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"Oh," you blink, freezing in the doorway of one of the manor's grand sitting rooms, staring at Bruce. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here."
"It's fine," he insists, reeling a bit. His surprise must be evident, though, because you spin on your heel and move to leave. Another moment lost, he thinks. Another day of a stranger living in my house.
So he calls your name, standing abruptly and reaching out to you despite the distance, and you turn back to face him like you can't quite believe it.
"Yes?" you prompt slowly, and he sighs through his nose - maybe to buy himself time. What's he to say? he thinks. I don't like it when you're too far away, but I don't know how to keep you near.
"You don't need to run away from me," is what comes out, and, really, he means it to be kind, but the way you bristle has him pressing his lips together slightly.
"Running away?" you echo carefully, and Bruce wonders how he always manages to get it wrong with you.
"I only mean that you're… welcome anywhere, here," he says slowly, stepping carefully through the conversation. "And I hope that my company isn't so off-putting that you feel the need to avoid me."
"Your company's not off-putting, Bruce," you say obviously, a weary sigh in your voice. "But I'm not sure it's necessary, either."
You must realize how that sounds, then, Bruce thinks, because you wince a bit at your own words and try again. He wonders if you ever really say what you mean - or if you're only ever saying what you think is right.
"We don't need to… put on any kind of performance here, do we?" you try again. "Not when it's just us and the staff."
"No," he agrees carefully. "But also… I don't want you to feel like a guest in this house. It's your home now, too."
Your lips quirk up at the word home, like you want to throw it in his face, but can't quite make yourself. He wishes you would, more than anything - just to see you say something real.
"You're kind," you say politely. "I'm alright, really. You don't need to worry about me."
"I'm your husband," he says pointedly.
"I don't remember concern being part of your contract," you retort, a sharp smile flashing over your face.
But Bruce just stares, because he isn't used to this - feeling off centre, feeling like his footsteps are matched. He sighs eventually, a quick, punched-out sort of thing, and sits back down on one of the sofas.
"Will you sit with me?" he asks gently, and you stare at him from where you stand, unmoving.
"Is there something we need to talk about?"
"Please," he insists - and maybe it's the begging that has you moving to sit on the armchair opposite him, a growing space between the two of you.
"Are you happy?" he asks.
"I beg your pardon?" you respond, surprise colouring your words.
"I would like you to be happy here," he continues carefully. "I never intended for this contract - this marriage to be any kind of prison for you."
"It's really not, Bruce," you say pointedly. "I'm just not sure you know me that well."
"Would you give me a chance to?" he asks before he can think better of it - because there really is something so off-putting to him about not knowing his spouse, about having a ghost living in his house with him, flittering here and there just out of sight and out of touch.
You look at him curiously, though, a concerned sort of bemusement colouring your expression.
"Bruce," you start pointedly. "Are you… having second thoughts?"
"No," he says quickly. "No, but I didn't realize you'd… I didn't think we'd stay so rigidly on our own sides of this, I suppose."
"Well, you did marry a politician," you say quietly. "Maybe you should've anticipated this."
"I think we agreed to be friends," he reminds you, and he hopes he's still enough of a stranger that you can't hear the desperate sort of tilt to his voice. He wishes he couldn't hear it - then he wouldn't have to figure out why it's there.
"We are friends," you say easily. "But, really, Bruce… I just don't like to make things complicated."
And there's a crack, he thinks - right there, right before him. He wonders how far you'll let him sink his fingers into it to pry it open further.
"We're married," he reminds you. "It's not very complicated. We're partners."
"You give all your partners separate bedrooms?" you ask, and his mouth snaps shut so fast that his teeth click together.
"Ah," you continue, a victorious sort of note to your voice that makes his heart clench. "You can't want one thing but do another."
"I wanted you to be comfortable," he insists.
"Far away from you?" you press. "Really, Bruce - you're the one who draws these lines. What are you expecting? You're unhappy with your own words."
And this is the first time, Bruce thinks, that he really regrets marrying you - because he feels a bit as if his soul has been peeled apart and you're pointing out the fissures and the cracks. A broken rib twinges under his shirt, and he finds himself glad that you're unaware of just how right you are.
"Look," you continue - kinder, now, in a way he wasn't sure you could be. The gap between you, he thinks, gets wider with every time he fails to recognize your voice. "I'm sure it's strange having someone move into your house - your home like this. But just… give it time. And honestly, Bruce, leave me be. I'm not something that needs fixing."
"I'm your husband," he says again, and he thinks it means a little less every time.
"You're hopeless," you retort kindly, and if his face gives something away, you're kind enough not to mention it.
As you sit, though, you tap your nails against the armrest of your chair, and he finds himself zeroing in on you - because it's rare that you have a tell that he recognizes.
"What is it?" he prompts - his fingers finding a crack again, desperate and prying.
"Oh…" you start. "I have that gala on Friday. I sent the details to your secretary, but she hasn't let me know if you're coming."
"You asked my secretary?" he says abruptly, and you shoot him a weary look.
"Yes. That's her job, by the way."
Yes, Bruce thinks. For business meetings, not -
"I'm just across the hall," he says instead. "Really, next time, just… just let me know. Just let yourself in."
"Will you remember?" you counter. "I don't want these things to slip through the cracks - they're too important. That's why you have someone to schedule them."
Bruce says your name, then - and you straighten a bit in your chair like you can't help it. You hope he doesn't notice - you hope he can never tell.
"Nothing about this," he begins - low, firm, level, "will slip through the cracks. I won't forget about this."
"Well," you breathe out a long sigh, slouching ever so slightly in the armchair - a crack, he thinks. A fissure in your perfect being. "I suppose, if we're… friends, relying on you is… fine."
"Fine?" he echoes, a smile flitting over his lips.
"Don't push your luck," you warn, but the word friend sticks to your tongue - because why that? Why not something more?
"I'll buy you something nice to wear," Bruce calls after you as you abruptly stand up to leave.
"No, you won't," you retort over your shoulder, and something shifts beneath his feet. Because it feels, he thinks, a bit like having a friend. It feels a bit like something more.