She feels the increasing fluidity of his muscles, of his body, of his bones. She swears she can feel it trickle out of the pores of his skin, bathing them both in its leave, pooling somewhere in or under the mattress. She thinks that if she tries hard enough, she could see it evaporating above their heads - fluttering and ascending like those colorful winged insects they'd seen at the swearing in ceremony they'd gone to the previous month.

Consciousness and limb and breath and beating blood blur into one another again, naturally and without hesitation and without urgency. The hard edges of her body bleed into his, blending them together seamlessly and effortlessly. A tiny shudder runs itself down the length of her spine, settling in her coccyx, before racing back up and out of the top of her skull. She had had patience; she had fought against every instinct in herself, the one that told her to run, so she could trust in him, trust in his eventual return to her arms and her heart.

But she'd be lying if she said he didn't feel some semblance of relief at feeling reunification like this and realizing it could still be done.

She tilts her head to the side to rest her cheek against the top of his head, allowing her eyes to close.

"I can," she says without a trace of doubt. "This place is obviously very meaningful for them, and I'm sure that if they had the means, they would've got it up and running themselves. But they didn't - and you provided them that. You each needed each other in your own ways, and I'm grateful that it's worked out this way, for both of you."