You Move the Earth

How can you love someone you have never meet

Prologue

"I recognized you instantly. All of our lives flashed through my mind in a split second. I felt a pull so strongly towards you that I almost couldn't stop it."

- J. Sterling, In Dreams

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You move the earth

“Alright boys, pick it up, I’ve got three more tables that just walked in, come on.”

Natasha bangs through the double doors to the kitchen and clips the tickets just above the expediting windows, snapping her fingers, all business like she always is. For some inexplicable reason, they’re in the weeds already, an hour into lunch rush on Halloween of all days and already swamped. Tommy’s worried that they’ll be stuck having to so more prep work after his shift; he can’t afford that, can’t be late to his parents, because he promised his mum he’d be there at six to help with the Trick or Treaters and there is no way he’s driving crosstown in a Robin costume again. The cop who pulled him over for speeding last year almost laughed himself to tears.

He slides two plates into the window, nodding at Anya where she’s standing at Natasha’s elbow and she gathers them up, banging back out the door into the dining room with a tray that’s bigger than she is. Natasha doesn’t even break her stride, running a finger down the first ticket and clearing her throat.

“Okay �" Table 12, two filets, one cremated, one still mooing.”

Somewhere behind Tommy, Clint snorts, ducking to pull the steaks from the cooler drawer below the line. He straightens again, elbowing Tommy on his way to the flattop.

There’s a date that not gonna go so well.”

He drops the first steak, repeating the order back to Natasha, who nods before launching right back into her list, checking things off as she goes, another pencil shoved behind her ear.

“Table 14 wants three shrimp specials, all with no garlic.”

Tommy groans, wiping down his cutting board. That stupid shrimp special was Clint’s idea, and making it from scratch is going to be a nightmare -

“Who let the vampires in? C’mon Tasha, that’s a pain the a*s �"”

Natasha crosses her arms, glaring at him over the plates Eli’s placing in the window, and goddamn somehow she’s still scary even half-obscured by a steaming plate of sea bass. She doesn’t even dignify him with an answer, leaning to look around him and raising her voice.

“That’s three shrimp no garlic all day, yeah boys?”

Clint and Eli repeat the order back, Eli already ducking around Tommy to get at the sliced leeks on the prep table, and Tommy smirks back up at Natasha as she loads plates onto another tray, passing it off on Rikki before rounding on Tommy again.

“Okay, smartass, you can have Table 20 then, six burgers, one medium, one medium-well, two well, one medium-rare, one rare, ready at the same time, if you don’t mind.”

Tommy can hear Clint and Eli snickering behind him over the flattop. He just grins at Natasha, reaching up to wave a mock salute before turning to go and rummage through the walk-in.

Natasha runs her restaurant with an iron fist, yeah, but that’s her thing. She’s fantastic, she doesn’t take any s**t �" really, Tommy couldn’t ask for much else, and Natasha was the only one in Indianapolis, it seemed, that was willing to take a chance on him right out of culinary school two years ago, willing to put some twenty-four year old nobody in her kitchen, and Tommy owes her a lot for that.

Now, though, they’re a team, and the Red Room’s booked solid for weeks at a time, generating enough press that Tommy’s had to rebuff more than a few offers to go elsewhere. But there’s no way, he’s not leaving Natasha, not leaving his staff. Clint and Eli are pains in his a*s, but they work seamlessly, Tommy has no idea how he got this lucky �"

“Motherf****r!”

Clint’s voice echoes from the line, loud enough that Tommy’s pretty sure there’s going to be a few diners with complaints, and when he pokes his head out of the walk-in, Clint’s standing in front of the window with a look of abject shock on his face, staring at Natasha who’s looking back at him with a smirk, a full plate balanced on each of her outstretched palms.

“How did you? They were �" Jesus,” Clint runs a hand down his face, blinking at her, and it doesn’t take too long for Tommy to put together what’s happened, because it happens fairly often. Clint’s usually a little overzealous, tossing his dishes through the window, and usually if Natasha’s not expediting that means a full meal all over the floor, covered in broken glass to boot. But, Natasha’s faster than that.

“Don’t look so surprised, Barton, didn’t you know Tasha was a ninja in a past life?”

Tommy makes his way back into the kitchen, drops the burgers he’s got on the grill. Natasha passes the still-neat plates off on Anya when she comes back in and clucks at them, meeting Tommy’s eyes when he turns and looking smug, a glint of laughter in her eye.

“Assassin, Barnes. Much better outfits.”

She whisks out of the kitchen, scarlet hair swaying behind her as she goes to check on the dining room, and Tommy takes over, stabbing tickets each time Clint and Eli drop more plates. They manage to get their heads above water again, working fast, and Tommy makes it out by five, just enough time to swing by his apartment before making the drive to his parents’ place at Camp Atterbury, mercifully still in his chef coat instead of that stupid costume, and he doesn’t even get a ticket this time.

His dad’s already got the yard decorated, it’s not much but it’s probably still more than is technically allowed on the base, but no one’s going to complain, not when Tommy’s dad’s been around as long as he has. Besides, not many other people make such a big deal about Halloween, and the kids on the base love it. Tommy remembers what that’s like, getting to go from house to house, wearing his dad’s fatigue jacket from Desert Storm with the sleeves rolled up, his dented old helmet sitting so low Tommy’d have to tilt his head back just to see where he was going, holding his dad’s hand as they knocked on their neighbour’s doors and stayed out until it got dark.

So Tommy doesn’t mind that his mum insists on the matching costumes every year, although his dad’s not really in the shape for spandex anymore, looking a little more like Alfred than Batman, and Tommy wishes Becca were here instead of away at college, because she’d always made a great Wonder Woman, even if she liked to pretend she was entirely too cool for all of it. His mom doesn’t really do too much anymore, leaving the costumes to them and settling on a pair of cat ears, which is probably good, because he’s got to put up with enough of his parents’ gross sappy faces as they sit out on the porch swing holding hands while Tommy mans the candy bowl, high-fiving all the little Supermen and Captain Americas and Princesses who come to their door.

He stays late enough that his mum insists he shouldn’t drive back tonight �" still worried about him like he’s sixteen, and god, he’d only dented the fender of his dad’s car that one time �" so he lets her make up the couch, figuring he can get up and make them breakfast in the morning before he’s got to get back into the city for his dinner shift. And for some reason, Tommy always sleeps really well at home �" not that he doesn’t in his own place �" but here it’s almost always dreamless sleep, devoid of any of the usual tricks of his subconscious.

But tonight’s different, Tommy knows it before he’s even completely asleep, because in that half-aware space somewhere between dreaming and consciousness he feels his skin prickling, his chest clenching like he’s lost something and he doesn’t know what it is, never even had it, and as oblivion overtakes him, all Tommy sees is the same face he’s seen in his dreams for years.

Coney Island’s crowded, of course it is, it’s the dead of summer and Tommy’s shirt is sticking to his back, the sun beating down hot and clear and everything’s electric blue �" the sky, the ocean slowly lapping at the shore, the set of bright eyes looking up at him. There’s a head of golden blond hair above those bottomless blue eyes, glinting in the sunlight, and Tommy wants to rest his hands on slim shoulders, lean down for a kiss but he knows they can’t, knows that it’s not safe. Instead he follows, and he doesn’t know where they’re going but it takes them a little further away from the crowd, toward the shops and restaurants and god, Tommy wants to reach out for his hand, maybe settle his palm on the small of her back, but �"

The photo booths are new this summer, Tommy hasn’t seen them here before, but then pair of small hands are tugging at his sleeve, pulling him inside before he can think too hard about it. It’s blessedly cooler inside the small space, the curtain blocking out most of the sun, long enough that anyone outside could only see their feet and Tommy grins, knows exactly what’s happening. He digs in his pocket for a nickel, feeds it into the machine, and before the first flash those hands are tugging at him again, tangling in the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt, and Tommy’s heart flips over in his chest, hands coming to settle on sharp hips and this is amazing, this is exactly what he’s been wanting. The first flash is like a lightning strike, blinding, popping white and purple behind Tommy’s closed eyes and even there, it’s the same face, burned in his memory like a photo negative, light and shadow and unforgettable.

Three more flashes, and they’ve got to move, they have to, before their photos print and someone gets nosy, but Tommy can’t quite resist one more kiss before he pulls away, brushing his lips right between those sparkling eyes and thinking yes, thinking finally, thinking always.

Tommy oversleeps, waking up to the sound of his mother puttering around the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming along to the radio, and by the time he’s up and moving around his dad’s already making coffee, stopping to take his mom’s hand, twirling her under his arm to the old Billy Joel song spilling from the speakers. He smiles at them both, pours himself a mug, and wonders what that’s like �" having someone who’s going to put up with you forever, who knows how you like your coffee and what your favourite radio station is and how you take your eggs, who knows you don’t like thunderstorms and can’t stand olives on pizza and loves you anyway, the kind of person who’s still willing to dance with you when you’re fifty-two and in your nightdress, or still kiss you when you’re nearly retired and still think you can dress up like Batman.

He wonders what that’s like and that face swims into his vision again, that feeling of forever settling somewhere glass-sharp in his chest, like some part of him’s always been just a little bit broken.

He wonders how many people are in love with someone they’ve never met.

*

Tommy’s back, three days later, for his mom’s birthday, bearing a bright pink cake that he and Eli had laboured over for hours, so glad it didn’t fall apart in the car that he almost drops it tripping up the stairs in his excitement to get it inside. He and his dad cook while she’s out getting her hair done, and his dad insists it be a surprise, that everything be done and on the table before she gets back, and Tommy has to slap his own father’s hand away from the pasta sauce three times because the old man has no taste buds and keeps insisting it needs more salt.

They open a bottle of wine from the restaurant �" Natasha’s idea �" and it’s times like this that Tommy’s almost mad he moved away, eating in comfortable silence with his parents, watching them smile at each other over their plates, his dad cracking awful jokes once his cheeks start reddening from the wine. Tommy clears the table afterward, and his dad settles into his chair in the living room while Tommy does the dishes, out like a light and snoring in a few minutes; his mom just laughs at him, walks over to kiss the top of his head before joining Tommy at the sink, reaching to dry the pans before Tommy can discourage her.

And she’s always been good with things like �" this, Tommy knows that, she gives the best advice of anyone, and even though Tommy feels stupid even thinking it, maybe she’s the one to ask. But how is he supposed to string that together? How is he supposed to �" what? Tell her he can’t stop dreaming about some girl he’s sure he’s in love with, even though they’ve never met?

Tommy focuses on the plate he’s scrubbing, splashing water up his sleeves and his mother clucks at him, reaching to take it out of his hands.

“Honestly, Tommy �" you’ll ruin your shirt.”

Winifred rinses it herself before placing it on the rack to dry, and then she turns and rests her hip against the counter, eying Tommy like he doesn’t have at least six inches on her �" but then again, she’s always been able to make herself pretty intimidating when she wants to be.

“What is it? You’ve been distracted.”

Yep, she’s got his number. Always has. If anything, Tommy’s mum has one of the world’s most finely tuned bullshit detectors �" but that might have something to do with being his mother, so maybe he should take some of the credit.

He shuts the water off, wiping his hands on the towel she offers.

“Nothing, mum, just… Been having weird dreams lately.”

Lately, sure. Since he was seventeen? Maybe weird isn’t exactly the way to qualify it.

His mum looks up at him kindly, reaching to cup his cheek for a moment. It’s a reassuring gesture, one he’s always liked, and she doesn’t do it too often anymore so Tommy doesn’t feel badly about leaning into her hand just a little.

“You’ll get through it, dear. Our dreams are always trying to tell us something, and knowing you you’re being stubborn, so �" don’t try and think you know better, let them get their point across.”

Tommy can’t help but frown a little at that, because he’s trying. He’d like to know what these dreams are saying, he really would, because as far as he knows he’s never once been to Coney Island, never shared a s****y one-room apartment with a rattling cough, never worn a scratchy woollen uniform in the middle of New York in July �"

“I dreamed about your dad, a lot. Before we met. I never saw his face too clear, but �" he was there.”

Her hand falls away, and she busies herself putting dishes away while Tommy twists the towel in his hands, searching for something to say.

“Your grandma always said it meant I was going to meet him. She damn near dropped her teacup when I brought him home the first time.”

She smiles at the memory, fond, and Tommy doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart over to the living room again. And maybe it’s that easy, maybe Tommy’s being too hard on himself. Maybe all of this is just �" a warning, or a promise.

The thought makes his heart beat a little faster.

He bends to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek, putting the towel back on the hook.

“Thanks, mum. I �" Thanks.”

*

Thanksgiving’s always been just the three of them, and Jasmin likes it that way.

They’ve got it down by now, after almost thirty years, and between his mum’s meal and the few hours spent hollering at the television with her dad, watching the Giants master the art of the comically incomplete pass, Jasmin’s happy, full, and exhausted by nine o’clock.

And she always stays on holidays, letting her mum fuss over her, ask her if she’s had enough to eat, wave her away when she tries to help her clean, talking over Jasmin and insisting on doing the dishes. Her room’s still the way she left it when she moved out at seventeen to go to NYU, the same blue-striped curtains, faded posters on the walls. Jasmin settles in around ten, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before she’s got to get up and head back to her own apartment to clean up, because there’s no way she can afford another day off, not with how many pages she’s still got left to complete and get into her editors before the first of December.

She tries not to worry about it, but she still ends up going over layouts and panels in her head as she stretches out on her old bed, her feet almost hanging off the end of it like they have since she was fifteen. And it must be that, thinking about work, because once she’s asleep she’s dreaming again, the same one she’s been having for years, the same one she still can’t make sense of.

Jasmin hit a growth spurt in high school, coming back the first day of senior year taller and broader in the right places, stronger and bigger than most of the kids that’d given her grief over taking art classes and falling behind in gym. And she’d always figured these dreams were just some sort of �" psychological thing, her subconscious’ way of gloating about that, working out some kind of unconscious issue because what formerly skinny kid wouldn’t want to be Black Widow?

So when she dreams of it, like she’s been doing since then, sees herself in her dreams in that uniform, giving orders and taking fire, gathering around a map with a group of familiar faces, men and women with different accents but matching serious smiles, Jasmin writes it off in the daylight as �" wishfulfillment, maybe, because what else are dreams if not that?

And it’d be that simple, just that easy to shrug off and forget, enjoy privately, if it wasn’t for �" him.

It’s no different tonight.

They’re somewhere in France, camped out in a murky, mouldy forest and it’s freezing, has to be the dead of winter or close to it. Jasmin’s laid out on a cot, covered in every part of her bedroll she could spare, listening to the rain drum against the dark canvas of the tent above her and her uniform’s folded carefully nearby, resting atop her trunk, muted red-black in the dim light, her bow and quiver within grabbing distance and she’s not even sure what time it is, what day it is, but it doesn’t matter.

Someone unzips the tent flap, sliding inside and they’re soaked, clear through to their skin, dark hair sticking to their forehead and there’s a shaky twist in Jasmin’s chest, like there always is when she sees him, when she �"

“I’m gonna kill that moron Stark if I can get my hands on him,” he says, leaning his rifle against one of the tent poles and stripping off his sodden sweater without preamble, letting it fall into a heap on the ground. He’s shivering, his bare chest glistening wet, and there are still bruises along his shoulders, his arms, pink-raw scars striping his back.

“’The weather’s lovely in France,’ He said. I’ll kill him.”

He makes quick work of his pants, too, toeing off muddy boots and peeling off the water-dark fabric, and soon he’s standing near the foot of Jasmin’s cot in nothing but his briefs, still shivering slightly and Jesus, Jasmin wishes she could sketch this, could spend days �" years �" shading in that uncertain glint in his eyes, but she can’t, she could never, it’s not worth the risk of getting caught.

There’s two cots in the tent, but Jasmin doesn’t know why, doesn’t even consider it, just lifts up the edge of her blankets and she doesn’t even have to ask, because soon Jasmin’s shifting to make space to accommodate another frigid body and she doesn’t care that there are already cold, wet handprints seeping into her shirt. She presses her cheek to damp curls and it won’t be long, all her training leave her running hot for hours after and for now Jasmin’s thankful for that, wrapping an arm around him and it doesn’t take much to get him to settle on Jasmin’s chest, face pressed to Jasmin’s shoulder.

Jasmin doesn’t know much �" the ultimate price of war is uncertainty, she thinks she might know that more than anyone �" but she knows this. This is real, it’s solid and it’s the best thing she’s got, the only thing, and she won’t let go of it, can’t. Jasmin traces careful fingers along his back and tries not to feel the way the scars brush against her fingertips, rougher and warmer than the rest of his skin, pressing kisses into drying hair.

Jasmin doesn’t know much �" but Jasmin knows this. Knows that she loves this �" loves him.

Even after Jasmin wakes, sheets tangled around her in the darkness of her room, everything �" the rustle of the curtains, the sound of the old house creaking, the blinking green numbers on the clock �" everything says that she loves him.

God, Jasmin loves him.

*

“Jasmin?”

The light clicks on in the stairwell that leads to the kitchen, spilling out across the tiles, and Jasmin looks up from the table, squinting in the dimness of the room. And she’s never been able to hear her mum coming, she thinks it must be one of those powers mothers just have, and before she knows it she’s already down the stairs and crossing the kitchen, looking at her worriedly.

She’s wearing the same housecoat she’s had for fifteen-odd years, blue flowers and long sleeves, the lace on the collar a little yellowed by now. Dad had bought it for her for Christmas when Jasmin was fourteen; she remembers because her dad had been so nervous to give it to her, because he never bought her clothes. His relieved smile was the first thing Jasmin’d put in the brand-new leather-bound sketchbook they’d given her, and it’d taken her three tries to get it right, a little crooked and still sleep-loose and it would be a long time before Jasmin realized she saw that smile on herself sometimes, too.

In fact, the sketchbook Jasmin’s got spread open in front of her is that very same kind; ever since her parents had walked into the art store on Atlantic Avenue that Christmas and asked for the best sketchbooks they had, Jasmin’s been using them. She’s got a box back at her apartment, full of maybe �" thirty of them? Her mum had kept them all, every one she’d filled in junior high and high school, and when she’d moved into her first real apartment she’d brought them over.

She stops at the edge of the table, lifting a hand to settle on her shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple.

“What are you doing awake? It’s nearly two, Jasmin.”

Jasmin turns the pencil she’d been using over in her hand, tapping the eraser gently against the still blank page as she reaches to rest her free hand over hers at her shoulder. Her mum’s hands are one of her favourite things to draw; sweet, definite, strong, they’re impossible to capture and she likes it that way, knowing the only time she’ll ever truly see them is when she sees her.

“Couldn’t sleep, you know �" figured I’d try to get some work done.”

Sarah laughs and it’s soft, light even in the darkness and Jasmin can’t help but smile, squeezing her hand. She doesn’t �" she could tell her, she should, because for some reason Jasmin’s sure if anyone’s got an answer it’s her. But it’s late, and Jasmin can’t ask that of her, not now.

She cards her free hand through Jasmin’s hair, scratching gently at her scalp, and Jasmin leans into it, the familiarity of it, the safety there. It doesn’t matter now, the dreams don’t matter, for a few moments that face stops swimming behind her eyes and maybe it’s going to make sense, eventually. Maybe she just has to be patient.

“Looks like you’re getting a lot done, too,” Sarah teases, stepping back into the kitchen and reaching up to retrieve a mug from the cabinet above the sink, picking the kettle off the stove and filling it.

“Are you hungry?”

She can’t help a chuckle at that, because her mum’s never going to get over the fact that she’s not some skinny kid anymore, that she doesn’t need to gain weight, that she doesn’t have to keep reminding her to eat. She’s going to worry about her forever, and honestly, Jasmin doesn’t really mind. Nodding, she twirls her pencil between her fingers, letting the fond feeling in her chest warm him right up, chasing away the last of the strangeness of the dream.

“Always, you know that.”

Jasmin lets her mum bustle around the kitchen, fixing her a sandwich and making them both mugs of tea, stopping once in a while to smile warmly up at her like she’s been doing since she was tall enough to sit at this table, old enough to remember. Neither of them pay too much attention to the way the hands on the clock don’t seem to budge until it’s nearly three, Jasmin caught up in finally filling that damned blank page with a rough sketch of her mother’s hands wrapped around the chipped yellow mug, another of the way her hair’s curling over her forehead, still pulled back and tidy even after she’d gotten out of bed in the middle of the night.

She wishes she had brought her watercolours with her, something to capture the shades of gold in her hair as they sweep into grey at her temples, but she tries to just shade it in instead, tongue caught between her teeth as she watches her in a comfortable silence. Jasmin knows she’s not just watching; she’s reading her, sorting through, trying to decide what to say, how to say it, because if her mum’s good at anything it’s seeing right through her and maybe that’s what she really needs right now.

Sometime around half-past three she abandons her mug on the table, reaching across to still Jasmin’s hands, gathering them both up atop the still-open sketchbook. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, but it’s not a whisper �" it’s clear, reassuring and steady like it’s always been and Jasmin hopes that one day she’ll meet someone like her, someone that feels bigger than they really are, stronger than they look.

The face from her dreams flashes unbidden across Jasmin’s mind again, and she closes her eyes against it, reopening them to find her mum still watching her, thumbs brushing over the backs of her hands.

“Sometimes the things you think you’re missing just haven’t found you yet, Jasmin.”

And there it is, Jasmin doesn’t know how she does it. She meets her eyes, letting her shoulders sag, knowing that she’s got her covered, even without her ever having to ask.

That’s how it’s always been, really.

“If it’s worth it, dear, it’ll be worth waiting for.”

When she gets up to go back upstairs, Jasmin closes her sketchbook and follows her, spends the next few hours watching the shadows shift across the ceiling of her old room, wondering how she knew she was missing something.

Someone.

*

Indianapolis International is a nightmare, Tommy hates this stupid airport, mostly because it seems to have some kind of supernatural pull that always makes him late. He’s spent nearly an hour in security, and of course, he’s the one they pull aside for ‘special screening’, the TSA agent smiling patronizingly at him as they pat him down, raising an eyebrow at the tattoo winding down his arm when they reach it.

A*****e.

He doesn’t even have time for coffee, and it’s not like it’s that early but he’d been at the restaurant until nearly three in the morning, making sure there was enough stock to keep the place running while he was gone for a few days, leaving Clint in charge and wondering if that was really a good idea. It’s not like he can do anything about it, really, he’s got his tickets in hand and Becca’s waiting for him, ready to spend Christmas together because she’s got a few weeks off school. Tommy’s never been to Brooklyn, but Becca loves it; she’s been at Pratt studying fashion design for two years already, Tommy can hardly believe it, she’s going to be twenty in April and that just makes him feel old.

His flight’s already nearly boarded, and Tommy has to dash the last few yards to make it before they close the doors. He’s the last person down the jet way, and he doesn’t even have to double-check his ticket because his seat’s got to be the last open one on the whole damn plane. It’s a window seat, thank god, but the person on the aisle’s already asleep and Tommy has to sort of half-climb, half-shimmy over them so he doesn’t even notice the person in the middle until he’s finally dropped into his own seat, buckling the seatbelt and kicking his duffel bag underneath the seat ahead.

Tommy reaches up to flick on the overhead light, and when he does, he �"

The girl sitting next to him is gorgeous, and Tommy has to do a double take because she looks so familiar, too, and Tommy can’t quite put his finger on it, but �"

No f*****g way.

Okay, he’s clearly hallucinating. He’d say he was dreaming but they’re on a plane, he’s obviously awake because the sunlight streaming through the open window next to him sort of hurts. It’s �" this can’t actually be happening, there’s no way this girl’s…. That girl.

That’s not how things work.

Is it?

Tommy holds the girl’s eyes for a beat longer than he should, because they’re strangers, there’s no reason for him to stare, so he casts around for something to say, something to justify himself.

“Full flight, huh?”

Smooth, Barnes. Really excellent.

The girl chuckles, pushing a hand through her hair �" blond, almost golden and Tommy wants to reach out and touch it, but he puts that idea right back down, because it’s ridiculous. He has to �" know this girl from somewhere, has to have seen her in a bar or met her in school or, f**k if he knows, slept in a bunk bed with her at summer camp, there has to be a reason. Something that isn’t ‘I’ve been dreaming about you’ because god, does that sound like the worst pick-up in existence.

“Yeah, looks like it,” the girl says, those luminous blue eyes darting around the crowded space, and Tommy watches the curve of her lips when she speaks, tries to tear his eyes away before he says something stupid, before he �"

“This is going to sound really weird, forgive me, I haven’t had my coffee yet, but �" Do I know you? You look so familiar.”

And Tommy has to laugh at himself, has to avert his eyes just for a second, because everything’s sort of tilting sideways �" this can’t be, he’s got to get himself together.

“I �" I don’t think so?” The girl shifts in her seat, turns until she’s facing Tommy a little more fully. She extends a hand and that feels weird, shaking her hand when Tommy can recall vividly how those hands have felt on his skin, no, that’s �" it’s not real, this is real, Tommy’s brain needs to shut up.

“Jasmin… Jasmin Rogers, I‘m headed back home to Brooklyn.”

“Tom �" Tommy. Barnes.” Tommy tries not to think about how warm her hand is, tries not to think about how the pencil calluses feel like he’d imagined they would.

“I’m from �" here, just. Going to Brooklyn to see my sister.”

This is awkward, Christ, he never should’ve said anything, this poor girl probably thinks he’s nuts. Tommy drops his hand, settles back a bit in his seat. Probably best to give the girl �" Jasmin �" give Jasmin an out.

“Sorry to bother you.”

*

Jasmin is trying so hard not to let her jaw drop, because there’s �" no way, this is just �" no way.

Because every dream she’s had since she was sixteen is staring her in the face, living and talking and breath-taking. Sure, he’s �" he looks different, a little bit, his hair’s longer and there’s a dark blue tattoo wending its way down his bicep, but his eyes are the same, dark brown and piercing, looking into her own and Jasmin’s breath catches in her throat before she can help it.

“No, you’re not bothering�"“

The words are out before Jasmin can stop them, and for a perilous second she’s sure she sounds sort of desperate, a little silly, but she manages to stop herself from reaching out to him, which is a small victory in itself.

“It’s not a bother, really. You look familiar, too.”

And this could be interesting, because Jasmin’s sure there’s no way this guy has any real clue, Jasmin’s good with faces and she’s fairly certain they’ve never met, but the idea that… Tommy recognizes her too sends a strange feeling swooping through her gut, low and shaky.

So they play the game of Have You Ever Been for a while, tossing cities, restaurants, people, summer camps back and forth, trying to pull the right thread, find the one that’s got them tied together. The longer they go on, the smoother their conversation goes, and in the spaces between her answers Jasmin tries to memorize the lines of Tommy’s face, take in everything, looking for the differences more than the similarities and trying to convince herself that this isn’t what it feels like, what it looks like.

“Camp Lehigh? New Jersey?”

Tommy tosses another handful of peanuts into his mouth, chewing absently, lost in thought.

“No? Although there’s a fort nearby, my dad was stationed there for a while.”

Jasmin taps her fingers against her tray table, twisting her face into something thoughtful. She likes this, learning about each other. Tommy’s easy to talk to, letting out bits of his own life as they carry on, and Jasmin’s fascinated.

“You know, for a chef, you’re sure putting those stale peanuts away,” Jasmin chuckles, picking up her own bag and dropping it onto Tommy’s tray.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been to a military base in my life, actually.”

The plane rocks side-to-side, the windows whiting out for a moment while they descend, and when the Captain makes an announcement that they’ll be landing at JFK in a few minutes Jasmin’s not even really surprised, because she feels like she could do this forever, talking about everything and nothing with Tommy. And it’s going to be over, too soon �" but what’s she supposed to say?

Jasmin’s searching for a way to prolong this, silent as the flight attendant comes by for their trash, trying not to let her eyes track the way Tommy’s throat works when he swallows the last of his cup of coffee.

Tommy fills the last of their flight asking Jasmin questions about her art, the different titles she’s worked on, prodding her to talk about the meeting she’s just come from with Image in San Francisco, and Jasmin finds that even talking about work is easy with him.

“I’d like to see your sketches, sometime,” Tommy says as the plane’s landing gear squeals against the runway, and Jasmin’s first instinct is to reach into her bag, pull out her sketchbook, and she never does that, never just �" volunteers her art like that, but Jasmin’s pretty sure Tommy could ask her for just about anything and she couldn’t say no.

That’s �" that’s dangerous.

The only thing that stops her is the fact that this book �" her personal one, not the one she uses for work �" is almost completely full of drawings of Jasmin’s dreams, sketches she uses to let the anxiety out when she wakes up in the middle of the night, landscapes and warzones and unfamiliar smiling faces and Tommy.

Well, not him, but �" Jasmin’s sure Tommy’ll see the resemblance, it’s uncanny, there’s no way he’d miss it and Jasmin has no explanation for that, nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous and serendipitous and insane.

“Sure, I’d �" “

Jasmin bends to get her wallet, unzipping the front pocket of her bag and pulling out one of her business cards.

“Here, you can �" Got a portfolio online now, one of my editors insisted.”

And if the card’s got her email and her cell number on it, too, sue her. She hands it to Tommy, trying to ignore the way their fingers brush when Tommy takes it, shifting his hips up to slip it in his back pocket, and Jasmin definitely ignores the way his t-shirt rides up, exposing pale skin stretched over the sharp point of a hipbone before Tommy tugs it back down, looking up to smile at Jasmin again.

The plane comes to a stop, the cabin filling with idle chatter and the buzz of a hundred cell-phones, and as Jasmin makes her way down the aisle, Tommy following closely behind her, she wonders if this is her chance, if she’s going to get another one. There’s �" she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t want to say something wrong, doesn’t want Tommy to get the wrong idea about her, but the idea of walking out of this airport and never seeing him again is too much, makes Jasmin feel a little hollow.

Tommy catches up to her just outside the jet way, jogging a little to keep up, and Jasmin turns to face him, trying not to let the hope that bubbles up in her chest choke her.

“Here,” Tommy offers her his ticket stub, rumpled from his pocket, and when Jasmin turns it over in her hand there’s numbers inked hastily on the back, an email address scrawled beneath it.

“Figured we… never really sorted out how we knew each other, so. In case you remember.”

*

Becca’s studio is too small for the two of them, so Tommy’d made plans to stay at a hotel nearby, letting her keep her own space and giving them a place to stretch out, if they wanted. He’d made sure to book two beds in case she felt like staying, but the first night he’s in she gets stuck working late, leaving Tommy to his own devices and that’s how he finds himself sitting in his rather lonely hotel room, glowering at a sub-par room service grilled cheese and examining Jasmin’s business card for the hundredth time.

It’s a neat thing, one side yellowed like a sketchbook page, printed with a pencil drawing of a monkey on a unicycle, Jasmin’s initials emblazoned in the corner. He flips it between his fingers, running his thumb over the letters embossed on the back.

Jasmin Rogers

Freelance Cartoonist, Illustrator, Animator

Independent Comic Artist

Eisner Award Best Cover Artist ’11

Tommy traces the neat row of numbers beneath them with a light touch, like he doesn’t already have them memorized, like he hasn’t already imputed them into his phone and started a dozen texts, erasing every single one before he could get too brave and send it.

And maybe it’s the early morning, or the plane ride, or the fact that Becca had dragged him all over the city today, taking him to her campus, up Fifth Avenue to see the offices where she’s doing her internship, through the East Village for dinner before she got called into work �" and Tommy doesn’t want to think too hard about what constitutes an ‘emergency’ in the fashion world, especially because he can’t imagine it’s anything worthwhile enough to take away his baby sister at nine o’clock three days before Christmas �" but Tommy’s exhausted. He knows he should try and get some sleep, he and Becca have tickets for a matinee tomorrow, and if he stays up much longer it’s going to seem like a good idea to call Jasmin, and he really shouldn’t do that.

He tidies up the room, trashing the underwhelming sandwich and changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth before he falls back into bed, and he’s asleep almost instantly in the still-lit room.

Wind whips up around him, and Tommy’s hands are aching, he can feel the pull of his wrists, his joints protesting under his own weight but he can’t let go, he can’t. His skin pulls white over his knuckles as he grits his teeth, tries to climb back inside, knocked back by the speed of the train every time.

Someone’s shouting, but it’s lost to the rush of the frigid wind, the train streaking by so quickly every colour around him is spiralling into grey, into frozen blackness, edging into his vision and no, Tommy can’t give in, he has to pull himself up, he has to fight, he has to get back to �"

Breaking into the tunnelling slipstream of the train, there’s a red glove on an outstretched hand, bright against the dreary darkness and reaching out for him and it’s a lifeline; Tommy has to reach for it, because it’s the only thing he’s got, his last hope, his only hope, and if he doesn’t take it now he won’t ever have another chance, he’ll be lost. So he stretches out a hand, risks his own hold to grasp for that one bright spot, trying to seize it, pull himself up, give himself just one more chance.

Tommy’s scream is torn away from him by the wind, and he’s falling, falling falling falling and there’s nothing left to do but close his eyes.

He starts awake, choking on a final breath of freezing air, cold sweat beading on his brow and before Tommy can gather himself he’s plucking his phone from the nightstand, typing out a message before his chest stops heaving.

*

Jasmin’s blinking back what she’s promising herself aren’t tears, still trying to make sense of the taste of ash and smoke and whiskey in her mouth when her phone buzzes near her pillow, the brightness of the screen seeping behind her still-closed eyes.

She has to drag in another breath to steady herself, and Christ, she hasn’t felt like this since she was a kid, like every breath is an effort, straining to fill her lungs. When she retrieves her phone, she notices it’s only midnight; she’s only been asleep for a half hour or so. And it’s �" never been like this, the dreams have never been bad before, but Jasmin’s heart’s still racing as she focuses, and the name on the screen says �" Tommy?

It’s not �" sure, Jasmin waited all of two minutes to save the number in her phone, turned that stupid crumpled ticket over and over in her hand, taped it carefully inside the front cover of her sketchbook, but she hadn’t even thought that Tommy would actually �"

Jasmin swipes her finger across the screen, opening the message.

Brooklyn’s not an easy place to sleep. Know a place for a good cup of coffee?

There’s an answer before Jasmin can contemplate all the ways this is a bad idea, the memory of a burned-out bar still too fresh to keep her from hitting ‘send’.

Yeah, there’s a diner by Grand Army Plaza. Shouldn’t be too far from Pratt.

She hesitates for a second, her finger hovering over the screen.

I’m not exactly. Sleeping so great myself. Mind a little company?

And it’s the longest minute of Jasmin’s life, because she’s sure that’s too much, too close to a cheap come on, but before she even has time to contemplate all the ways she can backpedal, how quickly she can apologize, her phone buzzes again.

Not at all. See you in twenty minutes?

Jasmin’s out of bed before her reply’s even sent, yanking on a pair of pants and trying desperately to do something with his hair. The diner’s only a few blocks from her apartment �" and no, she did not do that on purpose, of course not �" so by the time she’s brushed her teeth and changed her sweater twice he’s still on time, sliding into a stool at the counter with two minutes to spare.

She considers ordering a cup of coffee, but something makes her wait, her fingertips tapping anxiously against the blue plastic countertop as the clock over the door ticks past twelve thirty. And she’s not nervous, she’s got no reason to be, because this is nothing, it’s just coffee with an acquaintance. Helping out a tourist, being nice.

An acquaintance-tourist Jasmin’s fairly sure she’s been in love with since she was sixteen. Or you know, an acquaintance-tourist that’s the spitting goddamn image of the imaginary person Jasmin’s been in �" wow, she is so much more screwed than she thought.

Anxiety flares under her skin, pricking along her arms and Jasmin has to peel her eyes away from the clock, her fingertips stilling against the counter when the bell above the door rings. Tommy slides in beside her, and the first thing Jasmin notices is he looks exhausted; his hair’s a little wild and there are faint purple shadows beneath his eyes. Jasmin barely manages a greeting before she’s letting her eyes run over Tommy’s face, trying to sort out what’s got him wound up, like she �" god, like Jasmin could fix it, like it’s her place to.

The coffee’s not half-bad, even if you’ve got to chew it a little, and Jasmin can’t help but smile when Tommy orders a slice of pie, because she knew that was going to happen, knew that he was going to stir his coffee before he added sugar, setting it swirling in the mug before dropping a sugar cube in, knew he was going to pick up his fork with his left hand. There’s so much about this man that’s familiar to her, things that she has no business knowing about a stranger, little details that Jasmin loves, the flecks of green in his eyes, the way his hair looks black until you’re close enough to see the way it gleams sort of bronze, the fact that he’s steadily picking the top crust from his pie, saving it for last.

It’s like �" there’s a whole lifetime inside Jasmin’s head, an endless, bottomless something, and she wants it so desperately but she doesn’t even know how to begin. She watches Tommy sip his coffee, and the pain of staying silent finally becomes overwhelming.

“So, how do you like Brooklyn so far?”

Tommy swings around in his stool, turning to face Jasmin and his knee brushes Jasmin’s thigh, the touch sending a jolt right to Jasmin’s stomach.

“It’s not bad, sort of like the neighbourhood. Don’t have this many trees in Indianapolis.”

Jasmin laughs into her mug, eyes tracing the curve of Tommy’s smile as it twists up the left side of his lips.

“Don’t let the park fool you. They keep all the trees there.”

And the way that grin pulls wider across Tommy’s face is a miracle, Jasmin feels it in her veins, the brightness of it ghosting across her skin and for the first time since they’ve met she doesn’t think about all the other times she’s sure she’s seen it, because seeing it now is like seeing it for the first time. Tommy chuckles, pushing a bit of apple around his plate with his fork, and for a while they sit in a companionable silence, sipping their coffee, before Tommy speaks again, his words thin like they’re not quite what he means.

“I should probably get going, you know �" Early morning.”

Jasmin nods, because what else is she going to do? She signals the waitress for their check, waving Tommy off when he tries to put cash in and when Tommy opens the door Jasmin doesn’t hesitate, setting out into the night, tugging her coat more closely around her.

*

Tommy tries not to slow down, tries to tell himself that letting Jasmin catch up is a bad idea, because there are words he’s been trying to hold down, pushing back all night and he’s not sure how much longer he can do this. He bites the inside of his cheek, his breaths coming fast as he heads down the sidewalk, spiralling into steam in the frigid night air and he’s back on that f*****g train again, grasping for something that feels like his last chance and when he hears Jasmin walking quietly behind him Tommy turns on his heel, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Jasmin’s wrist and hoping they don’t close on nothing but cold air.

He can’t keep everything he wants to say back, doesn’t even really think he wants to anymore, because the words feel important, and what’s the big deal? If all of this goes crooked, if Tommy makes an a*s out of himself, it’s not like they ever have to see each other again, right?

“Look, Jasmin �" it’s going to sound crazy, but I think I know why you’re so familiar.”

Jasmin looks up from where Tommy’s fingers are digging dents into her wrist, and she looks surprised, but there’s something else in her eyes, too. Tommy’s pulse thuds in his ears and he can’t keep this secret anymore, just gives up and lets the words pour out of him, hitting the air between them and blooming like fresh blood.

“I think I �" I think I dreamed you up.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, not ready to see the look of amusement he’s sure is going to cross Jasmin’s face. His heart stalls in his chest, everything around them falling silent, and Tommy doesn’t know how long they stand there before a pair of strong, familiar hands grips the lapels of his coat and Jasmin’s lips meet his.

Tommy’s eyes fly open in surprise, and Jasmin’s everywhere, plastering them together hips to chest and Tommy lets his arms wrap around Jasmin’s neck, leaning down into the kiss and hoping it doesn’t ever end, losing himself in the warm give of Jasmin’s lips against his, the soft stroke of Jasmin’s tongue against his own. And it’s �" surprising, because kissing Jasmin is nothing like Tommy remembers, like he thinks he’s done a thousand times before.

It’s better.

One of Jasmin’s arms comes to loop around Tommy’s waist, the other hand curling around his hip and this is everything, this is yes and forever and always and now. Tommy’s hands come to grip at Jasmin’s shoulders, and for one everlasting second they’re breathing the same air, and that part of Tommy that’s always felt a little broken shifts, like his whole body’s sighing.

Oh, there you are.

“Please tell me your apartment’s not far.”

*

Jasmin’s mind is reeling, images and memories and questions crashing together, threatening to pull her under, pull her away from this, but then Tommy tugs her face up for another kiss the minute the elevator doors in her building close and Jasmin’s mind goes blissfully blank.

It’s a miracle they make it down the hallway without stumbling into a wall, Jasmin’s hands fumbling with her keys when Tommy shifts to kiss a line down her jaw, and they topple into Jasmin’s apartment together, wrapped around each other like this is all they’ve both wanted for lifetimes. As soon as Jasmin can get the door shut she crowds Tommy back against it, slipping the deadbolt close and tangling a hand in his hair, leaning up for another kiss because she can’t get enough of them.

And she thought she knew everything, thought she’d learned everything there was to know about the man that’s lived in her dreams for years but every press of their lips, every shift of their bodies, every brush of Jasmin’s hands pulls something new out into the open. Jasmin pushes Tommy’s coat off his shoulders, letting it fall to puddle at their feet and Tommy groans, something deep and reverent and that’s brand new, Jesus, Jasmin wasn’t prepared for it, for the way Tommy unzips her jacket with searching hands and runs his palms over Jasmin’s chest, fingers pressing dents into her waist.

Tommy tugs at the hem of Jasmin’s sweater, pulling it untucked, and Jasmin lets him peel it up and off, shucking off her t-shirt after it. She has to pull in a breath, steady herself, because this is almost too much and she wants it to last, wants it to be real, they can’t �" As much as Jasmin wants to lose herself in Tommy, find his every seam and take him to pieces, memorize the way he falls apart, she doesn’t want to do it here. Sliding her hands down Tommy’s arms, Jasmin takes his hands, their fingers shifting to slot together like the tumblers of a long-forgotten lock, and she leans to nose against Tommy’s neck as she speaks.

“Let me �" I want to �" Bedroom?”

A quiet nod is all Jasmin needs before she’s leading Tommy down the hall to her room, pushing him to sit on the end of the bed and pulling Tommy to her again, skimming her hands from Tommy’s hips up to his chest and rucking up his t-shirt, lifting it off when Tommy raises his arms. She places herself down, into his lap, ghosting kisses along his collarbone and pulling up short, eyes running over the dark blue tattoo arcing over Tommy’s left shoulder and winding down his arm.

Jasmin looks up to find Tommy watching her with liquid, dark eyes and the answer’s out before Jasmin even has time to ask.

“First thing my sister ever drew, she was five. Said it was a picture of me.”

And it’s another thing Jasmin doesn’t know, another new beginning, something exciting and unfamiliar and amazing. Jasmin doesn’t know when she’ll stop looking for the differences, when she’ll stop trying to tell herself this is anything but incredible serendipity, some kind of happy universal accident, but Tommy has a sister, a sister and a family and a life outside of Jasmin’s head, he’s real and Jasmin wants all of that, wants to learn it all and fill in every gap.

Lifting a hand, Jasmin trails careful fingers over the lines and dots, and Tommy’s smile falters on a gasp, his eyes falling closed for a moment before Jasmin leans up to kiss along the curve of his shoulder, drawing another small sound from him, barely a breath in the silence of the room.

Jasmin’s hands drop back to Tommy’s shoulders, guiding him back with a gentle push, and Jasmin toes off her shoes, watching Tommy do the same and backing up the bed before she crawls up to meet him. His eyes raking up Jasmin’s body as she shifts to hover over him, pressing them together on a long, slow roll of her hips that drags a moan from Tommy. Slipping his hands down Jasmin’s back, Tommy arches back up against her, fitting his hands to Jasmin’s hips again and leaning up to mouth at her neck, breathing quiet words against Jasmin’s skin.

“I don’t think you made me up, Tommy �"”

Another roll of Tommy’s hips and Jasmin can feel him already hard, and Jasmin’s muscles in her back are trembling as she holds herself above Tommy’s body. Jasmin drops her hands to work at Tommy’s belt, flicking it open and unbuttoning his jeans, working them down his hips before pushing at him gently, letting Tommy kick them off before his hands already seeking out the button of Jasmin’s pants.

“Because you’ve been real for me for a long time, too long.”

Jasmin kicks her own pants away, looking up and taking in the sight of Tommy beneath her, shivering slightly and already reaching for him again, eyes bright and wide and there are no bruises shadowing his chest, there are no scars, thank god there’s no scars, and Jasmin can draw this, now. Jasmin can spend hours drawing this, shading in every curve of Tommy’s body, never worrying about anything but the way the lines are capturing the soft curve of Tommy’s hip, the delicate dip of his waist. All of it.

God, they can have all of this.

Tracing her fingers across Tommy’s hip, Jasmin reaches to palm Tommy’s c**k through his underwear, leaning up to nip at the corner of his jaw.

“Please, tell me �" Tell me this is what you want.”

Tommy whines, canting his hips up to meet Jasmin’s hand, and he nods, bottom lip caught between his teeth and when he speaks his voice sounds hoarse.

“Jasmin, yes, come on �" for �" for so long �"”

He’s beautiful like this, hands gripping at Jasmin’s waist, pushing at the waistband of her underwear and Jasmin couldn’t deny him, hasn’t ever been able to, hasn’t ever wanted to. Jasmin’s known since the second Tommy spoke her name for the first time that she’d spend forever giving him exactly what he wanted.

"I've got you."

Shoving Tommy’s underwear down his hips, pulling it away, Jasmin pushes her own away, too, grinding down against him and straddling over Tommy’s hips, littering kisses along Tommy’s shoulders, his neck, nuzzling at the base of his throat. And Tommy’s arms come to circle Jasmin’s shoulders, rocking up against him and soon they’re moving together like they’re meant to do it, one unending motion, every roll of Tommy’s hips sending sparks of pleasure shuddering along Jasmin’s spine, as he fills her like no one else has ever been able too, pulling more shattering sounds from Tommy’s lips.

Tommy tugs her down for another kiss, different and a little demanding, licking into Jasmin’s mouth and when Jasmin snaps her hips down Tommy keens into her mouth, back arching as he comes, hot and slick within her. Jasmin presses her forehead into Tommy’s neck, seeing stars as she follows afterward, drunk on the sound of Tommy’s breath hitching and riding it over the edge, her body strung taut for a single, blinding moment.

Rolling to his side, Tommy pulls Jasmin to his chest, drops a kiss in sweat-damp curls and feels Jasmin settle against him, a sleep-heavy arm coming to rest at his waist. Their breathing slows in the silence that follows, and for a few moments Tommy thinks Jasmin’s sleeping until he feels her grinning sharp against his shoulder. And Tommy’s laugh is amazing, echoing between them and Jasmin can’t help but join him, reaching to brush her knuckles along Tommy’s cheek, tracing the curve of his lips with her thumb. Tommy catches her hand, tangling their fingers together, his words barely a whisper, and Jasmin’s sure that smile’s going to put the rest of her memories to shame.

“You aren’t just a dream.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Epilogue; two years later

“Barnes, you’ve got a customer who wants to see you.”

Tommy looks up from the pork chops he’s saucing, squints at Natasha over his shoulder. He doesn’t have time for this, it’s twenty minutes to midnight and some people still haven’t gotten their final courses, what the hell kind of New Years Eve party is this?

“What the hell do they want, aren’t you the owner?”

Natasha’s dressed for the party, stunning with dark green silk wound around her waist, but somehow when she crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow at him, she still looks nothing but menacing.

“Yeah, the owner that cuts your checks. Get out there. Table Eight.”

Clint takes over the pork chops without so much as a nod, and Tommy wipes his hands off on the towel he keeps below the line, pushes a hand through his hair. He’s not exactly in party shape, himself, but at least his coat’s still clean �" and the fact that it’s the second coat of the night is no one’s business but his own.

Banging out of the double doors into the dining room, Tommy wends his way through the packed tables, narrowly avoiding Anya, still not any bigger than the tray she’s carrying, laden down with glasses of champagne. Table Eight’s near the windows, with an amazing view of the skyline, but Tommy’s not seeing any of it, entranced by the people huddled around the circular table, talking and laughing and passing plates and �" none of them have noticed him yet.

“Jasmin?”

Jasmin’s seated at one side of the table, between his parents, leaning over to refill Tommy’s mum’s wine glass. Tommy’s dad’s got his arm slung over the back of her chair, their backs to Tommy, and Becca’s busy laughing, her head tossed back, no doubt at one of their dad’s jokes if the wine’s been flowing a while.

And of course Jasmin notices him first, her eyes drawn to Tommy like they always are, sharp and smiling, seeing everything, and she’s not supposed to be here for another two days, they’re supposed to fly back to New York together after the holidays �"

Excusing herself, Jasmin drops her napkin on her chair, taking the few steps to Tommy and pulling him in for a kiss, soft and quiet and a new kind of familiar, the kind that comes with two years of practice and long weekends, flyer miles and so, so many dreamless nights.

“Hey,” Jasmin looks gorgeous, in the dark cocktail dress Tommy’d made her buy before her first gallery show, the first night they’d said ‘I love you’ and the very last time Tommy ever compared the Jasmin that lived inside his head to the one that he’s managed to keep wrapped up in his arms.

“Hey,” Tommy replies, sort of dumbly, grinning down at Jasmin and trying to read her expression, sort out what it is that’s gleaming in her eyes.

“What’re you �" you’re not supposed to be here for a few more days, I wasn’t �"”

Jasmin takes his hand, pulls him toward the table and settles him in the chair she’d just vacated.

Tommy takes the glass of champagne Jasmin’s mum offers, smiling at her, and there’s a sort of unreadable joy on her face, too.

“I really should �"”

Cutting across him, Jasmin breaks into a chuckle, the blush Tommy’s never going to be over sparking along her cheeks.

“Don’t worry, I know, I just �" Had a question for you first.”