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elementof_riskThe words are not ones that come easily to his lips. He told Allison, desperate and sincere and oh-so-young. He was more cautious with Lauren, and for all that he told Michael that she was the woman he loved, they weren't words he ever said to her. He told her with a gun, watching Bomani fall. He told her with the torture he put her husband through. He told his touch, the worship he poured into each moment, the focus that was for her alone. But beyond casually calling her "love" he kept the word out of their interactions. The feeling tugged at him that if he said it, she might laugh. He might have to face that it meant more to him than it did to her, that he was a lover she wanted, a partner in crime, but nothing more, nothing deeper.
The fact that he recognized the emotion fairly quickly with Rachel was something he was very good at denying. He couldn't love her, didn't believe it could happen so quickly, in such an impossible situation as theirs. But his stomach knotted up with just the invitation to meet him one more time for drinks, and after drinks led to another meeting which led to them in bed again, he kept taking risks just to see her. Curled up on her sofa, watching movies and critiquing the poor spies or thieves' efforts, watching her fall asleep head in his lap, or curled up against his chest. He came by for sex and stayed for the weekend, into the week, delaying his departure, putting off jobs. He cooked. He bought roses. He couldn't keep his hands off of her, as if he had been half-starved for physical intimacy for years, which was hardly the case.
The bed, the sofa, the entryway wall, the shower, the kitchen, the dresser, an alleyway behind a club. Each time it was different, deeper, a little more overwhelming, things creeping up on him until denial really wasn't a possibility anymore. Even then, she was the one to initiate the words, while he tried to show her by the gentle way they moved together, but the words couldn't be denied, and he didn't want to brush hers off. So they were pulled out of him, first half-teasing, then whispered in English in response to hers, then murmured over and over again in Russian as he came, clutching her close.
They still weren't words he said often. They were said, they were out there, she knew how he felt. It wasn't a phrase that he felt comfortable saying repeatedly. But he hoped she felt it, in every kiss, in every caress, in every time their bodies merged, because it wasn't just sex. It hadn't been just sex anytime after the first time in Brazil. It was a declaration and a promise, and sometimes that was the best he could do.
The fact that he recognized the emotion fairly quickly with Rachel was something he was very good at denying. He couldn't love her, didn't believe it could happen so quickly, in such an impossible situation as theirs. But his stomach knotted up with just the invitation to meet him one more time for drinks, and after drinks led to another meeting which led to them in bed again, he kept taking risks just to see her. Curled up on her sofa, watching movies and critiquing the poor spies or thieves' efforts, watching her fall asleep head in his lap, or curled up against his chest. He came by for sex and stayed for the weekend, into the week, delaying his departure, putting off jobs. He cooked. He bought roses. He couldn't keep his hands off of her, as if he had been half-starved for physical intimacy for years, which was hardly the case.
The bed, the sofa, the entryway wall, the shower, the kitchen, the dresser, an alleyway behind a club. Each time it was different, deeper, a little more overwhelming, things creeping up on him until denial really wasn't a possibility anymore. Even then, she was the one to initiate the words, while he tried to show her by the gentle way they moved together, but the words couldn't be denied, and he didn't want to brush hers off. So they were pulled out of him, first half-teasing, then whispered in English in response to hers, then murmured over and over again in Russian as he came, clutching her close.
They still weren't words he said often. They were said, they were out there, she knew how he felt. It wasn't a phrase that he felt comfortable saying repeatedly. But he hoped she felt it, in every kiss, in every caress, in every time their bodies merged, because it wasn't just sex. It hadn't been just sex anytime after the first time in Brazil. It was a declaration and a promise, and sometimes that was the best he could do.
