We'll Do It All Again, Part IV { 1

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

Better with you
Better with you
Better with you
This hell feels better with you

~


This day is like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Her horseback riding lessons happening in the mornings, and the days are whiled away with no books, no entertainment, no employment, no distraction. The same as every single day for the last two months. It's a listless existence with no purpose.

There is, Audrey supposes, one single upside, while she spins the ring on her finger (the one she can't quite ever fully adjust to having on it; can't forget is there), and it's that the hands in the mirrors and windows are gone. In the end they hadn't been worth any real terror or concern. A benign trick of light and image that no one could explain or effect, but could not actually affect them or even force them to look at.

She almost misses it, strange as it was. At least it was something happening.
Something to cut through the absolute unchanging nature of this place.

Another day draws towards a close, and it's normal at this point: how exhausting monotony can be, how relieving going to sleep and putting away one more endless, unchanging day. It's easy to slip, silently and smoothly away, almost as soon as her cheek touches the pillow. Habit more than hope. Another box that is checked at the end of all the few boxes to check each day in this place.

Everything that is until the world rolls slowly and softly into vibrant colors.

The sharp, deep green of trees. And a grey impending sky all around. The sudden sound of two voices speaking, that collapsed with a turning confusion, into a woman with blonde hair and a man in a plaid shirt packing themselves into a car, while she rocked on the balls of her feet. Hands in her own pockets.

A feeling of. Guilt. Weight. Inevitability. Hope. Doubt. Acceptance. Uncertainty. Ownership.
It's a press of heavy stones, pulled from the salted sea air she smells on every breath.

But as if there were no words left to say.

(Had there been words said?
Had they all spoken, and she'd just now forgotten?)

Her hands in her pockets as the car starts, and they drive away. Without a word to her either, and Audrey turned, adrift, looking to her side, where she suddenly saw Nathan. Beside a large old, but almost stunningly, blue truck. Writing something onto a notepad. As though he didn't know she was there.

No. No. That was normal. Right. The writing.
He was doing his job, like he alway had.

A bubble of relief whispered out through her, as though she was mist and fog more than bones and skin, only for it to be eaten in that impending grey sky. Except it wasn't in the sky. It was inside of her. Inside of her stomach. Inside of her chest. Inside of looking at him. Inside of his name, his face, his posture, his actions, in her head, in her vision.

All those same feelings swelled. Some heavier. Some deeper. Some more ... electric.
Even with the sharpening weight of every step as she turned and walked toward him.

Comments

[dont_feel_it]

He shrugs, faint, looking away. "Been putting together everything we've learned about her this past year, I ––"

But before he can finish, or blink, or know what's happening, Audrey is pressed against him, warm body against his chest. Soft against him. Arms around his neck. An avalanche of sensation that sends him stuttering, unable to do anything more than shift to keep from stepping back under her sudden weight, the nerves that are suddenly lighting into life. "I, uh..."

Bound and determined to finish this thought, even as his arms go around her waist, even as his mouth goes stupid and smiling. Because he did it right. This. This thing that she needed. He could do that for her. "Photos from the Glendowers––"

He doesn't even know what's he's saying anymore, tugged down into her. He can feel her cheek against his neck. Can imagine the way his heart leaps gladly to beat as close to hers as possible. "People who remembered her, I, I hired a P.I. in Portland..."

It's gibberish. None of it matters. None of the work or the worry. Nothing except Audrey's face, as she finally pulls away from him. The disbelief and the hope. Scattered across a woman who has never been anything but self-contained.

If he could feel his smile, he thinks it would probably seem that his face was about to split right open.

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

He's still talking. A rumble of sound through her hair, and his chest against hers. Still answering her question, retracing the steps. Protocol. Like a good cop would. Like she'd tried, and failed so many times. But Nathan hadn't. Audrey opened her eyes and lifted her hand, just barely, to look at the writing on the paper again, before pressing her hand flat on his back, eyes open, hugging him even harder, for another second.

Like it's the one proof this real. Any of it. He is. Nathan found her an address. Nathan might have found her.

Audrey pulled away, but not far, only far enough to drop her weight back to her own feet, holding the paper up and pointing at it, her voice still trembling as she tried to get the words out, looking between it and his face, " This is -- is less than an hour away."

[dont_feel_it]

He leans towards her like a flower seeking out the sun. Unable not to. Hands pushing into his pockets, still burning with the feeling of her back beneath them. "If you leave now, you can be there before dark."

Get answers. The ones she's been looking for, maybe. She's shaking her head, looking as back-footed as he's ever seen her, but it won't last long. She's been searching for this almost as long as she's been here. For the woman who they thought might have been her mother. The woman who might have been her, once upon a time.

He's not sure he buys it. That Audrey could be anything or anyone but Audrey.

But that's not stopping him from being pleased at how his little gift has gone over.

After this year, after Chris and the Rev and Evi and the rest ––

She deserves it. And more.

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

It's not a maybe. It's not a warning. His words have the ring of something already all but certain. Entreaty, and release, and permission, and support. Encouragement. Already planned and accepted. For her. Before even giving it to her. It makes her want to tear up more, threads it with bewildered confusion at what she could have done to deserve this. Especially with everything that's happened.

It's been impossible, but he never gave up. He never gave up and somehow, somehow.
All there is is the paper, and Nathan's face in front of her...and a woman one hour away.

"Thank you." It cracks, again. Barely. It's not big enough.

She's not even sure there are words big enough.
For all the answers she might finally get.

[dont_feel_it]

He nods, faint, but it's just an acknowledgment of her words. She doesn't need to thank him. That's not––

That is to say, he didn't...

She's his partner. (Not just his partner.) He wanted to help. So he did.

It's not often he gets to use the stubbornness Audrey's always teasing he has too much of in a positive direction. "I hope you get some answers."

Eyes on her face, unable to look away. Mouth still quirked towards a pleased smile, even if he did it for this, not for her thanks. For the sudden open possibility in her face. For what she might learn. "I hope you come back and tell me what they are."

It's almost light. He feels light. For what seems like the first time in years. Light in his head. In his chest. The sense memory of her pressed against him only just now beginning to fade, and he's giddy on it.

Certain she will, come back and share this. She's his partner. It's what they do. No matter what else she might mean. To him, or to this town.

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

"Of course," it's automatic even as she's looking down at it. The whole idea that she wouldn't -- after what he's done. That he found it. An address. That he thinks he found Lucy Ripley, and he wouldn't give her anything he was less than mostly sure about. Even without this, even with as bad as things had been since what happened, she was never going to leave. Not leave Haven. Not leave him.

She has to look back at him, back away from the paper, to make sure he knows she's serious. Even with everything suddenly blown and shaken all around her, that hasn't changed. That hadn't changed. It couldn't. "You know, no matter what she says or--" Which could be almost anything, of the millions of things she dreamed and dreaded. But he couldn't doubt that, she couldn't let him. "--or what happens, I'm coming back."

Even those answer to all the questions couldn't keep her from coming back. To Haven. To. To him.
No one else. No one else would have done something like this for her. Just him.

Just Nathan standing there, staring at her with an intensity nothing else touched. One that seemed almost impossible to read. Except that wasn't true. Even held back, she knew the things it wasn't. The things it sometimes hid, and it makes the next words come out stronger, because he has to understand, how true it is, how unshakeble. "I promise."


But that's not enough. It wasn't enough to promise. I wasn't enough to mean it.
Those two words didn't mean enough, they did mean what she hadn't said before;

It's barely a thought, to finally use the words he said first. "You aren't just my partner either."

[dont_feel_it]

She's working her way toward something, and it's nice, feeling like they can understand each other again. Like she's pausing to pick her words, while he watches, waits. The way he always seems to be watching, and waiting.

(While she walked out of that barn with Chris. Fingers interlocked.)

The last words she places carefully. Making his mouth tug a little unruly for a second. A lopsided something like a smile he can't help.

It's true. They've been more than partners for a while now. Regardless of what Dave and Vince might think that means.

He doesn't know what it means. Only that hearing her admit it feels like being handed an olive branch. And reassurance.

Shoulders moving lightly. "I'll be here." Where he always is. He's not going anywhere without her.

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

Audrey's not sure what she was expecting as an answer, but she looked down, with a small nod.
The word that comes out, more press, than certainty, as she stepped to the side of him. "Yeah."

It feels hollower than it was supposed to, walking away. Not like she said it wrong. Not like he didn't understand; not with that small smile and the quietness to his voice. They'll come back to it later. It's a promise. Later. When she comes back. After Lucy Ripley. After whatever happens with Lucy Ripley, if it is Lucy Ripley. It's a promise. Hers. His. Not not. Never now. Always later.

But later --

Audrey's steps away stopped cold.

-- later there's always more that's come up.
More dominoes. More questions. More cases. More things they can't predict.
And it's not. It's not enough. It's still not enough. Not good enough for what she means.

Words are not enough. Words can change. They can be taken away. Forever. There's a certainty building in her, beside something like fear, and something like fragileness, and something else so tired of always waiting, always having to go ( she still has to go now). She can't think about it. About going. About stopping to consider, not even him, when she turns. It's only few steps, she barely feels, with her heart suddenly in her throat.

Reaching up to catch the side of his face and push up to kiss him.
Clear. Something so much clearer than words. What she meant.


What he did.

[dont_feel_it]

He doesn't turn to watch her go, but he does when the crunch of her boots on driveway gravel goes quiet. Which isn't like Audrey. Audrey isn't the stop-and-get-sentimental type. She doesn't pause when she's got a clue, or a new case. She's been searching for information about Lucy Ripley nearly since she got here. If anything, she should be running.

But she's not, and when he angles around, hands slid into his pockets, all he sees is the back of her head. Breeze tugging at blonde strands.

Giving him just one second, a breath's worth of time to wonder if he should say something else (though saying isn't exactly his strong suit) before she's turned with the purpose he expected to see her walk away from him with.

Back to him.

Directly into his chest before he can even get his hands out of his pockets, or parse what's happening, while she's shoving up on her toes and her hands are against his face and he can feel them, but only until she pushes up and her mouth is there. Caught against his.

Not enough time to ask what or why, when his eyes are closed, and he can feel, he can feel, he can feel. Her. soft lips. Wam breath. Hands tight on his face. Kissing him the way she does anything else. Like she's trying to make a point. Take a stand. Draw a line in the sand and set fire to everything past it.

Hands floating up out of his pockets. That he can't feel. He can't feel them. His shirt. His jeans. The ring on its chain around his throat. Nothing but her. Like the way it used to feel when he was a kid, dove to escape searing sun into frigid, clear, dark water. But the opposite. He's burning.

And too late to get his hands up, to find her hair, the back of her head, her waist, her hips, before she's ripping away and he doesn't want to open his eyes, even as he lets her go. Like maybe, if he looked, it would turn out to be a dream. An illusion. Something he wanted so much he made himself believe it happened.

But there she is, walking away with that purpose to her step. To her car.

And all he can do is watch her.

And consider that this is going to make pretending to himself that much harder than usual.

[27yrsandwelldoitallagain]

There are no words for this.

A wash of feelings. A whole world bigger than an ocean. Bigger than her. At the edge of a kiss that's more than I promise could have ever tried to touch with just sound. That feels stripped, like lightning, to the core of herself in kissing Nathan, even as half of her still hummed with the stark necessity to leave, to leave as fast as possible. Even him. To take this chance more fleet that the quickest breeze.

The one he gave her. The one he found, even when she left it in her own later. He didn't. He's more than she knows how to deserve, or how to feel any less than everything she puts into this simple press of lips. Anything less and it wouldn't be enough (it's barely enough) anymore; anything more and she won't be able to still go do it (she has to go). A cold reality, with its own brand desperation, even when she pulls away, her lips still warm and her eyes on his face, as her steps wobble.

He's still standing there. Not quite frozen, eyes still closed, half in movement, and she has to turn away.
She can't look at him. She can't watch him open his eyes. She can't do that and still do this. Not now.

Audrey turn on her heel and dashed forward, clipped and fast --

-- as her heart was thundering as her eyes suddenly shot open.


Blinking at the brightness of the morning light on the ceiling of her bedroom.
Blue eyes wild for a second, before her hand came up and covered her mouth.