Vigil

Not for the first time, Grace was glad she'd dragged her comfortable old sofa into the library. Faded from its original green to almost white, the ratty thing clashed severely with Harold's sleek, stark furniture, in much the same way that her messy painting clothes clashed with his impeccable three-piece suits. It clashed, in other words, in the way that had always worked so well for the two of them.

She was curled up on the sofa tonight, under a blanket of equally great age and dubious appearance, gazing drowsily at the figure outlined by the soft glow of the computer screen. Harold had warned her about all the late nights he had to work; she had not warned him that she intended to share as many of them as she could. He had been taken aback, therefore, when she had started spending nights on the sofa. He had protested, argued, even pleaded. She had serenely disregarded all of it.

She watched wordlessly now as he raised himself slowly from his chair and stretched, pressing a hand against the back of his neck for a moment. He was hurting, she knew. She also knew that, until tonight's work was finished, he would refuse to discuss it. Even a shoulder rub would be a distraction.

(Besides which, the last time she had tried a shoulder rub, John, on the other end of the comm system, had overheard the sounds coming from Harold, and ribbed him about it for three days straight. Grace hadn't known a man could turn that many shades of red. She hadn't known there were that many shades of red, and she'd been painting since before she could walk.)

Harold was starting to turn around. Grace closed her eyes quickly, making sure her breathing was nice and regular as she heard his uneven footsteps approach. She liked to think she was getting rather good at faking sleep.

"Grace?"

Crap.

She opened her eyes and blinked innocently up at Harold, as he leaned over her in the dimness, supporting himself with one hand on the sofa's arm. "What?"

"I wish you'd gone home."

She lifted her eyebrows at him. "I'm flattered."

"I'm serious."

"I'm fine right here." She yawned enormously, as if to underline her point.

Harold sighed. "Grace, how many times do we have to go through this?"

She pushed herself up on one elbow, meeting his gaze frankly now. "We don't have to go through it at all. I'm where I want to be, and I'm not getting in the way. What's the problem?"

He hesitated a moment, before doing something he rarely did—seating himself stiffly on the sofa by her. Instantly she scooted closer, laying her head on his knee.

"That's not fair." She wasn't looking up at him, but she could picture the wry quirk of his mouth as he said it.

"All's fair in love and war," she countered, sweetly. "You were saying?"

His voice above her sounded oddly distant and gentle at the same time. "I was saying, this isn't right for you."

"What isn't? Spending my nights with my husband?"

"With me? You're on a sofa and I'm in a chair."

She turned over so she could see his face, so deeply weary in the faint light. Impulsively she put up her hand and laid it against his cheek. "If that's the best I can get, I'll take it."

He sighed again, though his fingers were twining around hers. "It's not as if you couldn't have done better . . ."

"Better than spending my nights in the Batcave? How many girls get to do that?"

"In the what?"

A giggle escaped her. "Come on, Harold. Don't tell me you've never seen the similarities."

"I never read many comic books . . . the Batcave?"

"Think about it. It'll come to you." She yawned again, a little more authentically this time. "Hadn't you better get back to work? It's been too quiet on the other end. John's probably about to start the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, or something."

Harold snorted, and the lines in his face relaxed. "That would be the best-case scenario," he said dryly.

A voice came suddenly over the comm, making them both start. "I resent that, Alfred."

Grace tried unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter in the blanket as Harold rolled his eyes and pushed himself up off the sofa. She was sure he was blushing again, though she couldn't see it. "Goodnight, John," she called breezily. And then, more softly, "Goodnight, Harold."

He lingered just long enough to brush her hair back from her face, before limping back to his station at the computer. Grace watched him a moment longer, still with a hint of a smile on her lips, before she turned over and settled in for the night.