Oh?

“I can manage myself, agent. Thank you.” You say very quickly but mean every word of it as you pick up the medic bag and move in the direction of the bathroom. Or what you presumed must be a bathroom. The chances of an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods having a functioning plumbing system would have been a pleasant surprise, to say the least.

You don’t make it far, however, before you feel Galahad’s hand enclose your wrist rather firmly. “I’m afraid I must insist.” There again with that voice. You wondered if he even needed any weapons on missions. He could just say things in that voice and people would probably just lay down arms right away. “Agent.” He completes with particular emphasis on the word and you can’t help but turn and meet him.

He’s standing there quite dishevelled compared to his usual state of utter decorum – hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, specks of blood on his face, suit discarded, red streaks on his white shirt and yet his eyes haven’t lost their composure. They’re still calm and piercing at the same time. But you do see something else you don’t recognize that you can’t quite place either.

All you do is swallow dryly and nod. His grip relaxes as he guides you to an old table that’s collecting more than dust now. You wince as you hoist yourself on it with his help. Your shirt blooms red again. Galahad inhales as his hand instinctively comes to the spot on your middle where the blood comes from. “I’ve had worse.” You laugh with a few breaths, trying to reduce the tension but then, pain, sudden and sharp, forced you to shut up. “I think.” You say weaker now.

Galahad ignores this as his hands move to the buttons. “May I?” He asks, very softly as if mere sound would cause you to bleed some more and you nod, giving up entirely. You realize that you now found you didn’t have the strength to move your arms. It required more effort than you could spare. And Galahad was being so nice, the part of you that you normally kept under reigns was now slowly winning.

His fingers move deftly through the buttons and in a few seconds, you have shed your shirt. Your undershirt is clinging to you and much more red than you had imagined. You sense Galahad tense next to you and you desperately want to ease his worry. Whether that was for your own sake or his, you couldn’t tell. He doesn’t even ask before he lifts your undershirt out of your trousers and vey carefully brings the hem up to your chest, exposing the wound. You look at it for the first time: it’s a rather deep laceration on the side of your waist. But you know it hasn’t penetrated anything internal. The bleeding was purely superficial.

“Can you hold this for me?” You take the hem of your shirt from him and roll it so that it stays around your chest, giving him room to work. He finds clean gauze and dips them in running water before cleaning the area around the wound. You don’t want to look at the rest of process. You hear him open up the bottle of spirit and bite the inside of your cheek when he dabs the liquid. Tears form at the back of your eyes. When he’s done you look back and it is now significantly less scarier than it was before. You take a few breaths and he bends down closer to inspect it.

“I think I’m going to have to stitch it up, Y/N.” Both the suggestion and the fact that he just used your proper name make you whip your head around to face the man. He looked almost as pained as you. You gulped. “Do you really?”

He brought his fingers to the edge of the wound and felt it. Yiu didn’t know if you tensed because you were bracing for pain or because of the contact. This was all very distressing. Absolutely not. “I don’t mind waiting for help, Galahad.” In the midst of all this, saying his name still felt weird to you.

“I don’t think we can afford that.” He doesn’t wait for your response as he finds a chair and grabs the suture kit. Leave it to Kingsman to perfectly equip a medic bag.

And all of a sudden, you are now horizontal, on the table, he’s now very much in your space, one elbow resting on your thigh for stability, as he starts applying the stitches. You have been given a belt to bite on and you use it gladly. Every movement feels like a thousand hot needles piercing your flesh and the tears roll down your cheek endlessly. Galahad whispers soothing words as he works. At one point, he even stops to let you breath as he brings his hand and smooths the hair on your head, which feels so comforting you relax into it. You stupidly pray that he somehow, remembers none of this when it’s all over.

When he’s finally done, and he’s applied bandages to the wound, your head falls back with a thud on the table and you close your eyes, exhausted. Your skin is drenched in sweat bjt it’s cool and you find yourself drifting off. You don’t know if you’re hallucinating or if Galahad gave you some pills for the pain but before you fall asleep, you feel someone press a soft kiss to your temple, very lightly as if they’ll wake you if they’re ot careful. You don’t know it but you fall asleep with a smile gracing your features and Galahad is very slightly red in the cheeks looking at that.

*******

When you come to, it’s dark. The only light comes from a little bulb hanging above you and the fireplace. You turn to see your clothes stacked neatly on a chair. On your left, Galahad is fast asleep on another one. He looked very worn out. Glasses askew, hair even messier than before, sleeves rolled up and stained red on the edges, tie completely absent. He clearly hadn’t meant to fall asleep but couldn’t help himself.

You suddenly feel very thirsty and look around for something to drink apart from the bottle of spirit menacingly staring at you from the medic bag. You spot a bottle of water next to the supplies bag and you think you can handle that journey. You slowly get up, noiseless, and let your feet dangle a bit before placing them carefully on the floor and moving your weight. Big mistake. Sharp pain shoots through your side and you hiss as you brace yourself against the table.

Instantly, Galahad is at your side and helps you up again. “What do you think you’re doing?” You know he’s trying for composed, but the way he says it sounded more concerned and had more panic in it than anything else.

“I was thirsty.” As you say it, your voice is raspy, and Galahad immediately retrieves the bottle for you and hands it to you opening it. You take several gulps and hand it back, thankihg him. He just stands there next to you, not moving.

“Are you hungry? I think it’s quite alright for you to eat.” You shake your head and try to smile. “Trust me, food’s the least of my worries right now.” He nods and goes to inspect your bandages.

Maybe now that the pain had subsided or that you had got water in your system, you felt very exposed. You were wearing next to nothing and seated in front of agent Galahad while he tended to your injuries. The intimacy of this setting was nothing your training had prepared you for. He may be used to this but you certainly weren’t.

He had removed the bandages to inspect the stitches and once satisfied, he carefully applied them again. You were once again suddenly very aware of his fingers on your skin. Good, Y/N. You almost die of blood loss and the thing you’re worried about now is the awkward physical contact with a fellow agent. Priorities clearly well sorted.

“I’ve phoned base and Merlin’s promised a vehicle soon. They can’t seem to get through the storm, I’m afraid.” You nod and he steps back, not meeting your eyes.

“Y/N”, there it was. Your proper name.

“Why did you do it?” You blink at first, before you realize what he is referring to. He means ‘Why did you jump in front of me like a maniac when that gun was fired? Where was your common sense?’ Truth is, you don’t know. You don’t know why. It was a reflex.

“Because somebody was firing a gun at you?”

He stares at you. Daggers again. Okay. Clearly not in the mood for jokes.

You sigh. “I don’t know. Alright?” You find you can’t meet his gaze anymore. You’d rather address the rest to his knees than to him. “I just saw a gun; saw you and then I jumped. I don’t usually have common sense in general, if that makesyou feel better.”

He laughs. Not loudly. And it doesn’t last long. It’s more of a huff. “It doesn’t.” He moves to the table and leans next to youm “It makes me rather concerned for you.”

You look at him and he’s looking back at you, almost fondly. You shrink under him and smile looking away. You really wish you weren’t so exposed right now. It’s making you very self-conscious and you were already tired from the everything else. On top of all of this, Galahad is being very nice to you and you just can’t handle it. Maybe you should’ve let the bullet him. At least you wouldn’t be the one shirtless right now. Please don’t start thinking about agent Galahad without a shirt now, Y/N. Not when he’s right next to you and looking at you like you saved his life. Oh wait..

“What?” He snaps you out of your spiral.

“Nothing.” You say too quickly. You hear him sigh next to you.

“I just –,” you begin but you find you’re unable to formulate thoughts. “I-,” you can’t articulate anything. You want to thank him for looking after you and tending to you. You want to tell him to stop looking at you like that. You want to grab a sheet and cover yourself even though you know he’s not looking anywhere but your eyes right now. You want to forget about your injuries and run away into the cold of the night, barefoot like a woodland creature and never return to Kingsman. How is somebody supposed to put all those thoughts into words?

He blinks once and you realize you’ve been staring at him for several minutes and not speaking. “Y/N, are you alright?”

And that does it. This man is still making sure you’re alright because he feels guilty and because he cares about you or whatever and you no longer have the energy to worry about anything else. So, you do the thing you’ve been thinking about all this time and bring your hand to his shirt and pull him doen to you, lips meeting his, deliberately. He starts at that and almost loses his balance but he steadies himself on the tabl, placing one hand on the flat surface next to you as his other one comes around you, holding you. You’re grateful because you’re not sure if you’d have stayed upright if he didn’t.

He kisses you very carefully, but with intent. You have no idea what you’re doing or where this is supposed to go so you don’t pull away until you need air again. You immediately rest your head on his shoulder and his arm around you holds you tighter, gently going up and down your back. You then feel his cheek resting on the side of your head.

You slowly move away and look at him properly. He’s not hesitant or apologetic. In fact, he looks relieved almost. “Was that alright?” His hand on your back slows.

He leans down and kisses you again in response. It’s a bit longer before you pull away this time and his hand comes to rest gently on your waist. “I just ran a needle through you several times and you’re asking me if this is alright for me?” You laugh softly at that and ignore the pain that comes from it.

He then lowers his head to your shoulder, placing a kiss on the skin over your collar bone. You bring your hand to his hair and smooth it a little. “Besides, I think I owe you much more than a few kisses for saving my life.” He says it so softly that you feel your cheeks heat up as you lightly swat his head for that.

“Are you saying I did it for the money, agent Galahad?”

He pulls away just enough to look at you properly. “No, I think you did it for much nobler reasons.” At which you shyly look away. “Even so,” he brings a finger under your chin and you look up at him. “I’m afraid I have rather very few methods at my disposal, to show you my gratitude.” Your eyes widen at his bold demeanour and you can’t help but bite back a smile and look away.

Before you could move, he had finished clearing up the space and dragged his pocket square over the floor once. It was as if nothing had happened. Why did that very slightly make your blush darken?

Your hands suddenly felt clammy. "Thank you." You got out, small and barely audible. You thanked the floor.

You heard a huff and watched the tip of his shoes come towards you. You struggle and look up. Big mistake. His eyes are already on you, a twinkle in them. You smile sheepishly and gently sway on your heels. Even worse, he smiled back.

"Let's get on with your training, shall we?"

All you can do is nod quickly as you place your hand in his outstretched one, hopelessly praying it's less clammy than it was a second ago. His other hand finds the spot under your shoulder blade, coming around you, and you inhale subtly before placing your hand on his shoulder. He nods once, approving.

You suddenly hear the music from the corner and wonder who turned it back on before realizing it was playing this entire time. His eyebrows go up and you realize you are about to start. He takes a step forward, leading, and you follow.

It does not come easily. You were never a good dancer - always opting out of dancing at parties, never taking missions that involved balls or any activity that required that skill you so fervently avoided. The only dancing you ever did was in your room, alone, possibly resembling the mating dance of a T-rex. If they even did mating dances. Which is why, when you were put on this mission against your will, Agent Galahad was tasked with giving you the prep required to survive one night of polite dancing. And here you were, mid-lesson, wondering if T-rexs involved in mating dances or not. A keen student, certainly.

Galahad stumbles a little and you snap out of your thoughts. You had just stepped on his foot. He grips on to you for support and you steady him. The hand on his shoulder, finding his elbow and pulling him forward to stop him from knocking over another precious vase in another corner.

He steadies himself and sighs. You feel more heat in your cheeks. "Sorry", you almost whisper.

"It's alright." His voice is much softer than what you were used to. He brings his hand down to your waist once more and you can't help but feel that this time it's slightly lower than where it was first under your shoulder blade. Focus, Y/N!

"When I first started dancing lessons, I nearly catapulted my teacher into a cupboard." You exhale a laugh and look at him. He's looking at you with the most calm expression you've seen. You relax and nod. His fingers shift slightly at your waist, and the music takes over.

When Arthur first suggested you take dancing lessons with Galahad you wanted to protest. In fact you wanted to sail away to a foreign country. Galahad was a good dancer and a good teacher. But he was not like Merlin. He was not usually warm or gentle. He was always curt and to the point. Having to do dance lessons with him resembled, to you, having to learn swimming from a whale. It was its habitat, something that came naturally to the whale. It may not have the patience to teach a land mammal its lifestyle. You could not have been more wrong.

You were moving now, both of you, to the rhythm. No casualties had occurred for the past few minutes. It was actually quite nice once you got the hang of it. You even began to enjoy it. The two of you had drifted closer over time and suddenly you found yourself unable to look at your partner. Your eyes focused everywhere else, noticing little details about the room you had never noticed before - the design of the wall lights, the pattern on the curtains, the golden hue of the window sill under the evening light and one particular point in your partner's sleeve - it all seemed much more interesting suddenly.

"You know, it's a custom to have polite conversation with our partners."

He pulled you out of your fleeting thoughts. Your eyes met his for the first time in these few minutes. They were... surprisingly warm.

"Or at least look at them every now and then." An amused smile formed on his lips as you smiled yet again apologetically.

"I realized I had never noticed the pattern on that curtain before. It's quite nice." You shakily said. He obliged and turned around slightly, never breaking the rhythm, looking at the curtain properly.

"Yes, very intricate detailing. I've never noticed it before either, to tell you the truth." He turned around and looked at you again, the smile widening. You ducked your head, unable to decide if he was being sincere or not.

"Then again, I'd notice details like that if I too found my partner so intolerable that I couldn't bear to look at them."

You instantly looked up meeting his eyes. Defence already forming in your mouth. "That's not what I-" Why weren't the words articulating? "You're not-" Help. Human malfunctioning. And you look at him properly. He's still smiling, softer now, clearly enjoying himself instead of feeling sorry for the trouble he's caused.

You smile back slowly and nod. "You're trying to get me to relax."

"And failing horribly, if I may say so." You laugh softly and shake your head. "It's not your fault. There's a reason I do better in combat missions." You try to brush it off, the insecurity, and focus on the steps. You just can't look at him after that blow. And he doesn't press. He adjusts his hold on your hand and guides you again through the room.

It's not that you were incapable of having fun. It just so happened that you were most in your element when you were working, and nothing more was there to it. Sure, that made you miss out on gatherings and actual socializing, but you had friends a plenty. You only agreed to do this this time because Arthur had pressed and said you needed to do more on missions than just fight people and leave quietly afterwards. "Versatility," he'd hissed at you.

"You know -" Galahad's voice brought you back yet again "- some people consider fighting a form of dancing." He was no longer smiling but his eyes were intently focused on you. You nod a little. You've heard the idea before. Something stops you from embracing it however.

"I guess it's easier to relax around someone who's trying to kill me."

The music stopped. The dancing stopped. The room stood still. What was that? Oh, well done Y/N. You suspected a psych-evaluation was on its way soon after this. You manage to look up at your partner whose expression was conveniently unreadable.

You didn't even try to explain yourself. You just stood there, exposed but unapologetic. As if he completely understood you, Galahad just took your hand again and resumed the training.

"Then use your imagination." He whispered.

You blinked in surprise. "Imagine you're trying to kill me?"

His eyes did something dangerous. "Exactly."

You nod and use your imagination. He's a trained assassin; you're a trained spy on a mission to thwart his plans; you don't realize you're his target and invite him for a dance; something dangerous passes between you two and you forget your respective missions; you steal away onto a balcony underneath the moonlight - oh no. This was not helping. You've never imagined stealing away with someone you were fighting before.

Suddenly, your foot loses balance. The floor was slippery. Your shoes weren't conducive. Your legs were tired. All these excuses rattle through your brain as you fall back. All at once. Nothing behind you for you to knock into nor, to your dismay, to stop your fall. Until he catches you, both arms coming around you, yours going around his shoulders for support. You are now halfway to the floor beneath Galahad, who's bent halfway himself.

"Thank you," you say, breathless, feeling heat rise up through your entire face. It did not help that his was merely inches away from yours, the two of you almost nose-to-nose. He was breathing audibly, too. His eyes had lost their usual sense of composure and were wider than normal.

"And that's what we call a dip", he said, in between breaths. A small smile graced his lips. You huff and nod, embarrassed beyond measure. You felt your core screaming and wondered how long a traditional dip lasted.

Your question was answered immediately when Galahad adjusted his arms and gently brought you to an upright position. Your arms were still very much around him as were his. Neither of you looked at each other as you caught your breaths. You hear him exhale with a small laugh.

"I think you've had enough training for the day, don't you, agent?"

You nod, laughing a little yourself as the two of you extricate yourselves from each other. When you bid your good nights and say your thank yous, it's rushed and curt and always to the floor. You're the first to walk out of the room briskly, never looking back. Your head keeps replaying that moment all the way to your room and, once inside, you slump down on your bed, suddenly remembering that when the two of you were inches apart from each other, there was a moment when his eyes had flicked to your lips. Just for a fraction of a second. The blink and you miss it kind. You groaned into your pillow and tried your best to let sleep take you.

*********

The day of the mission, you were to go alone. It was nothing heavy-duty really. Just routine recon work. Only this time, it was at a dance-party and only you managed to procure an invitation.

The reflection looking back at you in the mirror was... absolutely done with everything. They had hired a professional to help you with your outfit and everything but you still looked out of place. Even alone, in your room. You attribute it to your general sense of awkwardness and brush something off your sleeve. Your watch tells you it's time and you try very hard to not imagine the night ahead of you. It was only a few hours and you were prepared. Well, more or less.

You open the door with full force, mentally steeling yourself and you almost knock into agent Galahad.

"I'm so sorry I didn't-"

He shakes his head carefully and smiles.

"It's alright. I just thought I'd come see my star-pupil before their big debut."

There it was. That twinkle in his eye again. You roll your own playfully and let him in.

"Your star pupil is experiencing some mild abdominal discomfort currently and hopes that won't hinder their performance for the evening." You get back to your things, checking off everything you need. You put in your earpiece and realize you didn't get an answer and turn back only to find Galahad looking at you, mildly taken aback.

"You look..." he trailed off and you can't help the distressed expression on your face.

"Is this not how I'm supposed to-"

"No. No. I mean yes- I-" he cleared his throat and breathed once.

"You look more than appropriate for the evening." A polite smile.

Your eyes dropped unbeknownst to you as you nod. Of course. He was being courteous. And suddenly the room feels small and quiet.

"Any last-minute pointers, agent Galahad?" You laugh a little nervously.

He smiles warmly, and you find yourself smiling back at him. "You'll be fine tonight. I promise."

And that did more than any possible tip or reminder to watch your feet might have. You find yourself going to him and stopping abruptly. Why had you gone to him? You've got to do something now. You can't just stand there. You slowly put out your hand and he takes it gingerly. You shake it once and say "Thank you, agent Galahad, for everything."

He nods and lets go. As you're walking out together, he very quietly says "Just one more thing."

You stop and look at him, listening carefully.

"Call me Harry."

***********

You have made a huge mistake. You should not have come here. The crowd is very polite and generally well-behaved but everyone is dancing and being giddy and you are not good at either one of those things. You fall while walking on flat road. The floor was especially polished and slippery tonight. You notice your target sitting by himself and this is your opportunity. However, your feet refuse to comply. Merlin's voice comes through your earpiece.

"Agent, this is it. That's him. You won't find a better window."

Oh you could find one. The one to your left seemed like the perfect window to jump out of. You clench your purse in your hand and stare at the man.

"Y/N?"

Harry's voice this time.

"Are you alright?"

Why did that floor you? He just asked if you were alright. Not for your hand in marriage. You bring your phone to your ear and assure him you are.

"Good. You can do this. Remember, use your imagination."

You nod once and move. Everything after that is a blur. You dance exceptionally ordinarily, no casualties tonight. Your target even asks you for a second dance and you graciously accept. Harry's voice comes through your earpiece occasionally, giving you encouraging remarks and you survive.

Back at the agency, there's a victory celebration - not because the mission was victorious but because you had not once stepped on your partner's toes throughout the evening and everyone in the compound had watched at least a clip of your dancing. You are red when you shyly accept their victory toast and raise your glass. When your eyes find Harry, he's not beaming, not proud. Just happy. And you mouth a 'thank you'.

Later when everyone has cleared the room and it's just you, Merlin and Harry, you are finally able to relax.

"You know, you really shouldn't be helping clear up after your own party." Merlin says as you hand him another forgotten glass.

"I hardly deserved one." You shake your head and look everywhere but at Harry.

"Maybe not. But it was high time for a celebration." Merlin teased and you nodded agreeing. Harry was awfully quiet but it didn't surprise you. He was not the talkative type.

When you're done the three of you bid your good nights and clear the room. A small part of you expected or rather hoped Harry would pull you aside and tell you how proud he was of you. Or at least congratulate you as a joke. But nothing of the sort happened and he was well on his way to his room. Why did that stir something in you? You step inside yours and exhale, leaning against the door, disappointed. And that's when you realize. You were disappointed, of course.

You grab your shoes, put them on and walk quickly. Finding his room, you knock on the door. Your heart was racing but if you couldn't handle a mild arrhythmia by now, what were you doing with your life?

Harry opens the door and looks surprised. His hair is slightly ruffled. He's discarded his suit and he looks very different to you.

"I realize I never thanked you properly." You are fiddling with your fingers now, muscles in your forearms tense.

He blinks once and moves aside, inviting you in. He looked like he was trying to do some horrible calculus in his head before he clears his throat and shakes his head.

"No, no. That's completely alright."

"No, it isn't." You're firm on your ground tonight and he shuts up.

You gingerly take a step forward and extend your hand to him. He takes it, unsure, and you place your other hand on his shoulder. Realization washes over his features and he breaks into a small smile, his hand finding you as he does.

"Y/N, we don't have to..."

But you're already swaying to no beat whatsoever and he follows. This time, it's relaxed and slow. The both of you move around the room as if you've practiced many times before. You feel at ease. And this time you don't focus on the curtains and it's partly because they're quite plain if you're being honest.

"Are you thinking my curtains are rather plain?"

You startle and look at him and he's got that twinkle in his eye again. This makes you laugh and you shake your head while laughing.

"No.. the curtains don't interest me tonight."

He makes an 'o' with his mouth, taken aback and just quietly continues dancing. You realize the effect your bravery had and feel very much not brave yet again.

The two of you slow to a stop and suddenly can't look at each other yet again. You pull apart and struggle to form sentences.

"So, did you imagine he-" Harry cleared his throat for the third time that evening.

"Did you imagine he was trying to kill you?"

You laugh quietly. "No.. actually." You speak to the floor yet again.

"No?"

"No, I imagined something else."

"Ah" No further questions apparently. "Well, you found your system then. That's good."

You don't know why but that frustrated you just a little.

"I did imagine something." Something fluttered inside you as you took a step towards him. You fixed your eyes on his. You were not backing away from this now.

"Oh?" Harry's expression remained calm.

Irritating.

Another step and another until you were inches away from each other and the hem of your dress brushed against his shoe.

You're sure your heart has stopped beating entirely when you carefully reach up, chest lightly brushing his, and slowly press the smallest of kisses to the corner of his mouth. He had gone entirely still. You pull back only slightly and add, "I imagined I was dancing with you."

You suddenly felt like somebody kick-started your heart again and it had gone into overdrive. You could hear it beat and you suddenly felt your legs begin to give way. You were not built for intimacy. You withdraw, an apology forming in your throat when Harry catches you, hands finding your waist and keeping you there as he bends down and kisses you properly. You don't respond at first but you catch up quickly. It's deliberate and soft at the same time and you can't believe what's happening. His nose brushes your cheek as he dips further into the embrace. Your hands have somehow wound themselves around him and rest on the nape of his neck.

You pull apart after what seems like ages and he rests his forehead on yours. Your eyes are closed but you know for certain that he is just as pink as you are in the face. You smile and quickly give his lips a light peck again.

"This is certainly one hell of a thank you." He breathes out and you laugh, slow and warm.

"Well, you were one hell of a teacher." He laughs with you now and pulls you in for another kiss.

"I think we're way past that relationship, don't you think?" He teases and hides his face in your neck, unbelievably tender. You blush and bring your hand to his hair. You'd finally put your imagination to good use, you think.

It was a small thing, really. Something trivial. Not even worth mentioning. But it had cost him a good deal at work, that phone call, and he was not hesitant to lay the entire blame on you. Rightfully so. However, it had been days since the incident and you have done everything in your power to apologize: you brought him his favourite sweet treat, surprised him with a nice dinner at home, sent nice but inconspicuous enough flower arrangements to his office and even let him choose every evening's entertainment on the telly. You did not sit through a week's worth of documentaries of how everyday items are made just to remain where you were apology-wise - at square one.

So, tonight, you decided to appeal to his more humane nature. The evening was quiet. The sun was setting, soft rays of pink light shone through the curtains in the kitchen window. He sat in the middle of them, unknowingly, absorbed in his work at the table. He was muttering something under his breath as he read through the documents. The light caught his hair, turning the brown into a more golden colour, his skin more pinkish and his eyes glistened. All of this, made the distance between you feel more unbearable.

Over the week, he'd grown aloof. His hand no longer finding yours on the sofa, you being too terrified to fall asleep on his shoulder, both of you sleeping on your side in bed with curt 'Good nights' and no good night - kisses. Even if you leaned up and did kiss him, it was quick and polite, nothing more. You didn't realise you could miss someone this much despite living in the same house.

These feelings culminated into the horrible dance you were about to perform now. "God, help me." You take a few quiet steps towards him and a part of you wants to pretend you're going to the fridge and just grab the first thing in there and run. But you take one look at him, lost in his own world and take a deep breath, steel yourself and continue. You love him. And he loves you. This apology had gone on long enough.

You take a few more steps, slower now, and position yourself next to him. You catch a slight stiffness in his posture that wasn't there before, and you don't know how to read it. He continues with his work.

You inhale and bring your hand up to his.

"Mark?" His hand stiffens, but he doesn't look up.

"Hm." Is all you get. One restrained syllable.

You bite your upper lip and nod, trying not to feel put off. You can power through this. You move one finger over a tendon on the back of his hand. Slow and testing.

His hand moves a millimetre inward.

"Yes?" His pen stops moving.

You feel your pulse quicken. Why was it suddenly warm in here? You take a small step closer. You are completely in his space now. You can feel the heat radiating off of him. The sun's pink rays are now blue, dark shadows are cast on the floor beside you.

You bring your other hand and rest it on his shoulder. A bit more firm than you'd have liked, but you were trying.

You feel his muscle tense under you. He's lifted his head up now, looking straight ahead. Anywhere but you.

You lean down and place a soft kiss to his temple. It was quick and barely there. But he still found his breath catching in his throat.

"Mark, I'm sorry." You find that that whisper came out much softer than intended. God, why were you feeling tears at the back of your eyes?

His mouth malfunctioned for a bit before he looked down, saying, "I know." He still wouldn't turn to his side. To you.

You went in again. A kiss to his cheek. Your hand on his shoulder moving to the back of his neck.

"What I did was unacceptable."

"It was." His neck was still tense.

You stepped closer until your middle was almost pressed against his arm on his left now. You leaned down and rested your forehead on his temple, not completely, just enough to touch.

"It gave you a lot of trouble and it was all because I acted poorly."

"I never said that."

And that's what made it worse. He never called you out on it or allowed you to realize how much it affected him. But you saw. That one poorly handled phone call home from his work that you forgot to relate to him and the extra sleepless night of work he had to do.

So you stepped in front of him now. His knees digging into your legs. You placed one arm on each of his shoulders.

"But you should. You should talk to me. Tell me I handled it poorly. Tell me I should have been more helpful. Anything besides this."

And he still won't look at you.

You feel your throat well up with something and lean down again and press a kiss to his forehead. You can't cry. Not now. This is pathetic. Why were you so upset? You feel your lips tremble a little and pull away but not completely. You're standing there awkwardly in front of him, trying really hard not to put your weight on him or make him uncomfortable in any way, and in all of this, he was being... composed. Not pushing you away but not holding you either.

"Mark, please..." You place a kiss to the root of his nose, between his eyebrows. Your voice was almost cracking now. And he looked up. It was like looking straight at the sun on a warm summer afternoon - too much to handle and yet long desired.

He didn't say anything. He only looked at you. You couldn't tell what was going on behind those eyes, but it had been days since they looked at you like that, and it felt like a reward enough. Now, your legs started to tremble slightly from the awkward posture. And his knees immediately gave way, his eyes never leaving yours, as if they understood before his mind did.

You took the step between them and stood there, feeling exposed somewhat. Suddenly, it all felt a bit much. You hadn't planned on getting this far. And you found you couldn't look at him anymore. So you leaned in again. This time to his lips. You just pressed yours against his and said it one last time - "I'm sorry." It was soft, and you were certain he didn't hear it. He remained still, unmoving. And then the tear came. Unannounced, it rolled down your cheek and off, probably landing on his shirt. Great. Well done, Y/N. Best apology ever. Not only were you physically harrassing him, but you were also crying on him. Maybe you should have stuck with another nice dinner.

Your hands on his shoulders suddenly felt foreign, and you moved to retract them. This had gone on far enough anyway. He wasn't ready yet, and you could accept that. Now, you just had to extract yourself from whatever this was with your dignity intact.

You slowly straightened and took a deep breath, looking only at the ground. You could try again tomorrow. Or maybe not. Maybe this had done it. This wasn't the first time you'd been careless and cost him something. It was just a trait of yours - sheer absent-mindedness. How you managed your own field of work, you'll never know. But there you could only hurt yourself. Not him.

You were pulled out of this spiral by his hand, finding the small of your back. Firm, steady. Not letting you leave just yet. You started and looked at him. His eyes had never left you. His other hand found yours and guided you down to him so you were seated on him quite literally. You held your breath. This was uncomfortable... but rather nice. And when he leaned in, he meant it. His lips found yours in a deliberate kiss, soft but meaningful. And when you pulled apart, well, he wouldn't let you.

"I'm sorry." Wait. What? Were you so absorbed in your apology that you were now hearing it in his voice?

"Come again?" Was all you get out.

He kissed your cheek.

"I'm sorry I made you feel this way."

You protested. "Mark, no, it was my fault. I should have been -"

Another kiss to your temple.

"No."

"No?"

"I mean, well, yes, you could have been more careful, but that doesn't give me the right to treat you like I am. You've been apologizing all week, and I've been behaving like a total arse to you. And after a day or two.. I just felt.. ashamed."

"What?"

He sighed against your hair. "I didn't know how to get out of it. I guess I'm used to withdrawing so much that I didn't know how to properly receive you."

You blink at him. Well... That was unexpected.

"So, you forgave me days ago? And then didn't know how to say it. So you basically just closed off."

You find your arm around him tightening. Apparently, he sensed it.

"I know. I know. And then I felt guilty about it and I didn't know how to bring it up so..."

You couldn't believe this. All this time. You thought he hated you. The silly man just didn't know how to approach you. Just like you didn't know with him. Your arm relaxes and you exhale, fully, a small laugh escaping at the same time.

"So, we could've avoided the entire thing, if we just knew how to talk to each other?"

A smile forms on his lips. He nudges your forehead with his nose. This earns a small laugh from you.

"Why are we like this?"

You shake your head in response and pull him in by his shirt for another kiss because, believe it or not, you missed the closeness more than anything else. He happily reciprocates much quicker this time, and it's a while before you pull apart. All the missed moments from the week came through here. It was soft and slow but, as always, steady. The two of you pull apart unwillingly and still find yourself very much in each other's space. His thumb brushes patterns at your waist, and you know you've quite quickly adjusted back to your old rhythm. This shared warmth was something the two of you had missed terribly over everything else.

"Well", you catch your breath, "I forgive you, Mark Darcy. If you will forgive me.."

He chuckles and shifts his hand, holding you tighter and pressing a kiss to your temple. "I do, Y/N Y/L/N.."

You let out another breathy laugh and hide your face in his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you, keeping you there for the time being. You weren't complaining. And later, when you moved to get up, it was he who wouldn't let go of you, fingers curling around yours, all sense of restraint abandoned.

*****

"Cass, if you can hear me, NOT 2014 Cass, if you have your ears on, turn 'em off. This ain't for you." He knew this was a long shot. Would he be able to reach his Cass? Odds are unlikely he thought. But he had to try. Because he was sick of this.

"And worst of all, Cass, he doesn't even dress like you, man. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually miss your weird little trenchcoat and your stupid tie." He dropped his head and found his hands had somehow clasped each other in prayer. Feeling overwhelmed by everything, he dropped them by his sides and decidedly got up from his make-shift bed to go for a walk.

The night air was actually the first thing he remembered was exactly the same as it had been. Minus the new stink. It had to be the sickness from the virus. They were going to kill Lucifer tomorrow. With nothing but team-spirit and the Colt. And they didn't exactly have a whole lot of the first one, to be honest. They were a man who lost his brother 5 years ago, now on a mission to kill him, his own self-righteous self from 5 years ago, a fallen angel whose only powers are those of his own plant-based hallucinations and some civilians who may or may not have slept with Dean Winchester. Yeah, this wasn't even a team. This was a suicide squad. And they were marching right into a trap.

He passed the shed where they'd just been a few hours ago, making final adjustments to the plan. The light from inside shone in a line through the door. He heard voices and went near. Were they making final cuts? Without him?

He heard his own voice.

"He's not up for this, and you know that. You do. Don't pretend you don't see it."

Dean didn't need to hear more to get thaf they were talking about him. Whoever else was in there. As he began to step away, he heard Castiel's voice.

"I don't know, Dean. I told you. I like past-you."

"Yeah", a huff, "you like that he's naive and hopeful."

"Or, in your opinion, weak" Castiel emphasized.

Dean felt a pang in his chest because he was right. That's exactly what he'd be thinking if he met him right now. Too weak to put up a fight or make a stand. Hell, he's too weak to even confront his future self for calling him weak.

Well, that's it. He wasn't going to let this go on any further. He was going to take a stand. He wasn't weak. He was cautious. And his future self had nothing to lose clearly, compared to him. No, obviously not.

Just as he was about to burst in, when he pushed the door open slightly, just a few inches. Those few inches before the hinges start to creak. The quiet few inches that let you peek in before startling anybody. That's where he was when his breath caught in his throat and his hand gripped the wood tight. What he saw he couldn't believe but more than that it engulfed him, that picture.

The picture of Castiel in between his future self's legs. The other on a table, jacket shed in a corner. Castiel's arms on either side of Dean. Dean's hands tracing the skin on Castiel's forearms, their foreheads touching, breaths mixing, lips almost grazing, like they were alone in the world with all the time in the world. And was that? Oh, it was. A smile. On Dean's lips, mirroring one on Castiel's.

Past Dean stopped blinking. In fact, he thinks he's stopped breathing when they kiss. Like they've done this a thousand times before. Like Castiel was used to that spot. Like he belonged there. Like this was second nature to them. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought they were sharing a 'last-night-on-earth' kiss.

When they finally pulled apart and past Dean regained conscious thought, they spoke again. Castiel first.

"I like every version of you, Dean. Old, new, I don't care."

Future Dean smiled and ducked his head. Past Dean threw up in his mouth. Then Castiel had to go and kiss his nose.

"But I won't like a version of you that's dead." He said sternly but lovingly. Future Dean huffed and stared into Castiel's eyes. "Then don't let me die tomorrow." And he buried his face in Castiel's neck.

Past Dean felt a shudder run through him. He definitely did not imagine what that might be like. This was Cass. Angel-of-the-freaking-lord, no-concept-of-personal-space Cass. And he was getting it on, with him?!

A million thoughts ran through his head. Some not exactly child-friendly. And suddenly he found himself wondering what the perks of angel mojo would be under the covers. That did it. He'd had enough. Weak or not, he wasn't stomaching this. It had to be stopped. It was wrong on so many levels. He thought of Castiel as a brother. And that was it.

He burst the door open so it would bang on the wall to his left. That was enough to make them both separate and relieve past Dean of the palpitations in his chest.

The pair looked ridiculous. All tousled hair and parted, swollen lips (Cass' in particular) with big misty eyes. They looked like they belonged in a painting in a museum somewhere. Geez, what about this was making past Dean so... melodramatic? And was he, for the first time, jealous? What was he jealous of?

Future Castiel made the first move. He stepped away from his Dean and said nothing. This wasn't his conversation to have. Future and past Dean just stared at each other. Neither one able to initiate. The room was quiet, insects buzzed above them, creating tiny shadows on the cone of light on the floor. The cool night air made past Dean's hairs stand on end. Or maybe it was something else. He could feel Castiel's eyes on him. Any other day he'd stare down anyone else. But not now. Not Cass.

And yet, he found his gaze shifting; landing on those blue ones.

"Dean..."

And there it was. That call to home.

"Cass-" Why did his voice come out soft? He was angry and confused.

"Cass, maybe you should give us some space."

The shift in past Dean's demeanour was instant. Whatever he was about to say to Cass was long-forgotten. His spine straightened itself and his footing became more grounded.

"Of course I- uh.." He started towards the door but paused for a second, eyes still fixated on past Dean. He wanted to say something, it looked like. But he could feel the tension in the room.

"I'll just wait outside." He dropped his head in surrender and walked out.

The night was pleasant outside for the first time in months. The stench was a little more bearable. He rummaged in his pockets for a smoke. Boy did he need one tonight. He tried mapping out the stars from the ground like he used to so many years ago when he first came to Earth. It calmed him. And he hadn't tried doing that since... well, a long time ago.

When the door creaked open after what seemed like forever, he turned around to face past Dean who was equally startled to see the other. There was nothing but pain on his face. Castiel had expected anger, confusion or even understanding if there could be, but not pain.

Dean stared at him and Castiel didn't know what to expect or do. Should he go to him? Comfort him? What was there to comfort? Why did he get the feeling all Dean was feeling was betrayal?

He didn't have long to ponder. Past Dean didn't spare Castiel much of a look as he walked away. His shoulders were stooped and Castiel knew he had enough. He had no idea what his Dean had said to his counterpart but he knew he would have to say something. He couldn't let this Dean just walk away like that.

"Dean, wait, please."

He wasn't waiting. Castiel caught upto him and laid a hand on his shoulder. That stopped Dean. Of course it did. And Castiel wasn't prepared for the look in Dean's eyes. The green in his eyes was hazy.

"What, Cass?"

Castiel was speechless. He had forgotten how often Dean's eyes were able to render him so. "Look, I don't know what he told you in there. And I know this is hard for you to stomach." He withdrew his hand as Dean faced him slowly. "I remember how hard it was." He spoke softly with care that the Castiel from five years ago would never have comprehended.

"But I just hope you realize that it is okay for you to cut yourself some slack. You are not the man you were before. You can let yourself fall. There'll be people waiting to catch you."

And suddenly Dean was in his arms. The hug was tight and suffocating and rough. It was a long time since Dean had hugged Castiel like that. He remembered just how much Dean was bottled up back then. He felt his forehead drop down on his shoulder and he breathed. He knew the other needed this. And he didn't move apart from letting his arms wrap around him. They stayed like that for almost a minute before Dean pulled away and that was it. He walked off in the same manner he had when he left the shed. Except now, his posture was slightly more relaxed. But he still stared at the ground and never looked up.

Castiel felt his Dean's presence next to him. "You think he's gonna be alright?"

Future Dean put an arm around Castiel's shoulder. This touch was more relaxed and habitual. "Honestly? No. He's a mess. But when am I not?" He scoffed and planted a kiss on Castiel's cheek. "But I've got you, don't I? That poor bastard's gotta start from scratch."

"That's not funny. What did you tell him?" Castiel withdrew momentarily from the embrace.

Dean held him in place and corrected his tone, obligingly. "Okay okay. Relax. I just told him to go for what's right in front of him and not wait for the freaking apocalypse to jump start his love life and his funeral at the same time."

Castiel contemplated that advice and gave in after a few seconds. "Well, if anyone can get through to him-"

"It's you." Future Dean finished that sentence for him. Castiel turned and looked at the other for a split second, about to correct him before looking back at past Dean walking away. He sighed. Dean was right. And he had a long way to go.

“Don't you trust me?”

“Absoutely not”, you blurted out a bit too quick for either of your liking. Seeing his face drop(very subtly), you tried to explain. “George, of course I trust you. I just-“

“Ah ah”, he waived your excuse away, clearly back to his original cheery mood, and plopped down on one of the bean chairs nearby. You noticed an unlabelled box in his hand. It was like the kind of box you would normally find sweets in. Or in the Weasley twins’ case, probably something along the lines of puking pastilles.

You shook your head vigorously. “Oh now I really don’t trust you.”

George laughed softly and made a show of looking around. Probably checking the room for witnesses. Your eyes followed his and you realized the common room was mostly empty. And for a moment, you felt right at home: sitting by the window, doing school work late into the night, only one or two paintings keeping you company, the stars twinkling behind you and the moon casting soft light on your ink, the blues of the carpets blending well with the silver shining through the window, it was all, to put it in the most plain way, magical. And, of course, around Christmas, the castle would be much less populated anyway, so that tonight, there were only a few students in here apart from you and George.

Now don’t start wondering how George got into the Ravenclaw common room. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s George Weasley. Well, that and he snagged the password from you occasionally. It was common practice for students to give other students common room passwords. Sure, it would lead to some unfortunate accidents and serious accusations on and off but it was worth it. There was something personal about giving someone else your house password. Some sort of childish excitement would course through you as you whispered it in their ear, watching out for people of both your houses. It was all innocent fun, afterall.

Now you’re probably wondering why we’re giving George Weasley our passwords occasionally. Well, it’s because we’re friends. And we enjoy each other’s company. And he’s really good at transfiguration. The first time you did it, it was because somebody in your house had a horrible accident with one of the twins’ products. He’d been able to reverse the damage, but he needed to get into the common room. Then, it just sort of evolved from there. He’d offered to give you the Gryffindor password loads of times, but your anxiety would have never let you just waltz into the Gryffindor common room, anyway.

Besides, as it turned out, the Ravenclaws had the best ideas for the twins’ products and even helped them with particularly difficult pieces of magic. Some really good inventions were born in the Ravenclaw common room in the middle of school nights. You were proud to say you’d had a hand in one or two of them yourself. And George would just beam at you with something more than mischief glittering in his eyes.

You found that same look in his eyes tonight as he calmly held the box in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Maybe it had nothing inside. “Oh come on, L/N.” He dragged himself forward until he was right by your table with his elbow propped up on it. “When have I ever done anything-“ he placed the box between the two of you, “to break your trust in me?” He held you with a gaze that had you almost melting.

You chuckled and shook your head. “Honestly, George, sometimes I just wonder how it's possible for someone to be so sure of themselves like you are.” You ignored his appalled look and went back to your essay. You tried to get your work done early this year and stop procrastinating for once, at least.

“Hey”, he whispers and taps the back of your hand. His tone had lost a bit of the cheeky nature and he sounded... sincere. “Won’t you close your eyes for me? Just for a bit?”

You blinked at him for a few seconds, taking in his features. They were soft and no longer childish. Something felt different. Biting the inside of your cheek, you put down your quill and nodded, a small smile of defeat playing on your lips.

“Alright, but I swear George Weasley, if I wake up tomorrow with a large goitre at the end of my neck...”

He shook his head and took your hand in his. “I promise. You won’t wake up tomorrow with a large goitre at the end of your neck.”

The specificity of the promise threw you off. “George...”

You looked around again, uneasy. The two other occupants of the room were far beyond the realm of consciousness. One was sprawled across a settee, and the other had their head atop a large book, their snoring audible from where you were sitting. You couldn't blame them. It was well past midnight, and there was no burden of schoolwork for good fee days. And the moonlight really did make the room look more serene than it already was.

George squeezed your hand. “Just... relax, Y/N. Nothing bad’s going to happen.” He sounded like he was reassuring himself more than you. Still weary, however, you closed your eyes and let yourself breath. He wouldn’t do something entirely horrible to you now would he? Admittedly, you two did have very different understandings of the word.

You felt him shift in his seat, not letting go of your hand. In a moment, you felt his hair brush against your forehead and you nearly jolted before his lips grazed yours slightly. You felt your breath hitch and your hand shake slightly. You didn’t want to open your eyes.

You hadn’t always harboured feelings for George. When you first heard of the twins they had barely registered in your mind. With time though, you found them charming and friendly. George had been friendlier and more observant. He’d noticed you awkwardly standing there with your friends as they waited in line for a pygmy puff or a canary cream. You’d tried the canary cream once upon your friend’s insistence and you found that you actually enjoyed that short minute of avian freedom.

That’s what pushed you to go help with the makings of other products. Your skill at charms proved particularly useful. And in those little moments when you’d figured out something and you’d do a little bow and a dance and George would hug you so tight you couldn’t breath and you’d catch Fred eyeing the two of you mischievously, you couldn’t help but wonder...

So now, with his face inches away from yours, how could you open your eyes and break that wonderful bubble you were in? Instead you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, mustering all the confidence you can find. You feel him sigh(was he nervous???) and happily return the kiss.

Once you broke away, you found his hand still tightly clutching yours and you couldn’t help but find that adorable. You looked up to meet his eyes. A sheepish smile on his face, he looked at you expectantly. “Kept my promise, didn’t I?” He got out in a bare whisper and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Then, you remembered. “But what was the box for?” You reached out to it and opened it. It was empty. Your jaw dropped. You looked back at him and he was rubbing the back of his neck shyly. “Would you believe me if I told you that it’s a new product that’s invisible?”

You stared at him until it dawned on you what the box was really for. In all your years, you’d have never thought George Weasley would be nervous about something. You simply took his hand in yours again.

The sun was bidding its farewell, and its once harsh light, now soft, shone through the windows, tinting the room a glowing shade of orange.

You glanced once at the scroll laid out before you and the sun was gone. Its light now replaced by the cool light of the stars. You walked to your window in search of the moon. You liked looking for her and welcoming her as one would a lifelong friend. She did not disappoint. She appeared quickly from behind a cloud almost as if she was as delighted as you were upon your reunion. It was a regular practice of yours to greet her upon her arrival and it gave you some peace to your mind.

It was short-lived, however, when a knock at your door startled you and you were faced with Faramir, captain of Gondor swaying on your doorway, half-covered in sweat, breathing heavily, you could assume, in pain.

“Y/N...”, he merely whispered your name before you instinctively reached out to hold him as his body tilted forward, out of his control.

“Captain Faramir, my lord, what brings you to this state?”

You led him to the bed at the corner of the room next to the desk with tonics and elixirs.

It was customary for soldiers to be tended to at the Houses of Healing but for Captain Faramir, one might guess he would have his treatment go to him in his chambers, much like the steward. Of course he had come here more than occasionally for several minor injuries. The reasons for that you couldn’t understand. You were now well acquainted with the captain and he with you. He trusted you and brought many of his men to your healing hands.

“I would tell you everything. Once you have given me something to relieve me.” He groaned and laid down on the bed, taking off his armour.

You stared at him in confused wonder for a few moments before springing into action: you bade him take off his shirt for you to inspect the damage while preparing a tonic for the pain. Unbeknownst to you, he was gazing at you with wonder as well. The way you worked so quickly but with resolve and calm. He welcomed the feeling of your gentle fingers on his skin, tending to his wounds. It was not by accident that he chose this door in the circle. He was accustomed to the path that led to your door all too much. He’d grown attached to you ever since he watched you save the life of one of his soldiers.

You pressed a cloth drenched in another elixir to his wound and he drew his breath sharply. As a reflex you put your hand on his head, hushing him softly. There was only the dressing of the wound left.

“Hold this to the wound, Captain.”

He begrudgingly did as you said and took from you the cloth. You swiftly tied up the wound and handed him a tumbler of water.

He moved to sit but you laid a hand on him once more, on his shoulder. “Please, Captain, lie down.”

He nodded and gulped down the water quickly. You turned to clear up the mess and opened another window.

“Thank you, Y/N. I feel as if I were being healed by Elvish medicine.”

You felt heat creep up your cheeks as you turned to meet his eyes. They were soft and sincere. His hair glowed almost silver in the moonlight. His features showed gratitude and something else you could not quite place.

“Elvish medicine is far superior to our practices, my lord.” You bowed your head, afraid that you would be encaptivated forever by his gaze if you suffered it any longer.

“And... I was only doing my duty. You needn’t thank me. It is a small token of appreciation for all you do for your people.”

You mustered a small smile directed at him and found him still staring at you with the same look in his eyes, speechless.

“If that will be all, my lord, I would bid you good night.”

You turned and all but ran to the door when he spoke again, softly, unsure of his own words.

“Will you not stay?” It came like an arrow and it pierced your walls. It did not cause you pain or grief but rather longing and doubt. ‘Stay?’ Stay with Captain Faramir through the night as he sleeps, watching over him? Perhaps even, holding him should he feel anymore pain? How could you possibly say no?

“I can call on one of the others for you, my lord. I’m afraid my shift comes to an end when the moon begins hers in the sky.”

You did not look at him for his answer. You waited, head bowed.

Faramir didn’t expect this. He thought he was certain about the feelings each of you held for the other. He thought you would always stay by his side and he by yours. But perhaps he was the sun and you were the moon, destined to travel the same road in the same sky but cursed to never meet because it wasn’t the way of the world.

“If that is your wish, I will not stop you. But do not trouble the others for me.” The words came out hesitantly, in disappointment.

“Then I shall take your leave, Captain. May you rest well.”

He watched you leave so quickly and felt his heart drop quicker. Suddenly, the pain in his side intensified and he groaned clutching at his wound. As he did so, he dropped his tumbler and it fell with a resounding echo in the empty room. Embarrassed beyond measure he let the tumbler be and just laid there staring at the ceiling.

He wished you would return and hold his hand, magically washing away his anguish. He could almost feel your touch again and the thought soothed him. He closed his eyes and held on to that thought. It made him blissfully drift away with the cool wind on his cheeks.

In that state between wakefulness and sleep he brought your imaginary hand to his lips and kissed it. But he found he did not kiss air but skin. Perhaps it was another illusion cast by his dreams. He then felt a hand part the hair on his face and a pair of lips on his forehead, unsure and almost trembling but sweet. He didn’t wake. He didn’t want to wake and destroy the moment. Content and relieved of his pain, he fell into a deep sleep. It was a good dream.