This is post-movie, a little "what if" piece. Essentially, Tobin and Silvia hooked up and started a life together in a shared apartment. Fun stuff. I don't own The Interpreter.

(cue music)

He lives for the days spent in quiet comfort, the days that are spent sitting at their modest table in the kitchen. Mugs accompany these lazy moments (coffee for him and tea for her) with steam curling upwards. He can afford to wear a soft sweater and baggy jeans. She can afford not to change out of her sweat shirt and plaid sleep pants. They don't always need talk; it is often that they relax in an understanding silence.

Sometimes, he catches her studying him with a strong curiosity and without pause. He raises an eyebrow in his questioning way, an expression she secretly loves. But she ducks, embarrassed, so a curtain of wispy hair shields her from him.

"I'm memorizing your face." She almost mumbles as she shyly plays with her sleeve. She is hardly ever shy and she makes it a point to never mumble. Mumbling can make words hard to comprehend, which, in turn, can make her one job short.

He wants to keep the conversation light, on the surface, and far from deep so he teases. "I thought voices were your specialty." She meets his eyes, matching his knowing grin with one of her own. "Besides, I told you, I was hired for my forgettable face."

"I know your voice almost better than my own." She pauses to reach over and brush his bangs from his eyes. As the youngest son of his family, it is a reflex for him to jerk back from any female leaning forward to touch his hair. "And your face is far from forgettable. I'd still like to memorize it though."

"Memorize it? For when I'm dead?" He wants her to smile again, because deep conversations are for serious times, not over coffee and tea in morning pajamas (as opposed to night pajamas). He means no insult and only humor. She takes it as such and covers his hand with hers to prove it.

"No," she insists, "for when you're gone." The correction is made with a tiny smirk. It's an inside joke and he snorts as he tips his head back to drink the last of his coffee. Even so, his hand turns palm up and they lock fingers. He strokes the skin between her thumb and index finger.

It is because he understands.

He knows what it means to be gone but not dead. Being gone is sometimes worse. Knowing that the one he loves is not dead but just out of his reach hurts more than any bullet. The times he has to leave for business are the moments she doesn't want to face. Those are the nights spent not sleeping, but talking. They talk and remember. They lie on the bed they share, facing but not touching each other. Touching late at night can lead to things they have not the time for.

She tells him stories of her life in Africa. It doesn't hurt to speak of it anymore. She tells him about her brother and sister. She tells him of how much trouble they could get into on any random day. It is usually a lot, depending on how old the story is. She tells him more about her brother's lists. She tells him about babysitting adventures and secret afternoons spent with her sister going through their mother's make-up.

He tells her tales of his childhood in Brooklyn. He tells her about being the middle son of five others, with only one older brother for company versus three sisters. He tells her about nights spent home alone gone horribly terribly wrong just because of an over-cooked pizza. He tells her about the fighting and hair pulling (done by both brothers and sisters). He tells her about dysfunctional family holidays. He wants her to spend Christmas with his siblings and parents.

When those nights become mornings, she tries to stay strong and smile, but she slowly and surely breaks down. As her first tears fall, he holds her close, like he did so long ago. He goes one step farther, daring to do what he could not before.

He tries to calm her down, kissing her hair cheeks eyes neck lips mouth softly, carefully. He whispers that he will never not return and that he will always come home. It'll be okay, he says in her ear as her grip on his shoulder tightens to almost painful.

And he does come home. He makes it a steady habit to return to her sooner before later. Those are the times that she rushes to him and he opens his arms to her. She cries those times too. More often than not, so does he. So happy, she says as she snuggles into his suit jacket, so happy you're back. He looks down at her, combing through her blonde hair with rough hands and he mutters, I am too.

She makes him dinner on those nights, darting skillfully around their small kitchen from the cutting board on the counter to the boiling pot on the stove. He sits on a three-legged stool and watches her flit about like a fairy armed with a serrated knife or a spatula. If she gets too close to him, he'll grab her around the waist and kiss her neck. She'll put down her weapon and cup the side of his face. Those are the moments when she'll constantly tell him, I'm yours.

Those are the nights he loses control; he doesn't just hold and kiss her. He frees himself to do more.

Those are the nights she unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall from his shoulders to the floor, as she teases his chest with cool fingers. Her hands move expertly to his belt buckle as she stands on tiptoe and kisses him.

Those are the nights he slips her baggy sweater (that could actually belong to him) over her head. He touches her gently as his hands dance up and down her back. Quickly his mouth moves from hers to her cheek to her neck, memorizing the noises she makes when he kisses her in different places.

Those are the nights they desperately need as reassurance that the other in neither dead nor gone.

When those nights become mornings, she makes it a point to wake up before him. It is her philosophy that he always gets to stare at her so turn about is more than fair play. Her hair is usually a tad messy and there are always marks on her neck. The sound she makes when he kisses her there is his favorite. She sighs and touches such a blemish, fleetingly thinking of covering it up, as she watches him.

When his eyelids start to twitch and flutter, she kisses his mouth good morning. He smiles sleepily, tucking some white-blonde hair behind her ear. His hand falls, resting on her pale shoulder. He strokes at the skin with his thumb absentmindedly.

She hugs him, sliding down his body, to lie her head on his naked chest. As she listens to his heart, she is reminded that he is safe and home with her. He traces circles on the small of her back with careful fingers. As he draws, he can feel her heart beating in return and it confirms that she is, and always will be, his.

(cue curtain)

All right, it's been edited. This is still my first Interpreter story, and I'm happier with it. I'm tempted to cook something up about Tobin's background (building off what I mentioned here) in the form of a bizarre holiday dinner with his family. I don't know, we'll see. Anyway, same as before applies: tell me what you think. Was it good? Was it bad? Too vague? Too detailed? Should I be shot in the face? Up to you, my somewhat loyal readers. :D