📓   —   (   prymerry   )   :   lila archer.

          la is, as his memory serves, bright and shining as ever. hollywood lights and names written in the stars. of course, some memories are brighter than others. he’d been young, too young to realize what the years would bring, when lila archer had rocketed into his life, his picture blasted across the pages of tabloids. truthfully, he’d expected that to be it; to be forgotten once months and years had passed. transference, he remembers. how sure he’d been that was the case. she hasn’t forgotten, though. he hasn’t, either. and a case in the city of angels had so perfectly coincided with her screening, leading him here, to a familiar face and tumbling blonde hair. he’s not opposed; he thinks it will be nice, seeing her smile again.

          he walks in, hands stuffed in pockets, gazing around before his eyes land on her. he smiles, lifting a hand in a wave, not quite expecting the warm welcome of her arms around him. he accepts it nonetheless, welcoming her embrace.

          “oh, ah— lila! it’s good to see you, too.” he marvels at how everything has changed, and yet some things not at all. “it’s ... it’s been awhile.”

📓   —   (   holykissed   )   :   jennifer jareau.

          cases create a pile upon his desk, large and looming. his pen scrawls across paper, scratching the surface, every now and then tapping, softly, against oaken surface. the words seem to blur in front of him, and the office has cleared out, a steady trickle of agents making their exit through the door, leaving him behind. he sees her coffee cup before he sees her, eyes raising to lock onto her gaze. a smile turns up his lips. “yes. please.” he leans back in his chair, glad for the company. “you ever notice how, ah, weird the bullpen feels when you’re alone? like you’ve fallen into a parallel universe.”

livedforwards‌.

          her hand in his feels familiar. like home. it’s comforting among the wires and beeping machinery. softness in antiseptic-laden air. he knows how close he’d come. closer than ever before. close enough that his once love had been there to walk him over the line. he knows science, explanations for it all, but it had seemed so real, real as her arms around her and her hand in his. he’d come so close, but he’ll cherish those hours, those moments so near to the edge. he’d never been scared. he’d never felt doubt or worry. while his teammates had anguished and mourned the loss yet to come he’d felt peace, true peace. (tell me, what did you feel? peace.) those words echo through his mind, a chorus. he tightens his hand around hers and knows he’s made the right choice. a smile, then, because she needs it more than he does. she needs to know he’s real. he knows that, knows her. “if you’re sure, then i’d— yeah, i’d like that.” his apartment seems tainted, in a way. he wonders if the blood that had drip, drip, dripped from his nose still stains his carpet. he remembers that warmth, pooling under his lip. one of the last things he does remember, before the earth had shattered. “and if dave misses me ... i don’t think i have a choice.” smile widens and he shrugs. easy choice.

fbiartist.

          this isn’t what he’d wanted. he wants to know her, of course; he wants to love her for every inch of who she is, her past, her present, her future. but he hadn’t wanted it like this. forced out of her and into the light of day. cat adams had never cared what he’d wanted, though; how could she? she cared about the game. nothing else. she cared about revenge and dragging his sins to the surface again, dragging him beneath the waves and leaving only the shells of his crimes behind. she cared about ruining, laying waste to his life.

          showing him the kind of man he is. he breathes out and nods, relieved, at least, they remain on stable ground. she’s right; the foundation they’ve built is too strong to be shaken, even by the shuddering earthquake that cat remains in his life. her touch against his jaw feels like a reassurance, a promise.

          his hand reaches to brush against hers, falling again to his side. he nods, winces a bit, hearing the truth behind her words; her words to cat had seemed too real to be a farce, but hearing the words from ziva’s lips makes a weight settle deep in his stomach. his eyes, though, don’t pity; he feels bad, terrible, even, but he doesn’t pity her.

          he doesn’t pity her because she’s strong, and capable. what she’d gone through should have never happened, should have never been a burden she’d had to carry alone, but she had. she’s still standing. he admires her, that resilience, that resistance. he believes she could carry the world if she had to, but she shouldn’t have to. he wants to carry it with her. he wants to give her more.

          he listens, grabs a mug after her and pours his own cup. “i’m sorry,” he says, quiet, meeting her gaze. he brings the coffee to his lips, takes a small sip before he places it on the counter. giving her his full attention. he wonders if she realizes how strong she is; wonders if he should tell her more often. he’s always been bad at saying how he feels.

          “you deserved better than that.” he licks his lips, contemplating. he lifts his mug, takes another sip. “i know you, ah— i know you don’t like to talk about her, but if you ever do ... i’m here.” he smiles, just a bit, reassuringly. he won’t push. “and i— i do want to go further with this. if that’s what you want, too.”