Work Text:
The wind howls against the wood of the shack, the cold air seeping through the cracks. She shrinks into the wool of her coat, shrugging her shoulders to shelter her ears.
Across the room, he stirs quietly, not the first time since she brought him in. Her eyes dart over to the lump under the covers. Her hand tightens on the gun.
Instead of settling back into whatever sleep consumed him, he shifts, rustling the blankets as he raises a hand to his head. He groans.
"Easy, there," she says.
He blinks blearily, fighting to clear his vision. He's warm, the weight of the blankets pressing down on him. Nothing like what he remembers last. The blizzard. Waist-deep snow. Losing sight of the treeline.
"Where am I?" he asks, his voice faint and dry. He mouths at his partched tongue.
The chair creaks as she stands with a huff, grabbing a glass. She reaches for the flask at her side. "You were half frozen when I found you," she avoids the question. She wonders if he remembers. She wonders if he'll recognize the sound of her voice.
Water sloshes in the glass, and he tries to hold onto her words. The wind seems to catch them before he can grasp them.
Her boots scuff the floor and she hands him the water. She purposefully keeps her head down. "Drink."
He reaches his hand out, grimacing as his fingers shake. His skin barely touches the glass before she uses her other hand to secure his hand around it. The leather of her gloves stretches, and it's warmth shoots up his arm. Close enough to dance around his heart.
It's been a long time since he knew kindness like that.
He opens his mouth to thank his mysterious saviour, but she's already turned away, sitting back in her chair across the room. Hand resting comfortably on her rifle.
The water is colder than he is expecting, especially from such a kind hand. It freezes any warmth out of him. Distantly, he wishes it was something stronger.
Her eyes are piercing as he sets the glass on the night table. His eyes slip shut, but he fights to keep awake.
"Rest," she instructs.
He shakes his head. "There's no rush. That storm's got another day at least."
She shifts in her seat, looking up at the rafters. It's the first time he can see any part of her face in the dim light of the oil lamp.
"What made you take me in?" He asks, sitting up against the headboard. "Not like you've got the room."
She scoffs. "No good deed, I 'spose." She digs the heels of her boot into the wood and twists.
Another kick of wind howls against the side of the shack. He shivers, running his hand along the edge of the blankets to bring to his chin. In the movement, he catches the pattern on the outermost layer. He hasn't seen this flora in a long time.
"There was no reason to bring me in," he pushes.
"It's like I said, you were a popsicle-"
"You should have left me."
She bangs the butt of her rifle against the floorboards, her voice raising, "You'd be dead if it wasn't for me."
He snaps his mouth shut, blinking at her. "Yes," is all he manages to say. "I would."
She laughs mirthlessly, pinching the bridge of her nose. He knows. Of course he knows. "God," she sighs. "I don't know why-"
"I do."
"Of all the deserving people that got caught in that storm-"
He knows where she's going with this. He can't even blame her.
"It had to be you," she says, almost disbelieving.
He doesn't have anything to say to that. It's unlike him, really.
She brings both hands up to her face now, hiding it completely. "I swore, I swore if I ever saw your face again-"
His turn to laugh now. "You still could," he offers, his eyes drifting to the rifle by her side.
She peers through the space between her fingers, following his gaze. Her hands drop from her face. "This thing?"
"You thought I'd be trouble." He sinks into the pillow. It's not a question.
She cocks an eyebrow. She hates the way his presence does this to her, makes her playful, makes her young again. But that youth died when her heart broke over him. "You expect me to forget any of that?"
He shakes his head softly.
"I know what comes after the yelling," she says. She doesn't know why she's saying this. Why she's so easily letting her guard down. "I don't want to find out what happens after you drive your fist into a wall. After the blood." She pauses before hesitantly adding, "I wasn't sure . . . I didn't know who I'd be greeted with."
His brow creases in understanding. A horrified understanding. "It's me."
"It's that easy, huh?" She shifts again, bracing her arms on her knees. "You blink your pretty eyes open and clear the air just like that?"
He should bite his tongue. He should accept the daggers she's throwing his way. He's more than deserving of them. But it all comes flooding back, back to the way they were all those years ago. And he can't ignore the rifle by her side.
"The Rose I knew would never carry something like that," he seethes.
She freezes before slowly leaning back in her chair, the creaking filling the silence painfully. "Things are different, now."
"I bet they are."
"I have to protect myself," she argues back. "Before you- you said you would handle it."
"I tried-"
"You tried," she mocks.
"And I failed. I'm not stupid," he raises his voice pointedly.
"Coulda fooled me."
He scrubs his face with his hand, shivering again at the cold air raising the hair on his skin. "I only wanted what was best for you," he says. "All of it. Anything I did, I did for you."
"All but one," she accuses.
His stomach drops. "That was different," he says through gritted teeth.
"You said you had it under control!" She shouts. Her eyes are wide, brimmed with tears. Her bottom lip trembles and she tears her gaze away from him, shrinking in on herself. It all comes flooding back. Always with him.
His heart, or rather what's left of it, somehow manages to crumble again. His purpose has held true even all these years since they broke apart. Even at its worst, when he could see he was pushing her away, pushing her to the brink of tears, he only wanted to make it better. He only wanted to wrap her up in his arms, brace her against the harms of the world.
Complicates things, being that cutting edge.
But not anymore. Not here. He swore that a long time ago. He swore that, if he was ever granted a second chance, he would make it right. He wouldn't gamble with such a fortune again.
He wasn't anticipating being so physically weak as a result of his second chance.
He pushes off the covers down to his waist, but the effort is weak. His arms ache at the effort, and the rustle of the covers screams in his ears, taunting him.
She hears him moving and snaps her head up. "What are you doing?" She asks, fighting away the raw emotion lacing her voice.
"Give me a mo'," he says, wincing as he pulls a leg out from the covers, letting it hang off the side of the bed.
She doesn't seem to like this idea. She jumps to her feet, pushing him back into bed, back safely under the covers where they can still remain divided. Where he can't cross into her space.
"You don't understand," he tries, but he pauses. He hadn't noticed being put in a pair of flannel pyjamas. Did she-?
She grabs his leg and near shoves it back under the covers. "Enough from you," she says. "You need sleep. You need rest so when this storm passes you can bloody well bugger off!"
"I'm sober now," he admits. "Have been for well over two years."
Her hands don't even hesitate on the covers. She continues tucking him in, ensuring that he can't make another break for it. "I don't believe you," she says under her breath.
He thinks his heart is going to shatter, this time with no chance of repair. "Why not?" He asks weakly.
She sniffs. "Found your flask." Her hands finish make rough work of the blankets, not daring to linger a for even moment. She reaches up to adjust the pillow beneath his head.
"And you jus' presumed. . ?" He asks. He ignores the screaming desire in his head for her hands to rest against his temples, to run through his hair one last time.
She avoids his gaze and focuses on the fiery remains of her heart, letting the anger wash over the memories of her skin against his, her lips brushing his. "You take me for a fool?"
"No," he says, all air. "I swore off that, too."
She stands back from him, and he closes his eyes at the thought that this was the last time she would ever be close enough to call home. He hears her boots cross the floor.
She can't believe him - won't believe him. He can't be trusted, as much as she willed herself to all those years ago.
She rummages through his discarded clothes, his pitiful outerwear. Based on that alone she should have left him to the elements. Under his jacket lays the flask. His flask that she pulled from his jacket pocket. It was the same one he always used. She had simply presumed.
She twists the cap off and sniffs. She frowns. She takes a sip, holding it against her tongue before swallowing sharply. She stares at the flask in her hands. What it means for the man surely watching her every move.
She quickly peers over her shoulder, but his head is hidden beneath the blankets. She curses herself internally, running a gloved hand across her mouth. She drops the flask in his pile of clothes, and stands from her crouch slowly. With her back still to him, she removes her hat, running a thumb along the edge of the brim.
She steps back to her chair, setting her hat on the rifle muzzle. Keeping her eye down, she undoes the buckle of her belt, the metal clanging as it hits the chair seat. She looks over at him to see if he's watching her. Instead, almost surprisingly, his eyes are closed, and he appears to be sleeping uneasily. She was right about one thing - he was worn out.
Quiet as she can, she makes her way to the bed, and sits gently on its edge, not daring to sit close enough to him.
She's about to second guess herself when he peers an eye open and asks quietly, "You ready to kill me yet?"
"Jury's out," she replies, her mouth tight. She pulls her gloves off, setting them on the night table. "You can have tonight, I think." She can't keep her hands from trailing at the edge of the covers, right under his chin.
He hums. "That's all?"
She nods.
"I meant it, you know. The sober thing."
Her hands press into his shoulders like lead. He wishes she'd never let go. "I've heard it all before."
"Forever, this time."
Her eyes dart to meet his. Forever. That was a promise she swore to herself she'd never trust again.
"How is today different?"
He exhales shakily. "What do I have to lose?"
Without thinking, she peels back the covers around his face, wanting a better look at him. He shrinks back from the cold.
"Sorry," she whispers.
"What for?" He asks, searching her eyes, still shivering slightly.
She frowns. She struggles to find the words, and instead rests her hands to his face, finally able to feel his skin against his. She can't help the butterflies in her stomach when she feels him lean into her. "I lost faith in you," she says, unable to bring her voice up from a whisper.
He shakes his head, reaching his own hand up to hers. He strokes her knuckles with his thumb. "Not on you, love," he says, his brow turned in a bittersweet, apologetic way. His fingers trail up to run through her hair. "I let you go."
The tears slip down her cheeks before she can breathe. His words crash into her like cruel relief, a balm to a wound that has long since scarred over. A wound that's been reopened. She buries her face against his collarbone, her hands trailing down behind his neck. "I hated you," she sobs.
"An' you think that was wrong?" He asks. "You think I didn't deserve that?"
She sits up to meet his eyes. She swallows thickly. "How am I supposed to hate someone I'm meant to love?"
"That man who I was," he starts, "you weren’t meant to love him. He didn't deserve you." He runs his hand through the strands of her hair, glistening gold, renewing his every sinew. "Everything's changed now, you see?" He smiles, his turn for tear-brimmed eyes. "He died so I could come back to you."
"You swear he's gone?" She asks, her hand dancing along his temple.
He nods solemnly, his eyes beginning to drift shut.
Her hands fall away from his skin, and she starts leaning away from him again. He reaches his hand out to hers with lightning speed.
"You need sleep," she says, pulling away. "Besides, we need firewood."
"Rose," he pleads. His grip on her hand remains tight. "Stay, love. Please." He swallows, willing the last of his tired strength to finally admit, "I need you."
"That all?" She asks, her tone jaded.
He drops her hand, losing the last bit if his strength. His fingers trail along hers, trying to remember every detail before he loses her once and for all. He's succumbing to the exhaustion, and he fights to say the words, "I love you."
His words are the key to a heart she long given up. They dance around her heart, mending the its torn, ragged edges. Its everything she never had with him before; he's everything she prayed for on her loneliest nights. Colder than any wind that could blow against this shack.
Leaning into the warmth of him, she brushes her lips against his. His mouth is cold and unsure. Like the last time before it all fell apart. Now, this isn't their last goodbye, but their second chance at a first hello.
She kicks off her boots, not bothering to set them properly at the foot of the bed, and pulls the corner of the blanket by his shoulder down further to slide in beside him. She brings the covers up to both their chins.
He brings his arm around her, tracing idle lines into the small of her back, under her own warm layers of clothing. He rests his lips against the crown of her head before his breathing evens out, and she knows he's fallen back to sleep.
She rests her head against his shoulder, letting the drum of his heartbeat calm her to sleep.