(no subject)
A Life Like That, TenII/Rose, PG13, 519 words
“Come away from the window.”
He hears her say it, knows she’s right. Leans closer to the window.
“Come away from the window.”
He hears her say it, knows she’s right. Leans closer to the window.
It’s easy, so much of the time. The single heartbeat, the regular sleep schedule, the neighbors and shops and bills. The traveling. Them. There’s so little he misses. To wake in the middle of the night, sheets tangled at his feet and her body absent, and be able to roll over and wrap himself around her-her half-awake sigh of contentment, his eyes squeezed shut in relief-is worth everything. It’s not that he would trade any of it.
Below him, one cab swerves to narrowly miss another, and brake lights flare and drivers extend their fists, mutely.
It’s just the moments like this one (and that’s another thing, the way moments creep up and stay). The flight in was fine, better than fine, their breathing wild and not-hushed-enough in the tiny stall between first class and coach, and later her head lolled on his shoulder while his fingers ghosted up and down her arm and sleep pulled at them. It’s never the flying that gets to him. And she’d booked the suite as a surprise, and it’s incredible, a foyer leading into so much open space (ah, he thinks, it’s bigger on the inside, and he wonders if and knows that she did that on purpose), and a wall of windows where you can see everything.
Behind him, she sighs, and there’s a rustle of sheets being pushed aside or pulled over.
And he can see everything. The years lining his face, relatively few but unchangeable, reflected in the glass. The darkness under his eyes, and, maybe, in them. The fact that he’s never looked down on a crowded street from just exactly this far up, always farther, or, one Christmas with a would-be bride (and he has to shut his eyes again), much closer.
She comes beside him, bumps her hip and shoulder against his. She looks out the window, up, not down.
“I’m here,” she says. Quiet, steady.
He shifts his weight, leans into her just slightly, and she shifts back (and they catch each other, after all this time, every time). They stay like that. Cabs go by. The sun goes down.
“I might take a walk,” he says.
He reaches for her hand, and she takes it, squeezes. They let go, hands finding pockets. She stands at the window, watching the sky. The door clicks shut behind him as her gaze drops to the street.
Hours later, he stops on a street corner, blocks from their room, under a flickering light. His hands are clasped behind his back, then at his sides, then folded in front. Letting go of what held him at the window. Missing her.
And a cab pulls to the curb. Her window is down, her hair is curled, her eyebrows are arched. She opens the door, slides across the seat, leaves one leg draped across it.
“I’m here,” she says. Low, inviting.
He doesn’t have to check what time it is. He leaps in after her. Her curls flatten against the window.
“Come away from the window.”
He hears her say it, knows she’s right. Leans closer to the window.
“Come away from the window.”
He hears her say it, knows she’s right. Leans closer to the window.
It’s easy, so much of the time. The single heartbeat, the regular sleep schedule, the neighbors and shops and bills. The traveling. Them. There’s so little he misses. To wake in the middle of the night, sheets tangled at his feet and her body absent, and be able to roll over and wrap himself around her-her half-awake sigh of contentment, his eyes squeezed shut in relief-is worth everything. It’s not that he would trade any of it.
Below him, one cab swerves to narrowly miss another, and brake lights flare and drivers extend their fists, mutely.
It’s just the moments like this one (and that’s another thing, the way moments creep up and stay). The flight in was fine, better than fine, their breathing wild and not-hushed-enough in the tiny stall between first class and coach, and later her head lolled on his shoulder while his fingers ghosted up and down her arm and sleep pulled at them. It’s never the flying that gets to him. And she’d booked the suite as a surprise, and it’s incredible, a foyer leading into so much open space (ah, he thinks, it’s bigger on the inside, and he wonders if and knows that she did that on purpose), and a wall of windows where you can see everything.
Behind him, she sighs, and there’s a rustle of sheets being pushed aside or pulled over.
And he can see everything. The years lining his face, relatively few but unchangeable, reflected in the glass. The darkness under his eyes, and, maybe, in them. The fact that he’s never looked down on a crowded street from just exactly this far up, always farther, or, one Christmas with a would-be bride (and he has to shut his eyes again), much closer.
She comes beside him, bumps her hip and shoulder against his. She looks out the window, up, not down.
“I’m here,” she says. Quiet, steady.
He shifts his weight, leans into her just slightly, and she shifts back (and they catch each other, after all this time, every time). They stay like that. Cabs go by. The sun goes down.
“I might take a walk,” he says.
He reaches for her hand, and she takes it, squeezes. They let go, hands finding pockets. She stands at the window, watching the sky. The door clicks shut behind him as her gaze drops to the street.
Hours later, he stops on a street corner, blocks from their room, under a flickering light. His hands are clasped behind his back, then at his sides, then folded in front. Letting go of what held him at the window. Missing her.
And a cab pulls to the curb. Her window is down, her hair is curled, her eyebrows are arched. She opens the door, slides across the seat, leaves one leg draped across it.
“I’m here,” she says. Low, inviting.
He doesn’t have to check what time it is. He leaps in after her. Her curls flatten against the window.