Silence falls between us. Holding my breath, I find I'm willing him to opt for openness instead of burying the truth down inside. He takes a sip of his coffee, his expression a mixture of vacant and haunted; he's lost to me for a moment. 

"Randy?" I speak softly to pull him out of it, yearning to touch him and longing to go to him as if there wasn't a self-inflicted wedge between us. There was no room for coaxing in this stage of the relationship as he wasn't 'mine' anymore. I relinquished him of that title; the air was heavy with the weight that every decision and action could be our last interaction with each other should we choose it. 

He had to be honest with me and let me in if there was any hope. I surprise myself with my thoughts, willing the hopefulness to creep up into my center and settle where my fractured heart took refuge. 

I had decided, on the back of the insane wolf, that I would put this to bed. If we decided to make it work or not, I had to put this behind me and focus on Helen and Tyler. They didn't deserve this damaged version of myself, but what did I deserve? My mind is at war with my heart.

With a sharp inhale, he comes up for air. "I was. To a research department." 

Suddenly not hungry, he packages his breakfast into a plastic box and puts it into the refrigerator before taking the pan to the sink and beginning the process of meticulously scrubbing it. My eyes travel around the spotless house, every corner polished, every inch cleaned to an absolute science. 

I recall that it's how he processes his anxiety. Slowly, I stand up and cautiously work my way around the kitchen island towards him. His gaze is directed into the sink, eyebrows pulled together, jaw tight, and his knuckles are practically white with the stern grip he has on the handle of the pan. 

The water is scalding hot, and I swear I can almost sense that he wishes it were hotter.

"Then what?"

The abruptness with which he stops makes me flinch; he cuts off the sink and grabs a clean towel, drying his hands deliberately. "We were researched on. I don't exactly know what you're hoping to get from me, Nic. I-" He attempts to calm himself; I can feel the heat building in his body. "There was a time when I thought that being a slave was the worst thing that could happen to me, then you 'died,' and I hit a new low. I would have said I could have tolerated anything after that."

Shaking his head, he runs his hand through his hair uncomfortably, and I know he doesn't want to talk about it. The water dampens his shortened locks, darkening it, smoothing it. "I couldn't tolerate this. I struck up a deal with another department, human resources, or something; I really couldn't tell you. I guess they heard me singing to Kitten."

Like a flip of a switch, he goes from horrified to sickened, laughing at the pathetic nature of the tale. "So, I suppose to answer what I'm doing here- I am to become a public figure. There's a theatre not far from here that I sing at, and make appearances; I suppose it's more of a commodity in this time to be able to sing. It's a shame, really, entertain the people with bread and music, and they will not see the village burning behind them, but anything is better than.. that." 

Used them for research? In what way? He looks the same; even if he's acting a bit off, he isn't exactly an ordinary man.

I try leading him to a gentler topic. "How the tables have turned... I'm fighting for the planet, and you're making speeches." Trying not to look amused becomes a good choice, as he's not smiling.

"Well, I'd gladly trade with you. I've never been good with people as you are." Self-loathing has been replaced with something darker and more sinister. 

What happened to him? 

It softens me, pulling me away from my barriers and back towards the side of me that genuinely cares about him. 

It feels like a first step, hopefully in the right direction.

I tilt my head to catch his gaze, "I think you can be excellent 'for' people. You care about them; that's all that matters." 

There certainly was a line of people he'd helped as long as those he'd upset. His intentions were usually good; that was what mattered.

"Can't say I care for much nowadays." He mutters, leaning back against the counter as if the world rested on his shoulders. Tension is exhausting; I know the weight of it very well. "Why don't you have a shower and get dressed? We have to see Helen and Tyler, relieve Kitten of her babysitting, and see what all the fuss is about with Helen. 

I'll get you some clothes; you might have to wear mine. I'm not sure I have anything in your size."

 The thought amuses me; something that I hadn't ever done was to wear his clothes. There was the leather vest that I coveted, but people had seemed uncomfortable with my level of obsession. 

Touching my hair, I'm embarrassed at how I must look. Clearing my throat, I tug self-consciously at the hem of the shirt.

"I must look like hell after yesterday!" The comment succeeded in cracking through the wall he's built. I earn a small smile, a hint of my favorite look. "The sooner we can get to Helen, the better. Malka needs some guidance."

"You look quite adequate.." His burning gaze settles on my face, and I wrinkle my nose at him.

"You know, my first thought this morning was if I looked 'adequate' or not. I shall let my designers know I have succeeded." I offer him a sarcastic bow, presenting myself as a finished piece. 

He grins back at me, touching his eyes in a way that warms me. How long had it been since I've been anything but short and abrupt? Standing with him, feeling lighter, I came to terms with just how miserable I'd been. 

Judging by his expression, I can assume he's not fairing any better, but perhaps for different reasons.

The shower relaxes my sore muscles; my body feels heavy as it practically rejects the sweltering liquid. I wanted nothing to do with water for the next few days; moving the hurricane was close to one of my biggest tasks, and I felt like someone had pulled out my essence and played with it. 

I feel stringy and flimsy as if, at any moment, I could crumble. My movements feel stiff as I scrub the grit and salt from my hair. Appreciation for the length I'd achieved only lasts for a few moments as I decide I might wish for a haircut. 

Without my permission or consent, my libido hops up from his tomb and dusts himself off as I stand here, naked in what I used to consider my husband's house.

I shake my head at myself as I climb out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body. Stopping to adjust my hair for a moment and deciding I look as good as possible, I step out into the bedroom to see him standing there. What do I do? Cover? Remain here exposed? 

I am wearing a towel, yet it almost feels silly; what part of me had he not explored already? Catching him off guard, he averts his eyes, and I notice the stack of clothes he's holding,

 "Nothing you haven't seen before?" I reassure him.

Handing me the neatly folded clothes, he drops them into my hands instead of risking the contact and allowing me to take them. Talk to me, I plead in my head; say something , he hedges before forcing his shoulders to relax and stepping away from me. 

"I'll meet you in the main room?"

I shrug half-heartedly. "Can you not.. Stay..? I don't mind, and if I'm frank, I'm afraid you will run for the hills if I let you out of my sight. Randy, I know we had an argument, and I was upset with you, but this isn't even about that. This isn't like you? I want to understand you, I-" The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting different results. 

Each time, I promise myself it's the last time I will pry information out of him, and then I manage to convince myself it's what is necessary. In my desperation to know him, I'm chasing him farther and farther away. 

In this small moment, I recall his words about Marisol and her insistence upon knowledge. "You're not ready to tell me." I exhale the words.

His visibly relaxes, exhaling as I do. "I don't know if I'll ever want to talk about it, Nic."

"Can I try a different question? While I get dressed?" 

Since I can't touch you, I'll have to work from afar. 

I set the clothes on the bed before dropping my towel and shimmying into the boxer briefs. It makes me chuckle at the waistband; I had never noticed our size difference. Of course, he is taller than me, but not necessarily a broad man in the waist. 

What is snug on him is pretty roomy on me. Reluctantly, he nods. 

"You hate talking about yourself. Is it because you're afraid to tell me or don't want to think about it?" 

Grasping the jeans, I step into them and muse at the length. Pacing over the full-length mirror, I frown at the patchwork of scars across my chest. They had faded some over time, yet they were coupled with new marks, the most recent being the puncture and gouges from the cats.

 I brush my fingers absently over the mark on my side, only to steal a glance at him. "We match." I attempt, turning to show him the flaws that drag from my side up my back. I want to roll my eyes as he visibly pales, and I think that he's dramatic, only I see that it's not me that causes him the distress. 

His hand slowly rests over his left shoulder, and he blinks out of the thought.

"I don't like to think about most of the things you ask me; it's in the past, and while we can learn from the past, I think mine is best left there. You don't necessarily ask me easy questions." Snatching the shirt from the bed, he makes the short strides to me, offering it over. "Get dressed, please."

"I have to ask the hard questions; I ask them because I want to understand you. Your experiences make you who you are."

"They don't define me." His tone surprises me; he kneels before me and snags my foot, lifting it to rest it on his knee while he folds up the bottom of my jeans into a neat, even cuff. "Rather, you not ruin my trousers." 

I offer him my other foot, relinquishing some dignity to satisfy his compulsion for order. My eyes drift to the top of his head, that thick gray hair, and how I'd like to run my fingers through it. I follow down his neck, shaved at the nape, as it shortens down into what's almost a fade. I count the puncture marks from the teeth that defiled him, only to spot new ones.

"What's that?" I ask, reaching over his shoulder to touch the hem of his shirt. His hand comes up quickly, snatching my wrist as he warns me with his eyes.

"Don't." Placing my foot down with caution, I meet his gaze with a look that is more than riddled with concern. Fear begins to wash over me; what had they done to him? Was this why he was acting so strangely? 

"Nic. Please. Don't look at me like that." Standing, he takes a quick step back from me to distance us. "This is very difficult for me, you being here. I can't handle this and that."

"Do you want me to go?" Was he about to make my decision for me? Send me away so I don't have to worry about how I'll approach him or ask him more complex questions. Maybe he's liked being on his own; perhaps I remind him how much he dislikes being analyzed. I pull the button-up on, a wise choice considering the size difference.

Reaching for me, he grasps the buttons between his fingers, fastening each one in a calculated manner. "It's that I don't want you to go, making it very challenging. I'm trying to do what you wanted, give you the space you asked for."

Verando reaches the button in the center of my chest and pauses, sliding his fingers down the material until he reaches my sleeved hand. With as much care as the pants, he cuffs the sleeve to the crook of my elbow. 

As he finishes the second sleeve, he meets my gaze, and I swallow in response, "That's an easy question to answer." 

Deliberately, I grasp the sleeve and unravel it before messily managing to scrunch it back up into some order. I received my reward, my favorite look of frustration and amusement, and I smirk back at him in a devious fashion.

"Well, perhaps I'll have to make you wish me away." I do the other sleeve similarly and achieve maximum warlord with a signature eye roll. I have to get out of this house; I have to get away from this man before I throw away any hope of progress and grovel at his feet to take my back. "I didn't realize you were such a neat freak."

"Well, it's a full-time job looking after you; it took an entire staff. Can't say it didn't come as a sense of survival to take living with such a substandard level of order and cleanliness." 

I shake my head at the sarcasm, happy to have cleared the cloud of despair.

"You're such an ass..." And I say it in the most loving way.

"Generally." He responds casually as he gestures to the door. I slip into my soggy shoes, not nearly dry enough after so much time in the ocean. "Sorry darling, I don't think you'd fit into my shoes."

"You know what they say about big feet..." I joke, snickering at myself as we walk out the door, and I note he's barefoot.

"No..? What do they say?" He sounds so genuine I'm almost too embarrassed to reveal my direction of thought.

"Big socks." I retort quickly, glancing up as I see him pull a cellular device out of his pocket and press a button. Happy for the distraction, I take a moment to enjoy the small remnants of sunshine peeking through the cloud cover. With the evacuation, we're lucky most people aren't home, and it's peacefully quiet in the large seaside neighborhood. 

I take in the scale of the houses and pull my lips into a thin line; I'd been living in an apartment with multiple people while he and Marisol got full-sized houses?! My face quickly turns into a pout, and I cross my arms over my chest.

"We're out...side.." Catching my expression, he cocks an eyebrow and turns to see what I'm looking at as he hangs up. "What? It's not a castle, but it's better than living outdoors?"

"I'm living in an apartment!" I complain to him. "I think you got the better end of the deal here; this isn't bad. Not a castle, but it's pretty nice!"

Rolling his eyes at my pettiness, he slips the phone back into his pocket. "Some people live on the street and would love to have an apartment."

"Oh, don't try and make me feel bad... shut up. Let me complain for just a few moments." I quietly seeth as he takes the opportunity to gain a little distance from me and pull off his shirt. My stomach drops when I see his back facing me; something has changed. The same scars are there, but now there is a mixture of new patches of light circles dotted sporadically over his shoulder blade, lower back, and neck. 

On the shoulder, a clean-cut right angle runs the length of the once-damaged bone, coupled with what looks like stitch scars. I hear Tonic's words in my head, encouraging me to tell him to get enhancements. My eyes scan him rapidly; the muscles are now even, and the atrophy is gone. 

Two symmetrical shoulders coupled with a lovely expanse of the plains of his back, even as if the damage had never occurred. It was almost as if the scars were now just decorative.

"They fixed your shoulder!" I feel conflicted, and my suspicion is confirmed as he visibly flinches at the words. His hand slowly rests at the base of his neck on the left-hand side.

"Eventually. They had to after they took it apart."