the night together.
Though that thought only served to bleed into a question of whether she'd find a lipstick, here, if she looked.
So now she was perched at the kitchen table, swirling her glass of wine and thinking about this whole world of his that she wasn't part of -- though, in ways, she could see herself here, even in nearly a year's absence.
"You're right on that," she said with a smile, looking up from her wine. "She's started sleeping through the night, for the most part. And it seems like she's learning more words every day. I can't keep up." Clare paused a moment, and added, "Big Alba visits her, still. The last was a couple weeks ago."
Henry
There wouldn't be a lipstick; things with Cindy had never gotten to the point of leaving possessions at each other's homes. Whatever his ... proclivities might have been as a younger man, Henry had been all but chaste this last year.
It was, when he paused to think about it, both odd and a sign of how he wasn't the young man who had first met Clare, any more than she was that 20-year-old.
"You could get a word a day calendar," Henry suggested, talking nonsense to steady his hand. "And I'm not surprised. She's trying to go home."
A pause as Henry decided if he really wanted to ask what he thought he wanted to ask.
"Do I ever turn up?"
Clare
"It wouldn't be my life if you didn't turn up from time to time," she said with a soft, slightly sad smile. "Sometimes Alba will see you before I will. You don't stay long, usually."
He never stayed long enough, for her.
Henry
Henry fidgeted a bit but returned that smile, if awkwardly. "I haven't been traveling much the last couple months," he said. "The doctors at Hopkins are declaring themselves geniuses, but I think it has more to do with the island. It's selective about what odd occurrences it permits. A man disappearing into thin air is positively commonplace."
Which was perfectly fine by Henry -- he wasn't going to file a complaint if the island didn't feel like supporting time travel.
Clare
Clare had to think about that for a moment. "You like it here, then. You're not unusual," she offered. "Do many know?"
Henry
"I like parts of it," Henry confirmed. "The apartment, the library, some of my coworkers. It'll never be home."
He went back to his slicing, considering her question. "Not a lot. My boss. One of my assistants who has -- unrelated but similar issues." He'd have to explain Jono more before Sunday, if she wanted to go to the library with him then. "A few friends. The clinic staff. It's interesting. I know no one here would care, and it would sometimes make more sense than anything, but -- it's hard to start talking about something you haven't been talking about for years and years."
Clare would know, if anyone would. She'd carried the secrets of his visits to her childhood home for almost her whole life.
Clare
"The secret part is so ingrained," she said with a nod. "As much as it might be accepted here, it's not like you can just open conversations with it after thirty-five years of talking about whatever else you can." She smiled a little, and added, "I remember."
Henry
"I don't think you ever forget anything." Clare's memory always humbled Henry. "It's impressive. If I ever need to know what we did for New Year's Eve in 1993, there you'd be."
Clare
"Like the book, but in reverse," Clare said with a smile. "Not a record of when to expect you, but one of where we'd been. I suppose that's probably how most people do it, isn't it?"
Henry
"Oh, I suppose," Henry said. "I've never been much good at how most people do things. Luckily I found a very understanding woman."
Clare
"Where are you hiding her?" Clare asked, feigning ignorance as she looked around. The combination of the wine, and just talking to Henry had soothed her nerves, and she ended up pointing to herself with a smile. "Oh, me? Well. Doing things the normal way is probably boring, anyway."
Henry
"Terribly so," Henry agreed. "Enormously. Just think of all the people who live their whole lives waiting for something unusual to happen, and you got unusual dropped in your lap at age six. You should brag more."
Clare
"I've been thinking about having signs made up," she said with a solemn nod. "Maybe a billboard."
Henry
"As long as you don't tear up the yard putting it in," Henry said, equally solemn. He loved that yard.
The stew was assembled and simmering away, and he took a seat opposite her at the table before gingerly posing a question. "So you're doing okay with the single parent thing?"
Clare
Clare considered her answer carefully. "Yes," she said after a moment. "It's not always the easiest thing, but we always knew parenting would be a challenge. Charisse and Gomez are always happy to take her for an afternoon if I need to work, or I can hire a sitter if I need time by myself."
She had more to say -- about how she missed him, and Alba missed him, and how she'd be glad when he was able to be home. She wasn't always sad to be without him, no. But she'd be happy when he came back.
But she didn't say that. Not yet. She held it back for right now, not wanting to pressure him.
Henry
Henry was quiet for a moment, listening. He was trying to hear the spaces between the words -- the things said as well as the things unsaid.
"I'm glad," he said finally. "We knew this would be hard, but ... not too hard. That's good."
He had more to say, too, and he debated whether it should be spoken or unspoken. He'd made so many promises to Clare; he didn't want to make another and not keep it.
"This," he finally said, with a sweep of his arm that took in the apartment, "is not forever. We both know that."
Clare
"It's not?" she asked, unable to stop herself. "Henry, you're comfortable here. You don't travel nearly as much. How can you give that up?"
Henry
Henry knew because he knew what his obituary said; he'd looked it up in an unwise fit of curiosity. And he knew that he didn't die in Maryland, surrounded by strangers.
None of which Clare should be told just yet.
"I don't think our story ends with me here and you there," he said instead. "Let alone with Alba barely knowing me. That's how. I want to finish out the school year, but then..."
He trailed off. May seemed very far away, really.
"I'd rather be with you and traveling, then here and not."
Clare
It was an impulse, entirely, that drove her to the chair beside him rather than opposite. She wanted to dive into his arms -- to forget the food and instead spend the weekend in bed, the way they had for days on end when they'd first begun dating. She settled for reaching for him, wanting to just be near enough to breathe him in after being separated by every force possible for so long.
"I miss you," she said softly. "But I can't make you come home if you're happy here. I don't want that."
Henry
"Clare," he said, curling toward her to rest his hand on hers, craving that same closeness, "how happy do you think I could be without you? It's like having a meal prepared by a gourmet chef who didn't use any salt. It's like a concert with the musicians miming their instruments. I can be happy with it, here and there, but it's not right."
Clare
She gave him a slightly wobbly smile, leaning to rest her head a little tentatively against his shoulder. "But you've gotten a break from traveling. You're safer here," she offered softly. "I'm horribly selfish, aren't I?"
Henry
"Terribly spoiled," he said, kissing the soft amber strands at the top of her head, "to want a husband who lives with you."
Then he realized that she might have meant she was selfish in exactly the opposite direction -- that she'd rather he was alive halfway across the country than not-alive at home. "And I'm not really safe anywhere, anyhow."
Clare
"Safer," Clare said, "if you aren't traveling." She'd meant it both ways, but really, she only felt bad for her selfishness insomuch as she wanted him with her. "I half-wish I'd brought Alba. Sometimes, you come just to see her. Traveling you, I mean. I think it's good for her."
Henry
"It's a long trip for a little girl," Henry answered. "And I am selfish enough that I want us to have this time to be us. Not that I don't miss her, but I missed you more."
He smiled a bit. "I'm not surprised that I do that. I want to get time while I can."
Clare
And that made her sad in the deep, quiet way she never really thought about, if she could help it. She pushed the thought aside, scooting a little closer to him. "I like being here, with you. I like seeing this world you've hollowed out for yourself."
Henry
"It's a little nook outside ... everything, really," Henry said. "It's seductive. Like I fell down a rabbit hole and landed in Brigadoon."
Mixed metaphors. But accurate. He leaned closer too, until there was hardly any space between them.
"I like showing it to you. It's like it makes it new again."
Clare
"It's homey. Reminds me of your first apartment, when we...well, not when we met. When you met me," she corrected, smiling softly and reaching out to run a hand over his hair. "Little neater, though."
Henry
"I have more space," Henry explained, gazing around. "And some of my books stayed back in Chicago. I can't say my taste has changed much beyond that."
He closed his eyes, utterly relaxed under her touch.
Clare
"I'm glad," she whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, breathing him in. It was like coming home, after a very long trip.
She had a sudden appreciation of what it must be like to be Henry, when he was gone for days and it was minutes for her. But it was still only a fraction of it, she knew. It was hard, but it was still easier being the one who stayed.
"I was worried you'd changed," she added quietly.
Henry
"In some small ways, maybe," Henry whispered against her. He'd buried his hands in her that glorious living hair of hers. "Never in big ones. Never away from you for long."
He wanted to carry her off to bed.
Clare
She wanted him to.
Clare was beyond words, at this point. They'd talked longer than she cared for, really, and as much as she'd missed him, and tried to move past him in ways, and been angry for his leaving, right now, she was with Henry. Her Henry.
She reached up to clasp his face, and moved to kiss him, hoping it would say everything she wanted to, but wasn't brave enough to express.
Henry
Henry sank into that kiss, wanting nothing more than this moment. All the hurt of the last year was falling away: It was just them.
Without further ceremony, he took her hand and tried to lead her back into the bedroom.
Clare
She trailed after him, memorizing the route to the bedroom.
It wasn't as though this would be their last trip there, she was sure, and she wanted to commit as much of this to memory, anyway.
[OOC: Posted late because I am fail at coding. NFI, NFB due to timing issues. Preplayed with the glorious sexonyoursheets.]
He missed Alba, but he could halfway imagine she was asleep, or not born yet, or -- anyplace but in Chicago while he and her mother were here. Because that reality was just sad.
"So," he said, twirling the knife a bit before bringing it down and swiping it through the roast he was cutting into neat chunks, "what's Alba figured out since she turned 2? I have no doubt she's the best artist in her daycare."
Clare
Clare had resisted snooping through every drawer in the apartment; it had taken some willpower, but she prided herself in hindsight at not behaving like the twenty year-old who had peeked in Henry's medicine cabinet the first time they'd spent the night together.
Though that thought only served to bleed into a question of whether she'd find a lipstick, here, if she looked.
So now she was perched at the kitchen table, swirling her glass of wine and thinking about this whole world of his that she wasn't part of -- though, in ways, she could see herself here, even in nearly a year's absence.
"You're right on that," she said with a smile, looking up from her wine. "She's started sleeping through the night, for the most part. And it seems like she's learning more words every day. I can't keep up." Clare paused a moment, and added, "Big Alba visits her, still. The last was a couple weeks ago."
Henry
There wouldn't be a lipstick; things with Cindy had never gotten to the point of leaving possessions at each other's homes. Whatever his ... proclivities might have been as a younger man, Henry had been all but chaste this last year.
It was, when he paused to think about it, both odd and a sign of how he wasn't the young man who had first met Clare, any more than she was that 20-year-old.
"You could get a word a day calendar," Henry suggested, talking nonsense to steady his hand. "And I'm not surprised. She's trying to go home."
A pause as Henry decided if he really wanted to ask what he thought he wanted to ask.
"Do I ever turn up?"
Clare
"It wouldn't be my life if you didn't turn up from time to time," she said with a soft, slightly sad smile. "Sometimes Alba will see you before I will. You don't stay long, usually."
He never stayed long enough, for her.
Henry
Henry fidgeted a bit but returned that smile, if awkwardly. "I haven't been traveling much the last couple months," he said. "The doctors at Hopkins are declaring themselves geniuses, but I think it has more to do with the island. It's selective about what odd occurrences it permits. A man disappearing into thin air is positively commonplace."
Which was perfectly fine by Henry -- he wasn't going to file a complaint if the island didn't feel like supporting time travel.
Clare
Clare had to think about that for a moment. "You like it here, then. You're not unusual," she offered. "Do many know?"
Henry
"I like parts of it," Henry confirmed. "The apartment, the library, some of my coworkers. It'll never be home."
He went back to his slicing, considering her question. "Not a lot. My boss. One of my assistants who has -- unrelated but similar issues." He'd have to explain Jono more before Sunday, if she wanted to go to the library with him then. "A few friends. The clinic staff. It's interesting. I know no one here would care, and it would sometimes make more sense than anything, but -- it's hard to start talking about something you haven't been talking about for years and years."
Clare would know, if anyone would. She'd carried the secrets of his visits to her childhood home for almost her whole life.
Clare
"The secret part is so ingrained," she said with a nod. "As much as it might be accepted here, it's not like you can just open conversations with it after thirty-five years of talking about whatever else you can." She smiled a little, and added, "I remember."
Henry
"I don't think you ever forget anything." Clare's memory always humbled Henry. "It's impressive. If I ever need to know what we did for New Year's Eve in 1993, there you'd be."
Clare
"Like the book, but in reverse," Clare said with a smile. "Not a record of when to expect you, but one of where we'd been. I suppose that's probably how most people do it, isn't it?"
Henry
"Oh, I suppose," Henry said. "I've never been much good at how most people do things. Luckily I found a very understanding woman."
Clare
"Where are you hiding her?" Clare asked, feigning ignorance as she looked around. The combination of the wine, and just talking to Henry had soothed her nerves, and she ended up pointing to herself with a smile. "Oh, me? Well. Doing things the normal way is probably boring, anyway."
Henry
"Terribly so," Henry agreed. "Enormously. Just think of all the people who live their whole lives waiting for something unusual to happen, and you got unusual dropped in your lap at age six. You should brag more."
Clare
"I've been thinking about having signs made up," she said with a solemn nod. "Maybe a billboard."
Henry
"As long as you don't tear up the yard putting it in," Henry said, equally solemn. He loved that yard.
The stew was assembled and simmering away, and he took a seat opposite her at the table before gingerly posing a question. "So you're doing okay with the single parent thing?"
Clare
Clare considered her answer carefully. "Yes," she said after a moment. "It's not always the easiest thing, but we always knew parenting would be a challenge. Charisse and Gomez are always happy to take her for an afternoon if I need to work, or I can hire a sitter if I need time by myself."
She had more to say -- about how she missed him, and Alba missed him, and how she'd be glad when he was able to be home. She wasn't always sad to be without him, no. But she'd be happy when he came back.
But she didn't say that. Not yet. She held it back for right now, not wanting to pressure him.
Henry
Henry was quiet for a moment, listening. He was trying to hear the spaces between the words -- the things said as well as the things unsaid.
"I'm glad," he said finally. "We knew this would be hard, but ... not too hard. That's good."
He had more to say, too, and he debated whether it should be spoken or unspoken. He'd made so many promises to Clare; he didn't want to make another and not keep it.
"This," he finally said, with a sweep of his arm that took in the apartment, "is not forever. We both know that."
Clare
"It's not?" she asked, unable to stop herself. "Henry, you're comfortable here. You don't travel nearly as much. How can you give that up?"
Henry
Henry knew because he knew what his obituary said; he'd looked it up in an unwise fit of curiosity. And he knew that he didn't die in Maryland, surrounded by strangers.
None of which Clare should be told just yet.
"I don't think our story ends with me here and you there," he said instead. "Let alone with Alba barely knowing me. That's how. I want to finish out the school year, but then..."
He trailed off. May seemed very far away, really.
"I'd rather be with you and traveling, then here and not."
Clare
It was an impulse, entirely, that drove her to the chair beside him rather than opposite. She wanted to dive into his arms -- to forget the food and instead spend the weekend in bed, the way they had for days on end when they'd first begun dating. She settled for reaching for him, wanting to just be near enough to breathe him in after being separated by every force possible for so long.
"I miss you," she said softly. "But I can't make you come home if you're happy here. I don't want that."
Henry
"Clare," he said, curling toward her to rest his hand on hers, craving that same closeness, "how happy do you think I could be without you? It's like having a meal prepared by a gourmet chef who didn't use any salt. It's like a concert with the musicians miming their instruments. I can be happy with it, here and there, but it's not right."
Clare
She gave him a slightly wobbly smile, leaning to rest her head a little tentatively against his shoulder. "But you've gotten a break from traveling. You're safer here," she offered softly. "I'm horribly selfish, aren't I?"
Henry
"Terribly spoiled," he said, kissing the soft amber strands at the top of her head, "to want a husband who lives with you."
Then he realized that she might have meant she was selfish in exactly the opposite direction -- that she'd rather he was alive halfway across the country than not-alive at home. "And I'm not really safe anywhere, anyhow."
Clare
"Safer," Clare said, "if you aren't traveling." She'd meant it both ways, but really, she only felt bad for her selfishness insomuch as she wanted him with her. "I half-wish I'd brought Alba. Sometimes, you come just to see her. Traveling you, I mean. I think it's good for her."
Henry
"It's a long trip for a little girl," Henry answered. "And I am selfish enough that I want us to have this time to be us. Not that I don't miss her, but I missed you more."
He smiled a bit. "I'm not surprised that I do that. I want to get time while I can."
Clare
And that made her sad in the deep, quiet way she never really thought about, if she could help it. She pushed the thought aside, scooting a little closer to him. "I like being here, with you. I like seeing this world you've hollowed out for yourself."
Henry
"It's a little nook outside ... everything, really," Henry said. "It's seductive. Like I fell down a rabbit hole and landed in Brigadoon."
Mixed metaphors. But accurate. He leaned closer too, until there was hardly any space between them.
"I like showing it to you. It's like it makes it new again."
Clare
"It's homey. Reminds me of your first apartment, when we...well, not when we met. When you met me," she corrected, smiling softly and reaching out to run a hand over his hair. "Little neater, though."
Henry
"I have more space," Henry explained, gazing around. "And some of my books stayed back in Chicago. I can't say my taste has changed much beyond that."
He closed his eyes, utterly relaxed under her touch.
Clare
"I'm glad," she whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, breathing him in. It was like coming home, after a very long trip.
She had a sudden appreciation of what it must be like to be Henry, when he was gone for days and it was minutes for her. But it was still only a fraction of it, she knew. It was hard, but it was still easier being the one who stayed.
"I was worried you'd changed," she added quietly.
Henry
"In some small ways, maybe," Henry whispered against her. He'd buried his hands in her that glorious living hair of hers. "Never in big ones. Never away from you for long."
He wanted to carry her off to bed.
Clare
She wanted him to.
Clare was beyond words, at this point. They'd talked longer than she cared for, really, and as much as she'd missed him, and tried to move past him in ways, and been angry for his leaving, right now, she was with Henry. Her Henry.
She reached up to clasp his face, and moved to kiss him, hoping it would say everything she wanted to, but wasn't brave enough to express.
Henry
Henry sank into that kiss, wanting nothing more than this moment. All the hurt of the last year was falling away: It was just them.
Without further ceremony, he took her hand and tried to lead her back into the bedroom.
Clare
She trailed after him, memorizing the route to the bedroom.
It wasn't as though this would be their last trip there, she was sure, and she wanted to commit as much of this to memory, anyway.
[OOC: Posted late because I am fail at coding. NFI, NFB due to timing issues. Preplayed with the glorious sexonyoursheets.]