Westbrook Academy for Metahumans: Forums

When he smiled at her by the lake, Abigail Blackburn realized she was going to kiss him.

They'd strolled along the winding path through the arboretum, chatting easily, pointing out the elaborate displays of holiday lights to one another. Her favorite had been the Asian dragon, a twinkling mass of emerald and gold. He'd expressed a strong preference for the elaborate skyscape of stars and planets that had decorated the wide front lawn. A silly -- in the best possible sense of the word -- debate had ensued. He'd let her win.

To her surprise, she'd done the lion's share of the talking that evening. He'd nodded a time or two, murmured a word of encouragement here and there. Once, he'd launched into a lengthy description of optics, but had caught himself midway through.

Mostly, though, he'd seemed content to listen. Really listen. She wasn't sure whether he actually was content, but she'd found herself grateful for the chance to talk. So she'd spoken of home, of the things she missed, of the things she didn't. Things she hadn't shared with anyone since coming to Westbrook.

Midway through their walk, he'd taken her hand in his.

Now he'd turned to study the twinkling lights reflected in the water, and she knew it had to be then or not at all. She hesitated, unsure whether she'd read things the right way. Maybe he'd pull back, appalled. Maybe he'd laugh at her. Maybe --

No. Enough. It didn't matter. Her father had once told her that you could fill your whole life with maybe's and what-if's and never get one damn thing done. There came a time when you just had to jump in with both feet and hope for the best.

So she did.

She cleared her throat. He turned back to look at her. She extended a tentative hand to touch his cheek, and she saw his eyes widen. She leaned in, brushing his lips with hers.

The whole thing couldn't have lasted more than ten seconds. Or a lifetime. She wasn't sure which and didn't care. It was long enough. That was what mattered.

After that, the parting. This is where he leaves, she thought. But he didn't. He remained where he was, looking at her, some mixture of emotions she couldn't quite read flitting across his face.

Then he reached for her hand again, and she smiled.

He started to speak, but a sharp gust of wind swept the hat from her head, sending it spinning across the star-filled lawn. They ran after it, laughing into the night.

The notion had crept into her head over supper. By the time they cleared the plates away, it had taken root and flowered.

The meal had gone well. She'd mangled a casserole recipe from the vegan cookbook, but he hadn't seemed to mind. He'd made a show of pushing the food around his plate, exaggerating the whole business until she'd laughed. She'd steeled herself for the carrot cookies he'd served up for dessert, but had, to her surprise, found them rather pleasing.

She'd insisted on washing the dishes by hand. It was the way she'd always done it, she'd told him. That was true as far as it went, but it wasn't the sole reason for her choice. She had, in fact, hoped that the slow, simple rhythm of the task would give the idea in her head a chance to wither and die.

It hadn't, of course. Instead the notion had only grown stronger.

They'd settled on the couch after supper. He'd brought along DVDs -- enough for a week's worth of viewing, she'd wryly noted -- but she could tell he was fading fast. He'd stifled the first yawn a quarter of an hour into the film (her pick, but she took no offense). By half past nine, he was dozing, his head resting on her lap, her hand stroking his hair.

She lasted another few minutes after that before she reached for his beeper.

It was in the jacket he'd slung over the back of the couch. He'd only checked it once during the entire meal, which she knew had been a conscious (and impressive) act of will.

He stirred as she drew it out. Of course he did. In his own way, he was as tuned to it as she was. She leaned down and crooned nonsense words until he slept once more.

She could put the thing back, there was still time. She knew that. She knew, too, that she wasn't going to.

She held it up and said softly, "Tell me."

The little thing's song was slow and sad and sweet. It whispered of lost days and hard choices. It spoke of the visits and the calls and the codes. Mostly, though, it sang of a boy. A boy who'd had to grow up much too soon.

When it was finished, she wept.

Her eyes were still wet and raw when he awoke sometime later. He reached up to brush her cheek, the silent question of concern written on his face.

"Happy," she murmured. "Just happy to be here."

And she let him kiss away the tears.