Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I'm so sorry," the woman says, with a bright, friendly smile. "But do you mind if I sit next to you?"

He holds his page with a finger and squints up at her, so surprised to be directly addressed that it takes him a few seconds to process her request.

"I don't believe seats in this car are assigned," he says, finally. "You can sit where you'd like."

She laughs, then, as though delighted by his response. He can't imagine why.

"It's polite to ask, though," she says, already settling herself into the seat directly next to him. It does strike him as strange — there are other seats free in the car, after all. Surely she'd be more comfortable with a little more room? "I appreciate it."

"Sure," he tells her, and then he hesitates. Would it be rude to go back to his book? She can't be expecting him to start up a conversation.

"You look uncomfortable," the woman says before he can spiral any further. Her earlier smile has faded into something smaller, and more secretive. "I really can go somewhere else."

"You asked to sit here, specifically," he points out. "So you must have had a reason."

"You caught me," she says after a moment, and her smile isn't quite so genuine anymore. "I was just…."

He watches her body language as she decides how to answer. One shaky breath after another, fingernails tapping a rapid beat against her thigh.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" he ventures, finally.

Her eyes widen, her gaze jerking to meet his.

"Of a sort," she says carefully. "I can leave, if…."

"You don't need to do that," he tells her. "But if you have a problem, I'd like to hear it. I'm interested in that sort of thing."

"In … people's problems?"

"In mysteries," he clarifies, and then frowns. "If you don't mind sharing, of course."

"No," the woman says slowly. "I suppose I don't."

"Are you in danger?"

"Sort of," she says, and then, after a moment's deliberation, "Well. Yes. But not immediately."

"And by immediately, you mean…?"

"I mean I don't think he's on the train."

He. So it's a person, then. A man. A husband, perhaps? Jilted lover? She's too old to be at her father's mercy, so that's probably out.

Of course, it could be something seedier. Debt, or a broken promise. A dark past catching up with her.

No. She's too put-together for that, he decides. It's difficult to fake those sort of manners, they have to be bred since birth. She comes from money, he's sure of it, and whatever she's worried about, it's bigger than some petty squabble.

"There's someone following you, then?" he asks, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes."

The woman answers him directly, holding eye contact without flinching. Interesting.

"Who? If you don't mind me asking?"

"I do, a little," the woman says on a humourless laugh. "But you've earned it, I think. He's my former fiancé."

So his first guess was correct.

"It ended poorly, I presume."

"That's an understatement."

She has so many different smiles, he thinks, a little in awe. This one is tight, and forced. The effort seems painful. He'd tell her she needn't bother, but he wouldn't want to presume.

"Does he know you're on the train?"

"No."

"And yet you've asked to sit with me."

"He'll ask around, later. When he realizes. Has anyone seen a dark haired woman, sitting alone? Something like that. But if I'm not sitting alone…."

"No one will think to connect you."

"That's the idea, yes."

"He must not know you very well, then. Your fiancé, I mean. If he thinks it'll be that easy to catch you."

"You're awfully presumptuous." The woman raises a narrow eyebrow. "You think you do know me, then, I suppose? Based on what I've just told you?"

"Of course not."

"No?"

"I know only what I've observed. Nothing more."

"And what is it, exactly, that you've observed?"

"You haven't offered your name or your destination, nor any other identifying information. Your clothing is well-made, yet nondescript. I'm sure you chose the neutral colours deliberately, as they would be more difficult for a stranger to recall. Furthermore, although there are almost certainly other men traveling alone on this train, you chose to sit by me — a man younger than you, whom you could, conceivably, physically overpower if necessary."

"Wow."

He shoots her an awkward smile.

"It's a hobby," he explains lamely.

"What, looking at people?"

"Something like that."

She falls silent, considering. He wonders if he's offended her, at first, but her body language remains open, and her expression doesn't seem upset. No tension around her mouth or jaw. Her eyebrows are relaxed.

"I look at people too, you know," she says, finally. "You aren't the only one."

"Oh?"

He's intrigued, despite himself.

"You're well-spoken, despite your age," the woman starts, and he doesn't think he's imagining that her gaze has gotten sharper, her tone more certain. "Your clothes are well cared-for, but obviously not new. You chose them for their quality, probably knowing you couldn't afford to have them replaced. Your knee bounces when you're distracted, and you've been scratching at the insides of your arms. The surprise on your face right now says that the movements are unconscious, that you didn't know it was obvious until I said something just now. But you haven't tried to escape this conversation, and you willingly let me sit down next to you. Whatever it is that you're craving, you have no intention of giving in."

She pauses, letting that sink in. For a long moment they're both only staring at each other, as though trapped. His fingers itch to move towards his elbow, the urge nearly impossible to resist.

"How am I doing?" she asks, voice low.

He swallows around a dry throat, jerking his head in an awkward nod.

"That is … not inaccurate," he says hoarsely.

"Not inaccurate, huh," she responds, a whole new smile forming on her face. This one is knowing, a little sly. "Now why do I get the feeling that's a high compliment, coming from you?"

He wants to keep a straight face but can't, not quite, fighting a tiny smile as he tilts his head in silent acknowledgment.

"Where'd you learn how to do it, then," she asks, and it's not until the words are out of her mouth that he realizes he was waiting for her to ask about the drugs, instead. "Look at people, I mean."

"Nowhere," he says with a little laugh, relieved. "Everywhere."

"Mysterious," she volleys back, echoing his laugh with one of her own.

"No, that's you, I think," he tells her, shaking his head even as he feels privately pleased.

"Nonsense," she says, still smiling, digging through her bag without looking. "Look how much you found out, just from a single glance."

She takes out a crossword, then, flips it to an opened puzzle as she uncaps her pen.

"Twelve across is dilapidated," he informs her, after a cursory glance.

A test, of course, to see how she'll react. Some people get angry.

Some people, but not her. She grins at him, even wider than before. Her handwriting is sloppy, a mix of upper and lowercase, written in a rush. They finish six puzzles like that, mismatched letters scrawled out in her horrible script, before the train announces the upcoming stop.

"Wait," he says before she can put the book away, reaching for her pen to scribble out his address. After a moment's hesitation, he adds his phone number as well. "Here."

"What's this?"

"So you know where to find me," he tells her, and then, at her questioning look, "I told you, I like mysteries. You seem like you run into a lot of them."

"Anyone else, I'd think this was a come on."

"It isn't."

"Oh, I know."

She's still smiling, though. He really thinks she understands.

"I'll find you a real puzzle," she promises him, and then she's gone.

The apartment he's been renting is a one-bedroom, located on the second floor of a small building on a quiet side street. Modestly sized, moderately clean, fairly unremarkable overall. Or at least that's what he always thinks until she comes to visit, at which point its many failures become instantly apparent. The sink drips, and the sofa's shabby. The kitchen light flickers. The toilet wobbles, ever so slightly, when sat upon. Most of the floorboards creak.

To her credit, she's never brought any of these things up — but she wouldn't, would she? She's too well-mannered for that, despite the way she lives these days. Disappearing for days a time, showing up looking bruised and harried. Her clothing is always impeccable. Her fingernails are always split.

"Hi," she says, on this particular evening, brushing past him in her typical whirlwind fashion. "Thank god you're in, I'm starving."

"I haven't got anything," he warns her from the doorway, where he's been held up setting both deadbolts.

"Whatever's fine," she says, waving a careless hand. "Or we could order in? I'll pay."

She always says that. He could get offended, but there really wouldn't be any point. He can't afford it, she can. What's the use arguing? The best he can offer her is canned soup, and on a good day, bread to go with it.

He listens as she calls in the order from the rotary phone in his kitchen, twirling the cord around her index finger as she speaks. It's always all tugged out of shape when she's finished with it, but it seems too much of a bother to ask her to leave it alone. He likes the reminder, anyway. It gets so quiet when she's gone.

"Thirty minutes," she tells him as she hangs up. She's chosen sandwiches, apparently, from the deli two blocks down. "Maybe forty-five."

"Okay."

He isn't bothered by the wait. He probably wouldn't have eaten dinner at all, if she hadn't showed up. He forgets more often than not, gets caught up in the files he takes home from the office with him.

He trails after her towards the bathroom, suspecting, from previous experience, that she isn't going to do anything private in there. Sure enough, she's already got his window open, digging in her coat pocket for a cigarette.

"You don't mind, do you?"

She doesn't ask until she's already halfway to lighting it — although to her credit, she does pause long enough that he could feasibly say no.

He doesn't, of course. He perches himself on the edge of the bathtub, instead, nodding to give her silent permission.

"Finally," she breathes, flicking the lighter and taking a smooth inhale. "I really needed this."

He could ask her what happened. Did you have a bad day? Did someone say something to you? Was it someone at work? Something straightforward like that. That's what normal people do, or so he's been told.

They aren't normal people, and they don't do straightforward. He wouldn't even know where to begin.

"Are you in trouble?" he asks, instead, because that feels like the most urgent — and likely — concern.

"No more than usual."

"That doesn't exactly put my mind at ease," he says dryly, and she rewards him with a laugh.

"Fair enough," she says, still grinning as she takes another drag.

The cup he uses to rinse the bathtub is on the floor by his right foot; he holds it out for her, silent, just as she starts to look around for a place to ash her cigarette.

It's worth it for the way her eyes widen in surprise, shock melting into a laugh almost immediately.

"How'd you know I was gonna ask for that?" she says, still laughing, and then she shakes her head before he can answer. "No, no, don't tell me. I want to keep pretending I'm a big mystery."

"Oh, you are," he reassures her. "Very much so."

"You say that, and yet you know exactly what I was looking for."

"Observation of details," he assures her. "Behavioural patterns, physical cues. And anyway, isn't that the joy of any mystery? To try and solve it?"

"Maybe," she says dubiously, and then she brightens. "That reminds me — I brought you something."

He watches as she contorts herself to fish something out of her pocket, one hand still preoccupied with her cigarette. The envelope, when she finds it, is crumpled at the edges, but largely nondescript.

"I think you'll like this one," she tells him. "Our guys were totally stumped, so it'll probably take you about five minutes."

"Well, that's not very nice," he says diplomatically, just so he can see her laugh. "It might be closer to ten."

"Call for you," Derek hollers from across the office. "Some woman. She doesn't wanna say her name."

There is, of course, only one woman it could be.

"Hello," he says, shoulders hunched, free hand cupping his elbow protectively. He's painfully aware of Derek's eyes on him as he turns his head, murmuring his next question into the receiver. "Should you be calling on this line?"

"I'm in a phone booth," she tells him, voice deceptively easygoing. He can picture her easily: leaning against the glass, a smile on her face. From the outside, she probably looks like a woman in love. In a way, he supposes she is. "Who was that who answered? He sounded handsome."

"He's my coworker," he answers, frowning at the implication. "Please don't."

"I was only joking," she laughs, but he doesn't think it's particularly funny. He glances over his shoulder and finds Derek staring, just like he thought he would. Frowns and makes a shooing motion, to which Derek has the gall to shrug and raise his eyebrows, playing as though he doesn't understand. "Hey, do you have a pen on you? You're going to want to write this down."

He scrawls down the code as she dictates it to him, runs his index finger under the digits as he reads it back to doublecheck, his voice a hushed murmur.

"When do you need it by?"

They're a little swamped in the office, but he can probably —

"Oh, don't worry about that," she tells him. "I just thought you'd find it fun."

"She give you her digits, then?" Derek asks interestedly after he's hung up the phone. "An address, maybe? Damn, son. Didn't know you had it in you."

"It isn't like that," he tells Derek, although what it is like, he really couldn't say. The code she gave him is tucked safely into his pocket, alongside the two paperclips he slipped in there earlier after opening a new report. "She doesn't think of me like that, don't worry. And please don't call me 'son.'"

"How does she think of you, then?" Derek's expression has shifted from teasing to serious in a heartbeat, lines of tension appearing as he frowns. "I don't know if I like the sound of that."

He shrugs.

"How would I know?"

"Well, what about you?" Derek asks, still frowning. "How do you think of her?"

He shrugs, knowing full well there's no easy answer. Nothing that Derek would accept.

"I just don't want you to get hurt," Derek tells him, and he understands the impulse, he does, it's just that there isn't any point.

He's been hurt plenty, and Derek couldn't stop any of it.

Not wanting to hurt his friend's feelings, he doesn't bother to point this out.

"She's my friend," he says, finally, thinking of her codes, and her puzzles, and the way she always pays for his dinner. Not because she wants something in exchange, but because she wants to be sure he eats it.

I just thought you'd find it fun.

She is his friend. If nothing else, he's sure of that much.

"Someone might get the wrong idea, you know," she tells him, voice ragged with pain. "Letting me sleep in your bed like this."

"There's no one here to see it," he points out reasonably. "And you aren't sleeping. We wouldn't be having this conversation if you were."

"Come on, give a girl a thrill," she begs. "You can't laugh at my bad jokes just this once? I'm bleeding to death in your bed, here. It's the least you can do."

"You're not doing any such thing," he corrects her. "The stitches were holding fine, last time I checked."

"You could give me a drink, then," she tries, changing her point of attack. "You seem like a wine guy. Do you drink wine?"

She has not, he's noticed, asked him for any pain medication. He produces acetaminophen for her anyway, making steady eye contact as he hands her two pills and a glass of water, daring her to make a comment.

She swallows the pills, looking abashed, then takes the water with a quiet Thank you. She doesn't try and make any more jokes.

"Do you need to lie back down?"

He had to help her upright so she could drink the water, using both pillows to prop her up. She still looks exhausted by the effort, but she shakes her head at his offer.

"I'm good," she promises, and then, head lolling to the side, "Distract me, would you?"

He perches awkwardly on the edge of the bed, feeling the angles of his body even more sharply than usual as he presses his hands underneath his thighs. One knee jerks up and down, restless, until he notices what he's doing, forces himself to stop.

"What would you like to hear?"

A strand of hair falls into her face when she shrugs, lanky with sweat. The sight is somehow more disturbing than the gash in her abdomen he just finished stitching up. She always looks beautiful, perfectly put-together, even when her eyes are tired and her hands shake. He wants to push it back for her, but it doesn't feel right to touch her without an invitation. He'll do it if she asks, he decides. Not until then.

"Something beautiful," she tells him. "The most beautiful story you know."

A strange request, coming from her. She isn't the fanciful type.

She asked, though, so he takes a deep breath and starts the story of King Arthur and the knights of the round table, trying his best to mimic the way his own mother used to tell it to him. His mother was better at it, of course. Storytelling was not a gift he inherited.

She doesn't seem to mind, though, listening with a rapt expression as he winds through the tale. It's nearly half an hour before her eyelids start to droop, her head nodding gently every few seconds before she wakes herself back up with a jerk.

"You should sleep," he tells her, finally. "The body does its best healing when at rest."

"I know that, brainiac," she tells him around a yawn. "Just a little more? Just until I fall asleep."

"Alright," he says, shifting up further on the bed, getting comfortable. "Just a little more."

"I don't know how much longer I can stick around," she tells him over a plate of mediocre pasta. The sauce is watery, the noodles slightly overcooked. She once told him jarred sauce can be improved by sautéing the aromatics in the pan, but garlic makes his hands sticky and onions make him cry, so he hasn't taken her advice.

"You'll come back, though, right?" he asks, twirling too-soft noodles absently with his fork. He isn't really asking because he's worried: she leaves all the time — on average, about eighteen days out of any given month — but she always comes back.

His question is met with silence.

"Right?"

He isn't proud of the plaintive note to his voice, the way it makes him sound like a needy little kid, but he can't quite hold it at bay.

"Maybe," she says cautiously, before taking another delicate bite.

She has perfect table manners, despite the general brashness of her manner. Ingrained from a young age, he's sure. He's still never asked her where she grew up; he respects her too much to ask such an obvious question. It's more fun to guess. Europe, probably, although he suspects her travels have taken her still further.

"I'd like it if you came back," he tells her plainly, and this, too, is a sign of respect: the unvarnished truth. "I'll miss you."

"You'll miss solving my puzzles," she corrects him, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "But there are other mysteries, I promise. Maybe you could start writing them down."

"That's not it," he tells her, although privately, he is considering that last part. "It isn't the mysteries. It's you."

She falters, then, for the first time since he met her, all those months ago. Her eyes on his are dark and sad. He watches as she breathes in and then out, the shaky sound of her exhale magnified in the silence.

"I'll come back," she says, finally. "How's that?"

"Do you promise?"

There's that childishness again, but she doesn't seem to judge him for it.

"I promise," she tells him, voice serious and low. "Or maybe you'll do me one better, hm? Maybe you'll come find me."

He blinks at her, wide-eyed with surprise. He's never — he doesn't go very far, generally. He goes to work, and then he comes home. He isn't the adventurous type.

But she's smiling at him, eyes bright in a silent challenge, and he thinks, maybe —

Maybe.