Work Text:
Gertrude joins him on the doorstep one evening as the sun is setting, cane in one hand, two mugs of tea in the other.
“Lovely evening,” she says, like tranquility is a fault she’s willing to overlook. She’s too sharp for stasis. Already knows her way around by texture and memory, and she’s getting bored. He suspects moments like this – the soft ones, the easy ones – are when she misses the Eye the most. Not the power of it, and not the knowing – not exactly. It’s more that she’s not herself without something to prove herself against.
Well, there are monsters still, and that means there’s research needed. They could be librarians in truth in their old age, and he likes the symmetry of that – but right now, she won’t hear of it. She’s bloody well earned her retirement, she says, and she will damned well enjoy it. Nevertheless –
“You need a hobby,” he tells her, with only a little amusement.
“If you suggest gardening,” she warns. “Or knitting, god forbid.”
“Beekeeping,” he says. “You can’t tell me you have no affinity with creatures that sting.”
She lifts an eyebrow, looks at him sidelong.
“Maybe so. We’d have fresh honey, at any rate. I know you wouldn’t say no to a little more sweetness in your life.”
He can’t deny it. He takes his tea with three spoonfuls of sugar these days; hers is still a cup of bitterness.
“I wouldn’t either,” she says, like it’s an admission long held back. He touches her hand, and she turns to him like he’s surprised her – like she’s not used to that, and for once she welcomes it. There’s a fleeting warmth at the corners of her mouth, not quite a smile but something like it. And peace is a tricky thing – he doesn’t trust it either – but trust or no, the sky is darkening beyond their door, its embers cooling slow to indigo. Their bed is warm, and the sleep that waits is dreamless.