Wherein a word or phrase can be the start of something fun and wonderful.
Some are simply stand-alone ficlets or drabbles. Some link up with published stories. Some end up previews for things yet to come.
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Some days they found random moments to send each other quick messages to check in throughout the day. Today wasn't such a day.
Guilt tries to take root as he drives to her place after his shift. Standing plans aside, he almost calls to make sure they're still on for the day. Maybe he'll get her flowers tomorrow - and see if she wouldn't mind coming to his place for dinner over 'the weekend', which really was two days in the middle of the week for the way her rotations were scheduled this time.
It has him so distracted that he's standing on her welcome mat before he's come to any decent decision. The moment he opens the door he realizes something isn't quite right. It's not that the door was unlocked, that's not unusual for days he's due to come over. They've discussed it, his preference that she not do that, her insistence that she would, at least until her landlord got another key made. (Funny how willing her landlord was to cooperate once he learned she was seeing someone in law enforcement.)
He slips his duffel off his shoulder, setting it on the floor just inside the door. Normally she's sitting at the kitchen table with a mug, or reclined on The Comfiest Sofa in Existence... but sometimes not. Sometimes there are bad days, when she's trying to hide from the trauma determined to catch her. He knows what those days are like, far too well, and today - today seems like it's a bad day, just from the feel of the place.
She isn't an untidy person by any means, but today the smell of solvent hangs in the air. She's taken to reorganizing, as though that simple act will set right everything else. And if there's a single dust bunny hiding away somewhere he'd be amazed.
She's standing there in the middle of the room folding up the blanket they usually use when reclined on the Comfiest Sofa watching movies, barely stopping to acknowledge his arrival.
"Babe?" He tilts his head at her, "Whacha doin?"
Watching her profile, he sees the way her mouth twitches first, just before she manages a reply. "Straightening up!"
But those two words seem to pull the will to clean out of her, stilling her entirely. As she exhales she turns to fully face him, still keeping the blanket gripped firmly in her hands, though the task of folding it up has been abandoned.
Her eyes are rimmed in red. Something's happened.
She closes her eyes and swallows hard, and then the muscles in her neck seem to bunch and jump, followed by vibrations that shake her frame. She's losing it, about to crumble and there's more than half the room between them.
He rushes towards her, vaulting the sofa to be able to reach her just as she opens her eyes again. No words come out as she stumbles into his arms, the blanket still held tightly to her chest. He stands there, holding her, letting her sob into his jacket. Whatever'd happened during her shift she'll tell him, when she's able. For now there's no interrupting the flow of tears.
Once she stops shaking with such force, when the hiccups begin to intermittently assert themselves, she seems to be able to catch her breath. It's only when she rotates against his chest, moving so that he can see her face, that he dares to quietly question her.
A kid. They lost a kid. Hadn't even gotten him loaded up. Hadn't been time.
There wasn't always time, not that that inescapable fact helped, ever. They continue to stand there even as the room beings to darken around them. They'd need to start dinner preparations soon, or maybe call to get something delivered. Today felt like a delivery day. Most definitely.
As her hiccups quiet he finally realizes what had initially tipped him off as to the state of the day. Not the solvent, not initially, but.... "Babe. How'd you move the sofa?"
The monstrosity is no longer hemming the outer edge of the room but shifted to divide the space. He'd had to jump over it to reach her. And, not speaking against her size or strength, but it's heavy - as all overly large pieces of furniture are.
He shakes his head, tipping his body slightly to be able to glance at said piece of furniture, "I mean, I get that you moved it. But. How?? The math doesn't..."
The laugh that he pulls from her with the question, and the way her body finally releases the last of the tension that she's been holding, is better than anything else he can think of giving her. And he's never loved her more.
