Memory Lane

It was way past midnight when Diana sat up in her bed. 47 was still pacing back and forth in their living room; restless as she'd never seen—or heard—him before. With a sigh, she silently slid out of her warm bed, the wooden floor smooth and cool under her naked feet.

She took a step towards the chair by the window, to grab her robe she'd placed there when she went to bed a few hours earlier, but a choked off sob coming from the living room changed her mind, and she padded directly to the door instead.

47 was not just restless, he was close to panicking. It wasn't like him, not at all.

Diana watched as he sat down on the couch, burying his head in his hands, followed by another barely suppressed sob. He was not okay.

47 got back up just moments later, pacing towards her, no, to the sideboard between her bedroom door and the kitchen. With shaking hands, he grabbed the whiskey bottle like a lifeline when their eyes met and he froze in his movements.

"I thought you didn't drink?"

He didn't reply; he just stared at her, like a deer staring at the headlights, unable to avoid the impact. Something was wrong.

"Bad dream?" she asked in a softer voice now, but he only shook his head.

She understood immediately; it must've been a particularly horrifying memory that came back to the surface and kept him up at night. Who knew what he'd been put through before they erased his memories.

Even though he clearly needed support, she wasn't sure how to comfort him—or if she even was the right person to do so. He was shying away from her ever since they all moved into that safehouse together. Perhaps she'd misjudged the closeness of their relationship.

Anything would be better than to leave him alone with his inner turmoil, though. He was still holding the whiskey bottle, so she gestured at it and asked him to fix her a drink before walking over to the couch.

He nodded obediently as she walked past him, and he didn't hesitate to place two glasses on the sideboard to fill them.

Maybe simply keeping him company was the kind of comfort he'd accept from her.

47 sank down next to her and handed her a glass, not looking at her, not noticing her smile. Her fingers brushed against his as she took the glass from him, and he flinched away.

Diana frowned. He clearly didn't want her around. Grey should return soon; he would gladly take care of him. After all, Grey was what 47 needed, not her.

She put her glass down on the coffee table and moved to get up, but a barely audible "please stay" stopped her.

He was looking at her, and there was fear in his eyes; so desperate, so lost. It broke her heart to see him like that.

Diana let herself sink back into the couch. 47 was so tense that she could feel it, even though they weren't touching. She wouldn't dare to try, not after his reaction when their fingers touched.

She asked him if he wanted to talk about it, and he didn't want to, so they just sat there and drank in silence, shoulders almost touching and close enough to feel each other's warmth.

After what must've been another hour, Diana suppressed a yawn and shivered a little.

"You don't have to stay," he whispered, but she shook her head.

To her surprise, he hesitantly reached out to put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, searching her face for any signs of disapproval.

She smiled and leaned into him. 47 was warm and strong, and she felt safe in his arms. Even though she'd wanted to stay awake with him, the combination of the alcohol and his body heat was making her drowsy, and she dozed off in his arms, her head on his shoulder and her hand on his thigh.

It was early morning when Diana woke up lying on the couch. For a moment she thought that he'd left when she'd fallen asleep, but he was lying behind her, still holding her close. His gentle fingertips were on her stomach, caressing the narrow stripe of naked skin that was exposed where her shirt rode up a tiny bit.

Despite her longing for more, his fingers didn't wander; not once he tried to slip under her shirt or the waistband of her pyjama bottoms. She sighed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Turning around to face him, she realised that he was silently crying. His tears were wet on her face and salty on her lips. Diana didn't know what he was sorry for, but she trusted that he would tell her, eventually.

It didn't really matter what it was. He was her closest friend—if she was being honest with herself, she had to admit that she loved him—and whatever had happened or was yet to happen, they'd get through it together.