A/N: I lovelovelovelove(!) this movie. It's so underappreciated that it drives me mad sometimes... Enjoy the two-shot-er!
About the story: it's a ficlet. Two chapters. A sort of where-are-they-now. I personally don't think the protagonists loved each other, but found inspiration in each other. I think the movie's less about romantic love and more about rediscovering faith in humanity, and ourselves. I get offended when fanfic's try to re-pair or rekindle their relationship, because the ending was so conclusive. Strangers meet, change each other's lives, realize what they have isn't meant to last, and part on good terms. They improve the other for the future. It isn't about the romance, people: don't let your infatuation for Gerard carry you away (though I am being VERY hypocritical when I say this.)
Disclaimer: You have the $$ and the paperwork, therefore you are legally the owners. I have no monetary gain from this.
Nameless – Part I: Lizzie
I shed his warm presence against my back as I roll out of bed, into the moonlit room. I've only lived in this flat for a week, and my surroundings are foreign to me, though they are gradually becoming more familiar. The master bedroom I share with my husband is a far cry from my last one in that derelict flat I first moved into, when I came here. The room I'm in right now has beautiful hardwood floors, central heating (a blessing I had never known), and a full bathroom. My last room had a door that would stick, ice cold floors, and a tiny closet-sized loo with sporatic hot water.
I cross the floor to the window, and unconsciously a ghost of a smile graces my face while Steve, my husband, flips over on his stomach and mumbles incoherently in his sleep. Love tugs in my heart, and I tenderly gaze at his scruffy face, boyish in slumber.
Thank you, Kind Stranger, I think, wherever you are. Somehow I think he knows how grateful I am to him. My debt to him is something that cannot be paid back in full, no matter what chance at eternity I possess. It is impossible to even start to comprehend his gifts, let alone articulate them. I can only hope whatever changes he brought about in me last; in some way I know my hope is irrelevant, because I will never forget him.
If I ever meet him again, I will thank him for Steve. I will thank him for Steve because without his first move I wouldn't have made one with Steve. And without Steve, I would continue to long for the things he taught me – searching, finding, but not seizing a chance at happiness. Continue to think I am unworthy. Undeserving.
I remember when I first stopped fearing him. When I first saw him, I was filled with such trepidation, sitting in an intimidating café with an intimidating man, huge in stature and gruff in nature, who was about to be asked an incomprehensible thing. What sort of mother lies to her son for over a decade? At that moment, I had felt like the worst mother in the world. And worse, I had felt that he thought so too. His throaty voice and knitted brow scared me, and worse, shamed me.
I feared him. And I feared for Frankie. What had I done, entrusting my life, my precious light, to a complete stranger? The dread lasted all day as I followed Frankie and the man around town, desperately trying to keep watch. But when they returned late, and the Stranger asked to stay for one more day, the apprehension that had lay thick in my mind dissolved like the morning mist. Anger drives out fear, and that night, I ceased to stay terrified. The fear that vanished wasn't just of the Stranger, but of Davey, and friendship, and men. At that moment, I no longer cowed. He gave me a backbone, and I bless him every day for it.
He anchored me. A drifting mother, dragging her small family all through Scotland, never in one place for more than six months, running away from the shadows of her past. He stopped me in my tracks and forced me to look at myself, and be honest. It wasn't Davey I was running from anymore; it had been a long since he'd been any sort of threat. I was running from prospects. Of friends. Of outside contact. I'd spent so many years relying on myself that I'd been convinced John Dunne was wrong: I was an island. Better yet, I was a lonely monastery high in the mountains, isolated and completely self sufficient. But I was wrong. I was so completely perfectly thankfully wrong, because I didn't know I needed. I needed love, I needed companionship, and I needed my own fort to hide in when the world overwhelmed. I needed Steve. I was worthy of Steve, and I was worthy of love.
I was so damned sick of being afraid. I hated being lonely. And I was tired of being strong. You showed me how to live, and for that, I am grateful. I can't say I loved you, but I can say:
Thank you. For my life.