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There were two things accompanying Lix in her office on Tuesday evening. The sounds of a cleaner in the hallway and a streak of light makings its way from Isaac’s forgotten desk lamp.
What now? It was all done. Everything he came here for (although she supposed he cared about the news and team too) had to do with Sophia and old regrets. Dam him and his need to right things. And his fucked up timing. Sometimes things couldn’t be righted twenty years after. She was dead. Nineteen years dead to be precise and that was the harsh fact of reality. Where to go now? They really needed to talk where the other participant wouldn’t run or slam the door. Okay, namely her but… shut up, brain.
These were the questions that plagued Lix’s mind as she was trying to catch up on few hours of sleep on her chair slash makeshift bed.
“Oh fuck it”, she gave up pretending and grabbed a mug. Tea topped with leftover whisky was the right medicine for gloomy thought. Time-proofed recipe, always was, always will.
***
It was eerily calm in the halls these days after 6PM. Except for Friday when they put on a passable show and pretended that no, their top journalist wasn’t maimed in hospital, everything was fine, carry on. Hector was trying to make up the lost time to Marnie and their future baby. Bel was living more in hospital then at home. Lix regularly checked upon her, bringing her clothes and odd dinner.
The predictions were maybe not so bleak but not really positive either. He would always have trouble seeing from his right eye and walking without a cane won’t be an option for a long time, maybe never. As for any mental damage, the best they could hope would be just minor problems with concentration. It pained her that Freddie’s bright mind should suffer like this.
For now it was just her, Randall, Isaac and Sissy manning the guard. Few people from other departments helped on occasions when they were short on hands and Lix’s old friend promised to come tomorrow. Tom was retired now but he often complained about going mad from boredom at home. He was no Freddie but hey, beggars can’t be choosers as the saying goes. And he was a decent journalist in his time.
Returning with tea and whisky she picked up a copy of Isaac’s script. Once again a night without sleep.
***
“How long have you been standing there, Randall?”
“A while. You looked busy, I didn’t want to disturb.” Yes, right, you already did that by coming to work here already.
“Stop hovering then.” Half past ten. Night in the office too then.
“I saw the lights. Can’t sleep?” he said noticing the blanket and pillow. Understatement of the century for both of them.
She waited for him to start. It was he who came to her after all. When he said nothing for minutes she gave up and went back to her reading. Yes, they should talk. Maybe not tonight. Small talk wasn’t really their forte. When they first met he was shy. In those times they either shouted each other’s name at streets of Valencia during the fire or in bed trying to forget. Oh, they could argue about international politics or his hate for musicals till dawn accompanied by bottles of wine. Just not small talk.
“Lix.”
Ah. So maybe tonight after all.
“I-…”
More fiddling with the map. Clear sign he didn’t come here to talk weather. After a deep breath he finally turned around.
“I am sorry. Sorry for leaving you in the middle of the war. I-I was angry and borderline alcoholic at that point with tunnel vision seeing only you and bottle. When you said no, I couldn’t bear it. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. Scotland wasn’t my home anymore and”, his voice wavered a bit but he reined it in, “you became my home in Spain. I didn’t understand so I ran.”
He fought the urge to redo his tie.
“When I told Mr. Lyon about the boat and many harsh decisions I made in the past, this is the one I regret the most.”
The room contained only the sound of two people breathing.
The door that started shaping in their carefully built walls in the bar near embassy was becoming more visible. It would take time. As journalist they both knew that pictures and words had the power to damage and to heal. She left the chair and sat on the edge of her desk looking at the map.
“Randall.”
He turned to her.
“Are you becoming all emotional again because of the map?” Her voice held a grim chuckle. Peace offering true to her form.
This time her hand found his. It was a start.