Disclaimer: She-Wolf of London belongs to Universal, alas. This story was one of eight drabble challenges posed to me; Lady Dey asked for Happy/Angst and Cure.
There were days when it still didn't feel real to her, when forgetting the day's date, even for a moment, would send her into a panic, when she'd just stare at the bookshelf for hours, not thinking of the soundproofed dungeon behind it, not thinking of anything at all. But it was real. She was free.
Ian was free, too.
He'd promised he'd find her a cure, no matter what it took, and he kept his word. There's nothing holding him here now, and sooner or later, he'll run for the door just like Charlie did. She'll come home to another note on the table and half the drawers empty and no clue what she did wrong, why they never stay. The moon waxes and wanes outside their bedroom window and she stares at it as they make love, wondering how many full moons will pass before it's real for him, too. She can already see the signs, the tension at the breakfast table, the way he avoids telling her about phone calls and packages from home, and she can't help snapping at him, tearing herself apart, waiting for him to leave.
Now that she can finally touch him, she can barely stand it. It hurts too much to open herself to him, knowing how empty this bed will seem when he's gone.
He pulls out and rolls away from her, sweat glittering at the small of his back, still hard but unwilling to finish. "I can't do this anymore," he manages, and her heart squeezes painfully. Finally. The waiting is over. "Look," he mumbles into his pillow, "You're a lovely, intelligent young woman; I understand that. So if you're just fulfilling some sort of debt to me, I'd rather you didn't."
"What?" She can't make any sense of it.
"Randi, I'm a stodgy, provincial academic and I know it -- I'll never really be up to LA standards. I'm not one of the movers and shakers. A blind man could see how unhappy you've been the last few months; I can't take much more of your pity and dutiful gratitude. You should be free to do what you want."
Randi rolls against his back and squeezes him tight, laughing and crying all at once. "You know what I want? I want your mother's soft-boiled eggs and fried tomatoes. I want to put our ad in the paper again. I want never to watch another one of Skip's bimbos trying to teach cooking and aerobics at the same time, ever again."
He rolls over, searches her face, his expression softening with hope. "You mean to tell me you want things back the way they were?"
She slides one leg over his hip, brushing against his renewed interest. "Not the way they were. Better."
End.