A/N: As the title suggests, this'll be for drabbles. Various lengths, topics, prompts, etc. Blanket M-rating in case of cussing or... passion.

Much and many thanks to Pauline for the idea.

Infinite thanks and endless love to Rach, Bets, and Vic. For so very much. And for prompts and encouragement and being there and being them.

This first one I wrote for Vican's beautiful banner during a challenge on TwiFicPics.

Disclaimer: I own these words, but not the lovely inspiration from whence they came. Nor Twilight.

Prompt - http:/bit[.]ly/iMauuY

Keys are dropped on the moving box with a plastic plate on it – our makeshift version of an entryway table.

Some crime show on TV filters its way toward me; for now, I veer in the opposite direction without looking.

The table, and many envelopes cluttering and burdening it, is laboriously avoided.

Bread crumbs on the counter, but the dishes are all washed, neatly stacked and drip-drying in the dish-drain.

I want to sob at the sight.

And that's where he finds me, twenty minutes later. Standing in front of the sink, staring at the dishes.


His steps are quiet yet tentative, his presence sparking and real as he enters.

We don't touch as he stops in front of me, that wall, barrier, blockade, thumping loudly between us.

As if it's pumping blood, as if it has a heart.

Maybe it has both of ours, trapped somewhere between or inside.

I don't know when it first popped up, if it was sudden and swift or built brick by brick, inch by inch until it was so tall we couldn't climb over it.

Or we stopped trying to.

It's there, nevertheless.

And now I don't know what to do, when confronted with the sight and weight of it so bluntly.

He's only a foot away, but my arms could never hope to reach around the barricade to him.

Not alone, they couldn't.

My tears haven't ceased, the air between us remaining wordless in spite of them.

What I expect him to say, I have no idea.

But I don't expect, and probably never would have, what he does.

The way his jaw goes taut, the way his lip disappears behind teeth, eyes filling full with determination.

The breadth between us ebbs, faster than I'd ever thought a foot of space – months of distance – could ever vanish, his feet no longer the only ones moving, traversing, diminishing.

He doesn't shush or murmur as we slip together, palms warm on my face, thumbs sure on my cheeks.

Tears are pushed away by his steady hands, steadier eyes unswerving and endless.

I mirror his position, seeing the tornado in his features – the whirling churn of worries and stress and life, sensing and knowing it's reflected.

But knowing, still, of the calm center in the midst of it.

Of him in the midst of it.

He shifts and tugs, whispering to the room. To me. "Just hold my hand."

The please is even softer than his first words, breathed out like an extension of him.

An extension I want to be.

I link our fingers, a smile breaking through the sludge as I feel smooth metal rub against my skin, remember the words engraved there – etched permanently.

Almost think I can feel them flowing out and up, wrapping around me.

Around us.

Love is enough.

Relief swirls and surges from him as his eyes hover shut, instincts knowing he needed this just as much as I did.

Because there's a balance between us, a two-way street.

And now the construction has ended on that road, leaving things clear.

Maybe there's still potholes, still uneven lanes and unpainted lines.

Yet the road is open, a repair crew waiting by the side to fix the rest.

Slowly, perhaps, but in due time.

And time with him is enough.

Is all that really matters.