A/N: So, finally it's done. I have a whole 5 letters for you this time. Only 3 more to go now.

This is for Em, because she made me remember this.

Disclaimer: They're not mine, so please don't sue me.

It's not meant to be like this.
Not what I planned at all

Imogen Heap – The Walk

-

S is for Serenity.

-

It wasn't supposed to be like this, understand?

The phone rings at 3:47am like it's important, her eyes blinking back sleep as the time paints in red across the wall. Her hands rise, the heels of her palms rubbing against her eyes. She alternates between moving and caring later, simply because it's late and it's been weeks since any of her silences have been uninterrupted.

She answers on the fifth ring, for no particular reason, slurring a hello like she genuinely cares.

"What are you doing?"

Harry registers expectedly in her head as does lazy regret. She groans, biting back a lame reply and a of course. Because it figures.

"Jesus,Harry" she breathes. "I'm sleeping. Or rather, I was."

He snorts. Or maybe there's a pause— it doesn't matter, the length of time it takes him to reply makes her open her eyes a little more. This is something wrong because he doesn't do hesitation. She sits up when he doesn't answer, the sheets tangling around her legs as she reaches for her glasses.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he says, finally, "you're in Notting Hill, right?"

She gets a dial tone, before a chance to reply with Harry, it's over. But it's always the same afterthought, why and how he knew.

-

T is for Temperance.

-

It's choose your own ending.

He promises (although, he's not sure if she caught it) and so he's there, in twenty minutes, outside her door like all of this is an illicit affair.

She answers the door, still tugging the hem of her shirt over her hips with her hair over her eyes. His hands rise and then fall and he wonders what it means, but chooses to smirk instead. (She isn't always watching.)

"We're going for out."

She blinks. "Um—Harry"

"Never said you had a choice," he stops her, stepping in (for a moment, too close), and grabbing her jacket.

Wait. Let's pause here because there's a truth. The illusion of taking her choice, their choices, was always his. Why they let him have it is a question for another time, and time is still here. He continues to wonder why she says yes when it really matters because, really, he's been waiting for her no for a long time.

She's just a small part, in theory, and all the world's a stage sings in his head because they just don't know how he doesn't have things figured out.

There is amusement between them, rare, and he attributes it to her lack of sleep for the moment. (Safety.) He does wonder what he can get away with asking.

"When did you move here?"

She shrugs, her boot shuffling against the carpet as she locks her door. She doesn't answer the question and he hates that there is a lingering curiosity with her. It mocks, twists, and pushes right back— it's worse since she's started to (play) learn his habits (game).

Her keys disappear into her pocket and he knows he'll never invite himself inside. Not again.

"Where are we going?" She asks finally.

He doesn't say anything.

-

U is for Utilitarianism.

-

When they finally stop, because they were going to stop, she gets out the car first and he follows.

She has no remote idea of where they are exactly. But she doesn't press, yet, to fill the silence. It's one thing that they don't handle well, awkwardness.

She looks around and sees nothing but blackness, looks down and sees nothing but dust pasting lazily against the toes of her boots as she passes through the glow of his headlight.

She sighs. "Where are we?"

He shrugs, wincing as he slides out of the car. "Not London."

Rolling her eyes, she moves around the small area. She remembers the motorway, the cold air, but it's really about piecing his reasons of bringing her here.

They say nothing to each other and she's musing points and platitudes because it's making her uneasy. He steps next to her eventually, following her gaze.

"How was your night after I left?" She settles dryly.

He chuckles softly, but it's empty. And she knows that it's empty. It's chilling because the extension of her thoughts go into a terrifying direction— they're not hers to handle.

His wrist starts to roll as he kicks the ground. It could be words. It could be nothing. But he breathes. "I wasn't going to come after you."

She freezes, the words spinning in her mind again. And then again. She knows as well as the rest of them— when he says it's not going to happen, he means it. It's here where she starts to wonder how desperate— but she stops. She believes him capable of doing anything and that kind of desperate is something she's seen in glimpses. All the same, she's quietly glad it's over.

"Nothing's changed," she says slowly.

He shakes his head. "It wasn't supposed to."

(This isn't choose your own ending.)

-

V is for Vunerable.

-

It could be hours.

She's kind of quiet when the moment ends. And maybe, it's more of his fault— it's universal, he knows he's not good at this shit.

"Let's go." Not do you want to go? or do you want to stay?— voices of an entire language he doesn't know and passes off as pretentious and convoluted.

"Ok," she murmurs, shrugging.

And then it's routine. She returns to being wordless and passive, sliding into the car after him.

But he doesn't start it.

He is curious. "You don't have an opinion?"

She stills behind him. "You really want to talk about this?"

He's amused by the degree of her bewilderment and almost turns to face her. If he can't read her, he can pull apart what slips and that, in itself, will occupy him.

"I've got to have something to go home to after the op."

She snorts. "And how's that going?"

He stays quiet this time because she's not allowed to know. And he's just not touching it. He thinks about what he could say and then passes because he just too used to getting close enough.

Her hand brushes his hip. "Are we going?"

He sighs. "Yes."

-

W is for Withdraw.

-

He follows her back inside. But she doesn't ask why.

She doesn't know if he's expecting her to ask, to push, but she just doesn't have it in her anymore. And she wonders if everything's just past.

They still in the hall.

"Are we going to have a sleepover?" She asks dryly, batting back stray hair over her eyes.

He snorts. "Rain check."

She fingers her keys in her pocket. It must be six because the sun's peeking out and this is usually the time she's up and jogging.

Her lips part, but he's faster, his hands cupping her face as he peers down at her. Somewhere, something drops but she doesn't pay any attention. When you get older, the clandestine, romantic moments lose flavour.

"Wha—"

He shakes his head. "Shut up, Ruth."

So she's quiet, relenting as his fingers brush against her cheek, then the underside of her jaw. They graze her throat and then move back up to her lips, stilling.

She can't breathe.

"I'm never going to get this," he says slowly. "So stop. Just stop now, ok?"

Her eyes darken and his lips curl as he leans forward, dipping down and kissing her hard. She feels like he's burning, wanting to bury her underneath the illusion of having nothing. Her fingers curl in his shirt, twisting as her mouth opens and his tongue slips in.

She might moan. It could've been him— but the pressure is too much and she has to break away. She needs to breathe.

He's gone when she blinks.

Please review. It makes me smile.