Five Years or Six Thousand Miles
Summary: Truths repeat themselves. Five afternoons.
One day she gave him a look so thick he could feel it. He'd seen that type of look before. It was determined, knowing. A bit sad.
"Something you want to tell me?" he asked.
It's late afternoon and sunlight is pushing into the room, painting her hands and the tip of her chin. It wasn't enough.
"Yes." She taps her foot twice, pauses to end a thought, and once more because she likes the number three. "I found something," she said, and though she is referring to evidence, they both know of the agreement they now have and that it is silent.
He was standing by an open door when he first told her they'd never make sense to one another.
She only shrugged and replied, "I don't like things that make sense."
He was about to disagree when he noticed she wasn't wearing shoes.
"I like the sound my feet make on the floor." She grinned off his look. "I've been reading about gait analysis. Fascinating," she said, with the tone of her voice rising with her eyebrows. "There's a correlation between the length of a stride and the height of a person. Watch me," she instructed, took a few steps to demonstrate, and stopped. "There's a formula, which by using a few simple trajectories—"
"Abby," he interrupted. "Put your shoes on."
"I'm taking you to lunch. That's why."
"Oh," she said. "Okay."
He listened to her footsteps as she went to retrieve her shoes. He heard a series of dull smacks. He heard the sound of them settling.
His ear disheveled a pigtail and brushed against her temple as he reached around her to retrieve his coffee. She considered him with a curious eye when he took a sip.
"You did that on purpose," she accused.
"Yeah, Abby, I did."
He leaves the room. He doesn't go far.
The elevator shuts fluidly in front of them. She studies his warped reflection in its doors and notices his hands are full, occupied with a turkey sandwich, a set of car keys, a large black coffee, and a fistful of napkins. She takes a step closer, intent on relieving him of his load.
"I've got it," he said gruffly.
She sighs. He's been in a bad mood all week long, terse with everybody and fighting windmills. Even on a good day, he treats people like he's worried about leaving ghosts behind. And with good reason, maybe, but she's not one for relationships based mostly on supposition.
The doors slide open.
Later, it'll be one of those moments where words last longer than the person who spoke them, but for now, Abby's through analyzing. She puts her hand above his heart. Notices the difference in their heartbeats. Her hand moves to his shoulder. She wants to touch him for all the people who can't.
His eyes drop. "Once—"
She kisses him. He tastes like memories, dreams, and other things that get lost.