verb.
To fall back under pressure. To shrink back physically or emotionally.
noun.
The kickback of a gun upon firing.
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It takes a stubborn mind to cling to their humanity when the world seeks to strip it away.
It takes a desperate soul to reach f...
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After the night that would have marked Erik Ivanhov's seventy-ninth birthday, things between the two inhabitants of the skinny building in Amsterdam shifted, on a miniscule yet tangible level.
That night, when Katie had at last managed to pull herself together on the bridge, he had walked her home. It had been somewhat awkward, untangling from his arms – and simultaneously her first hug in twenty-three years – and grappling with the realisation that she didn't particularly want to lose that contact. It could have remained awkward, what with her messy display of grief and her inability to deal with the startling revelation that he had forgiven her. Against all odds, he didn't hate her with every fibre of his being, and that had rocked her perspective on everything – but he had been a perfect gentleman about it all. He had let her cry, for as long as she needed to, and then when she had begun to shiver in the cold night air he had helped her up and wordlessly shrugged off his jacket to drape it over her shoulders – ignoring her weak protests as he did so.
He had walked her home, all the way up to her own front door, but had left her there (with his jacket – offering to wash it for him after weeping all over it seemed like the polite thing to do) and then he had headed back to his own apartment. Not before she had made a fool of herself trying to express her thanks for his company, ending up giving his right bicep a cringeworthy pat before she had ducked inside her door.
And then, they carried on as they had done. Morning coffees, evening meals – but things had shifted. Sometimes in the morning he would appear before she had made it out the door to work, when she was still dashing around the little attic with a toothbrush jammed in her mouth, trying to find her work boots, or her keys. Undoubtably, he would be the one to hold out the single boot that she had kicked under the sofa the night before or delve into the jacket pocket where she always forgot the left her keys. His expression would pull into that odd approximation of not-quite-a-smile as she scrambled past him, blurting out her thanks and then disappearing for the day.
In the evenings, Barnes no longer waited for Katie to come down to invite him to dinner and instead simply appeared a few minutes before they usually ate – and then a few minutes earlier, wordlessly helping her cook or simply seating himself as he listened to her launch into a rambling tirade about her day. Occasionally, scaring the life out of her when he suddenly manifested behind her as she danced around the kitchen – sometimes she forgot how quietly he could walk.
He didn't pull her into any more hugs, and she didn't burst into tears in front of him. They carried on much as they had done, each silently accepting and relying on the presence of the other. It was nice.
One morning, with a late spring rainstorm beating against her window, she had returned from a brief dash to the bakery around the corner to find him perched in his usual seat at the breakfast bar, the coffee she had left out poured into a mug at his elbow, a battered paperback pressed open on the countertop with his left hand as he read, the little black notebook that was never far from his reach also laying open. He wasn't wearing his gloves, she noted as she entered – he must not have been expecting company.
