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The first word she teaches him is gun.
The second is sorry.
He's smiling at her, his hands still cradled around an imaginary gun -- his mind marveling at the first concrete step in a new direction for them -- when she stands up and crouches down in front of him.
He brings his hands gently down in front of him, resting them on his knees as he stares intently at her. There's a gentleness in her eyes that he's missed, his heart fluttering in a way he isn't sure he's allowed any more.
She puts one hand on her chest, then slowly reaches out with the other to put it over his heart. His breath catches as she settles her hand on his chest, his heart leaping up into his throat. He initiates almost all the contact between the two of them, and the simple act of her doing it instead makes him remember how much he thinks about it (how much he craves it).
She looks up at him with eyes filled with something that isn't quite sorrow, isn't quite shame, but as deeply felt as either of them. He stares at her, trying to parse through her expression, the weight of her hand on his heart, and the word settles on him slowly.
"Sorry?" He asks, cocking his head at her.
She nods, and presses her hand into his chest once more, her eyes dropping down.
He wraps his own hand around the one resting on his chest and squeezes, waiting for her to look back up at him.
"Kimiko," he says softly, the mon coeur hidden between the syllables of her name. He wants to brush back the strand of hair that’s fallen across her face. He wants to trace the slope of her cheek, the curve of her jaw. He wants to feel the softness of her skin against his fingertips. He wants, he wants, he wants.
He settles for brushing his thumb against the ridges of her fingers instead.
"You do not need to apologize to me. I was the one who needed to apologize."
She gives him a small smile and curls her hand into a fist, then sticks out her thumb and pinky and tilts it back and forth.
Before he can try to figure out what it means, she points to herself, then makes a downward clawing motion with one finger lengthwise down her wrist before pointing at him.
"You...hurt me?" He asks, trying to put the motions together as best he can.
She nods, then puts her hand back on her chest and presses the one on his own chest once again.
"You were hurting. And I..." He trails off and gives her a sardonic smile. "I hurt you, too. I didn’t know how to let you grieve." He shakes his head, frustrated at the way his explanations sound like excuses. He starts again, but stops when she shakes her head at him.
She lifts her hand off his chest and starts to make a series of complicated gestures, then stops when she sees the confusion that he's sure is clear on his face.
He opens his mouth to apologize, but stops when she puts a finger against his lips.
His entire body stills as he takes a sharp intake of breath. After weeks of holding himself away from her -- and with the aching memory of his ill-timed, ill-advised kiss still heavy in his mind -- the feel of her hand pressing against his lips somehow narrows his vision and expands every sensation all at once.
She moves her hand away from his face, and somehow that both makes it easier and harder to breathe. She makes the motion for sorry again, the pressure light against his chest, and looks at him searchingly, her dark brown eyes staring intently into his own.
He knows now what she’s saying, but also finds himself thinking that her apology isn’t for what happened between them -- or, maybe, not just for what happened between them -- but for all he’d done and kept hidden from her. For what he could never run away from. For all the anger and shame and guilt he’d carried these years, that he wore like an old, ill-fitting coat he didn’t know how to let go of.
After a long moment, he nods, then mirrors the movement, his own hand settling lightly over hers on his chest.
“Me too, mon coeur,” he murmurs, filling those words with all the sorrow for everyone he didn’t save, all his regret at making her a symbol for his own salvation -- for filling in the gaps between them with his own need for redemption.
Too late he realizes he's called her mon coeur for the first time in weeks, the words slipping out before he can help himself. He’s tempted to apologize, but the bright smile that blooms across her face when she hears it dissolves the impulse completely and spreads warmth through his veins.
He smiles back at her and thinks that even though everything around them is shit in ten different kinds of ways right now, he feels at peace in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever really felt before.
By the time they leave the rooftop later that night -- some nondescript men in black sent from Mallory coming to relieve them -- he’s learned the names of all the weapons they carry with them, the different times of the day, can sign all of her favorite foods he’s cooked for her, knows please and thank you and are you ok and has memorized who, what, when, where, why, how, if, that, there and this along with a few necessary phrases that include them.
Most precious of all, he learns the name of her brother and the nickname that she had for him -- mouse. There’s some story or two there, he’s sure of it, but the sorrow in her eyes is still too near, and the conversation that passes between them is still too limited, to give it the attention it deserves.
Still, he signs thank you when she shares that hidden part of her past with him, then says, “I’d be happy to hear more about him, whenever you would like.”
Kimiko gives him a small smile at that, though it’s sad at the edges in a way that makes his heart ache. She signs a short phrase to him that, a moment later, he’s pleased to figure out means I’d like that.
Before she heads off to her room for the night, he gently taps her on the shoulder and signs, do you want crepes tomorrow?
Or, he thinks he does, only he figures he must not have said it all correctly because she gives him a questioning look and asks if he means right now.
He shakes his head and says, “No, sorry, I meant for breakfast tomorrow.”
She smiles warmly at him, then signs back, I would like crepes, along with another word -- or set of words -- that he has to puzzle through for a moment.
He signs it back to himself and, after a moment, he recognizes one part of it -- the word for day -- with the other seeming like it could be eating.
He looks back up at her.
“This is...breakfast?” He asks, mimicking her previous movements.
She smiles widely and nods.
Do you want crepes for breakfast? He signs again, then grins at her when she signs back, I do, but I’ll help you.
I’d like that, he signs -- or tries to, at least. He’s only working off his memory of seeing it once, after all.
It must be close enough, because she smiles and nods at him again, then, after a moment, reaches out and rearranges his hand -- uncurling his pinkie so that it extends out and turning his entire hand so that his palm faces up.
It’s not the first time she’s reached out to correct his hand or finger placement today -- both why not and apple tart had been particularly tricky for him to remember for whatever reason -- but here, in the intimacy of this place they’ve been living for the past few months, in the dimness of the room and the quiet of this moment, her touch sets off a wave of emotions he’s spent the last few weeks trying to lock away from himself.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath in and lets it out again slowly, forcing his heels to grow roots into the ground to keep himself from stepping in closer to her, twisting his free hand in the edge of his jacket to stop himself from reaching up to rest his hand gently against her cheek, tucking his thumb against his palm to keep himself from imaging the feel of brushing it against the curve of her cheekbone.
He takes another long breathe in and forces his eyes away from where her fingertips are resting against the pulsepoint at his wrist.
“Good night, mon coeur,” he says softly, afraid that speaking any louder would give away everything he’s feeling right now.
She lets her hand slip from around his wrist, her thumb tracing a line up his palm in a way that he thinks (wishes, hopes) is intentional, and signs good night back to him. He watches her head to room, and smiles so widely his cheeks hurt when she turns back one last time to look at him before she closes the door behind her.
“Are they -- ?” He hears Starlight begin to ask in a low voice.
“In a wholly undefined, somewhat strange, yet deeply committed relationship with one another?” Hughie finishes in a matter of fact tone. “Yes, they are.”
He sees Starlight shrug out of the corner of his eye.
“Doesn’t really look like it’s all that undefined,” she says quietly.
He doesn’t hear what Hughie says in response, because in the next moment M.M. comes up behind him.
“So, I take it you two have made up then?”
He turns to look at the other man, who genuinely does look glad for him.
He nods, and he knows the smile on his face must be goofy as shit right now but he doesn’t give a single fuck.
“She taught me the word gun today in her sign language.”
M.M. laughs.
“Of course you’d find that charming.” M.M. glances at Kimiko’s door. “Looks like she taught you a whole helluva lot more than gun though.”
“The congresswoman spent a lot of time watching TV today -- Real Housewives of Orange County, I believe -- so we had time.” He holds his hands up in front of him. “But we also kept watch, too, otherwise I would have learned more.”
“Relax, Frenchie, I’m not accusing you of being derelict in your duties or some shit. I’m just glad you two have figured out --.” He gestures between him and Kimiko’s door. “You know, whatever fuck was going on between the two of you.” He clears his throat. “So, uh, don’t worry about guard duty tomorrow morning -- Hughie, Starlight and I can take a shift.”
“Oui?”
M.M. nods.
“It’ll be easier to learn a new language if you don’t have to spend half your time worrying about having to protect Neuman from some dumb fuck or supe.”
He grins widely at M.M. then reaches up and gives him a big kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, M.M.” He gives the man another kiss on the cheek before M.M. manages to push him off. “And for that, we will make you extra crepes tomorrow morning for breakfast.”
M.M. smiles.
“See, that’s why it’s good you two have made up. You haven’t made shit for breakfast for weeks.”
“So you admit you like my cooking.”
“I admit that I like not having to cook.” He smirks as he says it, then softens the expression into a genuine smile. “I am glad that you two figured whatever the fuck was going on between the two of you. Having someone to share your shit with…” He shrugs, his eyes getting that faraway look Frenchie recognizes as one he gets when he thinks of his wife and daughter. “That matters. You two deserve to have that for yourselves, and I’m glad you have it with each other.”
“Aww, M.M, you really do care.”
He goes to kiss him again, but is roughly pushed away by the other man.
“Yeah, yeah, just don’t forget to put nutella on my crepes.”