Don't Go

Clara looked at him as though he had spoken a language she almost understood.

"Damian."

His name sounded different in her mouth now. Fragile from lack of use.

He held the bottle by its neck.

"What do you need?"

She tried to take his hand.

He let her touch it, then looked down at her fingers.

"I've given you everything I had. What did I miss?"

Her eyes filled.

"You disappeared."

"Yes."

"I looked for you."

"And then you stopped."

"What was I supposed to do?"

He laughed once.

"Apparently you found something."

Somebody behind them shifted. A shoe squeaked against the floor.

Clara remembered where they were.

He had made certain everybody else remembered too.

"Not here," she said.

"Why? Embarrassed?"

She took her hand back.

The movement was small. He felt it like something tearing loose.

"You came home," she said. "You were in the same city as me, and you couldn't tell me."

"You were busy."

She waited.

He didn't say more. He couldn't bear to name what he believed he had seen.

Clara looked at him for a long moment.

Then she nodded once, not in agreement but because she had finally understood that he meant to hurt her.

"All right."

She turned.

Damian watched her walk away.

She kept her head up. One hand moved to her face and dropped again before she reached the door.

He wanted her to stop.

To turn around. To come back and put her arms around him as though nine months had not been enough to teach him how badly he needed them.

He wanted her to choose him without being asked.

She reached the entrance.

The bottle slipped from his hand and broke.

Everyone flinched except Clara.

She kept walking.

Damian followed.

***

Outside, he caught her before she reached the corner.

His arms closed around her from behind.

She went rigid.

"Don't go."

He put his face against her hair.

Her hands rose to his wrists.

He thought she meant to pull them away.

Instead she held them there, breathing too quickly.

"You told me to."

"I know."

"You don't get to keep doing this."

"I know."

He didn't know anything except that she was warm and real and about to leave him if he kept choosing pride over the one thing he had wanted through every miserable day away.

"Please," he said.

The word surprised them both.

Clara closed her eyes.

Behind the club doors, nobody came outside.

For once, his men had understood what he needed without being told.

***

At Bennett Row, Owen took one look at them and went to the kitchen.

Vince appeared at the foot of the stairs.

Clara stopped.

He looked almost embarrassed.

"Hi."

She crossed the room and hit his arm.

Not hard. Not quite gently either.

"You're an idiot."

"Been told."

She put her arms around him.

He looked over her shoulder at Damian, uncertain whether this was allowed.

Her husband stared at him.

Then, after a moment, nodded.

Vince hugged her back carefully.

"You hurt?" she asked.

"Not anymore."

"Eli?"

"Walking. Complaining. Same as before."

She nodded, swallowing.

Owen called from the kitchen that dinner would be late, since certain people had arrived without notice.

Clara almost laughed.

The house sounded like itself again.

***

Upstairs, Damian sat on the edge of the bed while she took off her coat.

He looked too large and somehow too tired for the room.

She stood in front of him.

"Let me look at you."

"You did that at the club."

"Properly."

He looked up.

Her hands went to his collar. He caught them automatically.

She stopped.

"Are you hurt?"

"It's old."

"That isn't what I asked."

He let her unbutton the shirt.

She saw the dressing first.

Then the marks around it.

Not a single wound. A collection of things he had survived while she was measuring doorframes and telling herself she didn't need to know.

She sat beside him before her knees could give way.

He reached for the shirt.

"Don't look like that."

"Like what?"

"As though you're going to cry."

She touched an unmarked place on his shoulder.

"I might."

His face changed.

"Clara."

She put her forehead against his, and for a while neither said anything useful.

There were things she should have asked. There were explanations he should have given.

Instead she kissed him.

He held her with a desperation that had nothing to do with being in a hurry.

When she whispered that his back would hurt, he gave a broken little laugh.

"Let me worry about it."

She didn't, entirely. She kept her hands where he wasn't wounded and drew him toward the pillow.

For that night, closeness was easier than language.

***

They went downstairs for food long after Owen had stopped pretending it would be dinner.

Soup waited on the stove. Bread under a towel. Four bowls had been set out, though Owen and Vince had already eaten.

Clara sat in the place she used to choose and found the same loose edge on the table beneath her thumb.

"We should get this fixed," she said.

Damian put down her bowl.

"I like it."

"You like a splinter?"

"I like you complaining about the table."

She looked at him. He went to fetch the bread before she could answer.

They ate quietly. He left the best piece beside her hand. She tore it in half and pushed some back.

When he went to clear the bowls, she caught his sleeve.

"Leave them until morning."

He stood still for a second, then set them down. Upstairs, he followed her slowly enough that she realized his back was hurting. She took his hand without saying why.

Much later, she found his hand in the dark.

"You came to Westbridge."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you speak to me?"

He turned onto his side, facing her.

"Looked terrible."

She brushed his hair away from his eyes.

"You look worse when you sulk."

He tried to smile.

She touched his cheek.

"I was having dinner with Julian because he had information for the project."

His hand tightened around hers.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

He kissed her before she could finish.

When he drew back, he said, "You're here. That's enough."

It wasn't enough. Not really.

She was too tired to fight for an explanation he didn't yet want to hear.

"Will you go away again?" she asked.

He lay still.

Her heart began to beat harder.

"Damian."

"I'll do what I can."

She looked at the ceiling.

It was an answer a man gave when the decision wasn't his alone.

She hated that she understood.

***

After Christmas, Damian went to Westbridge with Clara.

She went to a bookshop.

He went to see Callahan.

The older man read the documents Damian put in front of him, then looked up.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"There are doors this closes."

"Then close them."

Callahan leaned back.

"You've spent years getting into a position where you could do something useful."

"I've been useful."

"You could do more."

Damian looked at the window.

On the street below, people carried shopping bags through dirty snow. They looked tired, irritated, alive.

He wanted that life with an absurd force.

"I want to come home," he said.

"This isn't a job you resign from over lunch."

"Then take until dinner."

Callahan didn't smile.

Neither did Damian.

After a long silence, the older man put down the papers.

"You understand what stays sealed. What cannot be restored."

"I'm not asking for a parade."

"And if there's a threat?"

"I'll tell you. You deal with it. That's what people with offices are for."

Callahan looked at him for a moment.

Then he took out a pen.

Damian sat back, watching the signature become real.

For the first time since coming home, he let himself think further ahead than the next morning.