Running
by raile

Summary: She wondered if perhaps they'd gotten too good at running that even while they're there, they are still running.
Disclaimer: the ones you don't know are mine, the ones you do aren't.
Rating: T, to be safe

Something woke her up from what had been a deep sleep.

The room is dark and the silence reigns and though she can't see much of anything, she found a way out of the arm draped over her regardless. She grabbed the robe that was much too large on her and padded a few feet onto the other side of the room, curling up on the couch with her feet tucked underneath her. She wondered what she was supposed to do now. She was good in a lot of things, but somehow, she's never quite done well in her personal relationships, particularly ones that involved forming bonds with men and what happens before, in between and after.

She thought about her certainties, if only to reassure herself because at the very least, she had that.

Then she stopped because she realized something she already knew—the same thing she's had to relearn in the last four years—there were no such things as certainties. Everything's up in the air, as much as it frustrated her, and to think of even trying to fool herself into believing she had certainties was a joke and she was too good for that.

So, she was without certainties and had little else left in mind to use to reassure herself.

What else was there?

Life.

Survival.

Escape.

It wasn't very reassuring, but she could very well be certain she was good at escaping. She is certain of that and that is as close as she can get to certainties which means nothing.

Then again, could it be called that? She runs, but is that the same as escaping? She wasn't too sure.

But surely escaping, running—well, it had become their specialty. Their. Yes, it was a shared talent and she wondered if perhaps this particular talent was always showcased best when it involved just the two of them. Maybe they brought it out in each other, taught each other without knowing and just perfected it out of time without even meaning to. Quite the talent, is it not?

And now here they were.

One asleep and one wondering—there but not quite there, maybe? She wondered if perhaps they'd gotten too good at running that even while they're there, they are still running. Can you run in your sleep? Not the legs-moving-fast-to-get-somewhere-else running but rather the running in a way that made her feel as if a shrink had written 'fear of rejection' across her forehead and slapped on the tag 'unable to commit' on his.

She stopped and wondered if it was the other way around. Or were both equally applicable to each of them?

Lost in thought, she lost herself far enough that she eventually fell asleep and didn't even notice.

She awakened hours later, curled on the couch and still wrapped in a robe much too large for her.

On the other side of the room, he was sprawled out on the bed, curled against a pillow, holding it tightly. Idly, she wondered if in his mind, he was holding her. She rose and realized her feet were cold.

And decided to change back into her own clothes because she hadn't brought a change of clothes. She usually didn't like to do this but she had no choice. She felt had to.

Because wearing his robe, even if it belonged to the hotel, was much too close to something that involved not running.

So, she changed back into last night's dress and returned the robe where he had left it for her the night before. Leaving it there would be better for now.

If she didn't dress before he woke, it would make escaping a lot harder if she ever felt the urge to show off her talent once more.

Because there were no certainties, not for her.

When he woke up, there was breakfast already courtesy of room service.

She ignored the fact she knew what he ate in the morning, or at least, had enough of an idea to mindlessly order for him. The urge to escape bubbled up then, but then she was somewhat resolute, more so than she expected after the night before—the part he had no idea about, that is.

He had thanked her, kissing her chastely on the temple before heading for the bathroom. When he emerged, she was seated on the table, not looking at him and had begun to play who-can-catch-who-looking—first by herself because he simply sat in front of her and poured himself a cup and said, "I didn't hear you get up."

She had been playing the wrong game so she switched to not-looking-at-you-but-if-you-ask-why-I'm-not-I-wi ll-say-I-am.

When he kissed her after breakfast, his eyes were closed and his lips lingered on her lips.

And she wondered if perhaps she was the only one doing the running that morning.

Or if somehow, he had begun running the way he did sometimes—running in a way she couldn't see until he was just gone and there was nothing left to do except let the dust settle.

And run by herself the whole other way because to not do so would mean she had been left behind.

She decided she really did love him later that morning when she's rushing around her bedroom.

But they were still running, she realized, and wondered if perhaps they might never learn to break the habit.

Frustrated by the fact she was getting to work late, she told herself she really didn't need to keep doing this to herself. There were so much more other fish in the sea, she pep-talked to herself. She could do without this. She really could. She should.

But in the middle of trying to find what to wear, she remembered him mentioning he liked seeing her in red. She can't remember when—they'd done a fair amount of running and escaping since the day they'd met—but she found herself grabbing into her closet blindly.

And ended up picking a red dress she had picked up at a boutique two weeks earlier.

"Are you still leaving?"

"What?"

"I said, are you still coming?"

"Coming?"

"Tonight, Kurt? To pick me up?"

"Oh, right…I thought you said something else."

"Okay."

"Yeah, I'm picking you up. Seven?"

"Sounds perfect."

Sometimes she wished she was an open book.

And more often, she wished he was as well.

So maybe they could just forget about the words and look at each other and just know.

And maybe they won't be doing as much running as they did.

Because it wasn't always so easy to be brave, at least not when it came to him.

She had said, "Are you still leaving?"

When she meant to say, "You're still leaving."

Just so they could just put it out there and they can just have those words laid at their feet.

Then wait and see if they'll run at the same time.

Away from each other or together—come what may.

Because it would be nice to have some answers.

And to know if he actually did care.

That night, the first thing he told her when he entered her office was, "You look beautiful."

She smiled and kissed him and told him he cleaned up quite well too.

Then she grabbed his hand and they walked out of her office together.

No running there.

He stared at her during dinner.

She took a drink of the delicious Bordeaux they were dinking and she asked with a nervous laugh, "What?"

He simply shrugged and said, "Nothing.

And there might as well be 'liar' scrawled across his forehead.

Something woke her up from what had been a deep sleep.

And when she opened her eyes, the room was dark, but she found she wasn't the only one awake. He was beside her, just staring and she almost smacked him with the pillow. He had startled her a little—it was disconcerting to see someone that wide awake when you're still trying to crawl your way back into consciousness.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said the same way he did during dinner.

She sat up, pressing the sheets to herself—she felt vulnerable, not because of her state of undress, but because of unsaid words that have been more than just lingering in her mind. His lying isn't helping matters and if something was happening and running was going to be involved somehow, she would at least prefer to be as decent as possible.

Her hair must be a fright, she was sure, but neither of them says a thing. He's seen her hair in more ways than she'd care to admit and in the darkness of the hotel room, what she looked like hardly mattered.

"I got a call today."

"About what?"

He sat up fully so they faced each other and she realized he had put on his pajama bottoms and she felt even more vulnerable. She leaned back against the headboard and looked at him. The distance between them isn't much but she wondered if perhaps they were the complete opposite in other terms.

"A job," he said, "Philadelphia."

"Oh," was all she managed to find, "When do they need you?"

"Soon."

"When are you leaving?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I'm…conflicted," he looked away.

"Conflicted? By what?"

He looked at her.

And once more, "Oh."

She wondered if he played poker.

Because as much as she tried to read him, she couldn't—was this new or was she just suddenly impaired when it comes to him? She had been able to before, not all the time, but she had.

He was just more guarded at the moment, she decided.

She wondered if he could read her.

Probably not.

Because she is tired of running, she is nearly numb and she is vulnerable.

Then again, maybe he could.

Because she is also distracted.

He was distracting her with his eyes that suddenly seemed so dark.

She wondered if there was a storm brewing in his eyes.

Or if maybe she was beginning to see things that weren't there, like his being there.

And staying put.

"What do you want to do?"

He didn't say anything and instead, continued to look at her. She wanted to tell him to stop, but somehow, she couldn't. Instead, she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her folded legs and somehow, she didn't feel as vulnerable as before.

"Kurt?"

He kept silent and took her by surprise when he moved towards her, pushing her hair aside and kissed her. She felt rather than saw him reach for her arms and pried them apart then pushed her knees back down. She didn't protest but held on to the sheet, pressing it against her chest, over her heart.

The kiss was gentle and she opened her mouth against his, her eyes drifting close and her hand reaching behind his neck.

But suddenly, he pulled back, breathing heavily and bent down, pressing his cheek against her shoulder. She kept her eyes closed and held him, their breathing syncing as her chest rose and fell underneath him. He was solid and firm against her and in the back of her mind, she ignored the fact that that kiss felt like the last kiss they had shared after he asked her to go away with him. And she said no. She refused to remember.

But she couldn't ignore what she felt then though as she watched him walk away.

Try as she might, she couldn't ignore the feeling that bubbled up—no matter how much she knew she couldn't to deal with that again—that heavy kind of feeling of loss because that was what she had felt then.

Loss.

Complete and utter loss.

She couldn't keep doing this. She couldn't. She shouldn't.

It was time to stop escaping, stop running.

Because she was tired.

The words came easily, she didn't have to dig deep to know what she wanted to say.

"Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

Maybe because they'd always been there the whole time., just waiting for her.

"Please stay."

There.

She had laid the gauntlet at his feet.

And underneath his ear, under the sheet, her heart stopped.

They both waited to see if he was going to run.

Away from her or with her.

She decided this was the last time she was going to wait for him.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

She stopped and so did he.

No more running, no more escaping.

Because she had said the words she only had to say to make him stay.

And so, he did.