How could I have hurt him so badly? Why didn't I see it sooner? How did he bear it? And then to just accept her as a normal part of life, despite all that he felt. What must he have gone through?

(And the drugs. Perhaps they began as part of the case, and ended up becoming necessary to cope. I did that to him, too, but he'll deny it to the end of time.)

His face is pale in his sleep, tension from the case eased out, making him look innocent. (He is anything but, tongue like a whip, though finger touch is gentle from delicate experiments. A unique paradox.) His fingers rest on mine, long, refined, aristocratic. Everything about him belongs to the aristocrat (sharp planes and angles of his face, elegant lashes, finely-crafted lips, even the lines around his eyes are delicate, as if traced in, eased now in sleep), though that's a life he couldn't cope with. His brain would drive him mad, the son that always flees. That would be him. He'd try to get out as soon as he could, though it's in his blood. (Why am I even thinking about that?)

I held his hand at the hospital, both times, and he never said anything about it, never let go. (I almost lost him because of her, three times though she only pulled the trigger once. Then he burst his stitches and so nearly bled out trying to fix my marriage. (And why that, too? Just for my happiness?) His own trigger-pulling almost ended with him dead, would have if that plane had landed in Eastern Europe and hadn't turned back around. Regardless, it's my fault anyway. If I had only noticed sooner, none of that would have happened, his pale skin wouldn't carry some of its scars.)

I should have seen it sooner, in both of us. But perhaps we needed that time in order to evaluate precisely how we feel, to be certain that it isn't a mistake, a misinterpretation. (How could this possibly be considered a mistake?)

Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him close, kiss his curls and close my eyes. The feel of his long body against mine is enough to know that he is here, breathing softly against me. (Sleeping peacefully, always a relief. Demons held at bay by his sheer exhaustion. I always knew the strain would take its toll on him, but at least he'll be fine again after a good rest.)

Sometimes, though, it's still so difficult to believe that I have this. That it's all worked out for the best, in the end, after the turmoils and battles. Miracles still exist, so it seems.)