Her smile was genuine, a moment of levity in a disappearing world. But it quickly faded as she turned away from him and slipped into the restroom.
It took a second for the sensor to detect her presence; then, with a soft click, the lights came on, glinting off the pristine tile floor, sterile and harsh. The restroom was cold — or perhaps it was just her, the sweat on her arms and back evaporating in the absence of the jacket. His jacket. Or perhaps it was the shiver that had run through her all night, trembling beneath her skin and pulling at her muscles, since she materialized by the bay, disoriented and — in a sense, in a very physical sense — alone.
She glanced in the mirror and smoothed back her hair, and noticed the corners of her mouth twitching into a grimace, contortions she felt all the way to her heart. She had little need of this room for its intended purpose — she'd seen to that before leaving her apartment — but she did need the privacy it offered, the quiet, the shelter from his gaze.
The space to break down.
The tears came quickly, and her features twisted further, until she couldn't bear to look at her reflection, and instead, leaned against the far wall, sliding to the floor as her strength ebbed.
She couldn't form words anymore, but her throat was still capable of producing sounds — raw sounds, heartrending sounds, sounds she'd never made before, sounds born only of confusion and fear and pain. She pressed her hands to her mouth to try to muffle her cries, to try to dull the edges of each one, even as they wracked her body. She didn't want him to hear. She didn't want him to worry.
She didn't want him to know how much she needed him here, right now, as he used to be, to hold her and warm her and tell her everything was going to be all right.
She didn't want him to know she knew it wasn't going to be.
Try as she might, her sobs slipped past her fingers, and her gulping gasps echoed off the walls of the small room. She wrapped her arms around herself, as tightly as she could, trying to pretend they were his. But to no avail: the fingers that gripped her shoulder blades were too delicate, the pressure against her chest too light, too cold. Her muscles strained with the effort, and spasmed in exhaustion, scattering whatever scraps of an illusion she'd managed to conjure.
That physical reaction cut through her emotions, and, after a few more sobs, her crying subsided. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and splashed cold water on her face to reduce the swelling. Checking her reflection one more time, she took a deep breath and pulled open the door, hoping he hadn't heard her cry.
She found him humming to himself, quietly and slightly off-key, before he greeted her with a bright, "Welcome back!"
Too bright.
So, he had heard, after all; he'd simply chosen not to listen. He'd known all along what she needed, and he'd given it to her without a word. He'd given her the space, the release, the respite to gather her strength and move forward, and preserved her pride by not mentioning any of it.
She shrugged on his jacket and smiled at him, grateful for his understanding, and amazed at the volumes he spoke in silence. She hoped she was doing the same.
Maybe … neither of them needed words. Maybe things would be all right, one way or another.
But there was only one way to find out.
She rolled her shoulders once more, then took up the Transistor again.
"Good?" he asked, as she pulled the Transistor into a comfortable position.
She responded with a sharp nod, brushing her hair away from her face with her free hand, the ghost of a smile still on her lips.
"Good."