Disclaimer: I make no claim to this show. Pinkie promise.
A/n: I just couldn't help myself. Spoilers for the finale. A continuation of the reunion scene.
Still Looking Up
A story by Ryeloza
There is so much to say—maybe everything to say because he's sure in the grand scheme of things they've said nothing—but the words are lost as they collide like falling stars. And he thinks, as her lips dance over his neck and he laughs (laughs like it's the first time ever, and maybe it is somehow) that he should pull back. That he should say wait or we should talk or anything to bring reality to this moment, but he can't make his mouth cooperate beyond capturing her lips again.
It is life breathed back into him. It is soft skin and silky hair falling over his knuckles and tears slipping into the creases of his palm. And maybe it's cliché to think, but most of all it is coming home, and he wishes he could just keep kissing her forever so he never again has to feel the emptiness that has plagued him for this past year.
Her nose brushes his and settles against his cheek; he tries to follow her lips, but she stills him by placing a hand over his heart and the world pauses. "I thought…" she whispers, and he drops his hands to tug her nearer, feels her press her nose harder against his skin like she can't get close enough—and really, she can't ever be close enough—and suddenly she changes course. "I lost you…"
Reflexively, his fingers tighten along the small of her back, pulling her tighter. Lies fill his mouth because all he can think to say is you didn't, but that isn't honest. She lost him the second she let him leave, and up until maybe this very moment, he's been convinced that it was her fault. But maybe the truth is that this whole year he's been too stubborn or scared or stupid to admit that he is the one who gave up. Gave her up with spite and a broken heart and spent a year waiting for her to beg him to come back, never realizing that once you lose something, it's never as simple as asking for its return.
He thinks about Roy and Karen. How Roy is going to lose his wife and no amount of begging or pleading or praying is going to bring her back. It's not an ideal parallel by any means, but the heart of it feels the same.
He's wasted a whole year running around (away?) and hiding. A whole fucking year. And this entire time, the truth of how to fix this was staring at him point blank.
"I lost myself," he admits.
She sighs into him and drops her forehead to his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
It's a blanket apology that doesn't begin to cover the wounds. He knows that the damage they've inflicted on one another is going to last years. It's never so simple as forgive and forget. But at this moment everything they've done to one another seems absolutely insignificant compared to the potential of the future.
She nods; she knows. As she lifts her head, he can't help but lean in and kiss her again (and again and again and again) until she smiles and bites her lip shyly.
"Come home?" she says, and the question makes something inside of him seize up so he can't breathe. And he realizes he has been waiting for those words for so long now.
So, so long.
He finds her hands, threads their fingers together and squeezes. Smiles at her because it is impossible not to.
She smiles back, and he feels so stupidly happy right now it almost hurts. And he knows, even though the pain is far from over and there will be tears and heartache and a hundred other things he can't anticipate, that this is the feeling he has to hold on to—the one he's lost sight of for the past year.
The question is still in her eyes, though, lingering amongst the hope and love and courage, and he gives a reassuring nod. "Yes," he says, his fear melting away as hers does. And he knows: this is it. Forever.
"Let's go home."