Nico always loved that Rachel never failed to speak her mind. If he asked her opinion, she gave it. Often she gave it without him even asking. If she was happy he knew, if she was sad he knew, and if she was angry, she sure as hell made sure he knew it.

If he went too far with a joke, she would clench her jaw or roll her eyes or tense her shoulders. If he did not catch on then, she would let out some snarky retort that made it clear he should have shut up about a minute sooner. He would fall silent for a minute or two and then she would be fine, shrugging it off and smiling and letting it drop, because she always understood that it did not matter.

If he took his temper out on her, she would raise her eyebrows or put her hands on her hips or scowl. If he did not stop then, she would assert calmly and firmly that he was being ridiculous, that she was sorry he had a bad day, but that it was not her fault. Sometimes he would sigh and force himself out of it and it would be okay. More often than not, he would frown and say something he did not mean and that was always dangerous. It was dangerous because sometimes Rachel would snap back at him and then they would yell and they would really fight, until one of them got frustrated enough to choose to walk away and cool down. Sometimes, though, Rachel would just look at him and say exactly the right thing or grab his hand and it would be okay, because she always understood that it did not matter.

If something he did were hurting her, she would purse her lips or cross her arms or shrug him off. More often than not, he would freeze and ask what was wrong and she would tell him. If he thought she was being ridiculous (and too often he did) he would laugh or say something inconsiderate and she would ball up her fists and tell him to forget it, and if he was feeling particularly obstinate he would scowl and they would fight. Usually he would listen, usually they talked about it, usually he would do (or not do) anything to keep from hurting her. She always forgave him, because she always understood that it did not matter.

So when one day she came in late, staying silent, shoulders slumped, he did not know what to make of it. In the dim lighting of the room he could see little beyond her silhouette, her hair pinned up, a sleek, form-fitting dress hugging her body, high heels bringing her to stand a couple of inches taller than usual. And he remembered; her art show had been that day. The show she had been looking forward to for months, the show she referred to as her first real showcase, the show she had asked him to attend. The show he had promised to attend.

"Rachel," he whispered, reaching out to her, trying to offer some sort of an explanation. Because she would listen. She would listen. She would understand, as she always did.

But she would not even meet his eyes. She unpinned her hair, slipped off her high heels, changed into an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts to sleep in. All without so much as glancing at him. And when she crawled into bed beside him, she clung to the furthest corner of the side she had long since claimed as hers, staying out of his reach. He watched her for a long time, trying to ignore the heavy, hollow feeling in his stomach and the way he could not swallow properly. When her rigid posture relaxed and the weary sighs faded into even breathing, Nico rolled over onto his back and let out a huff of frustration. He did not know what to do, or how to make it up to her, or if she would even forgive him this time. Because while he'd forgotten about the art show, forgotten about how horrible it felt to disappoint someone you care so much about, Rachel had forgotten how much Nico depended on her to talk it over with him. Or maybe she had not. Maybe she had just misunderstood and let herself believe that to him, it did not matter.