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Jane and John in Love

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He wouldn't say he had never met anyone like her before. As much as he liked to state the obvious, if only to watch her roll her eyes at him, she deserved better than such a lackluster statement. He couldn't think of any better ones, though. He wouldn't say that she made his heart beat the way it hadn't since-- well, ever. But he felt his pulse jump when she looked into his eyes and grinned right before she finished the job. He wouldn't say that he'd have no idea what to do without her. But she planned everything to such lethal perfection that there were more than a few instances he could name where he wouldn't have made it out if it weren't for her. He wouldn't say she made his day every time she walked into the room, but he could feel something that was closer to a smile than his usual smirk grow on his face every time he looked up and saw her. He wouldn't say that she moved like a wet dream, but the nights after he got to watch her work were always his favourite. He wouldn't say she lit up his life, but there is nobody else he would rather have by his side in the dark.
He wished he would say something, sometimes, but he knows she would just roll her eyes and call him a pussy. Maybe he was. But it was her fault, wasn't it?
The first time he told her that, she got a funny look on her face he hadn't seen more than a few times, and he knew he had finally said the right thing.
And if he set himself up to be called a pussy by her every once in a while, just to see her face when he replied, well... Nobody had to know about that, now did they?



She wasn't ever very good with words or connections. Her parents died when she was five, and after that she had shut off. She could still feel things, sure, just not in the same way. And she learned quickly enough that expressing herself was a quick way to get a pounding, in the home. Sure, it wasn't a pretty story, but nothing in her life ever had been, so she didn't really care. But something about the look on his face whenever she caved and admitted that she didn't want to be anywhere but right by his side, when they were surrounded on all sides and had more burnt and torn skin than healthy patches, made her want to keep trying. He was always the one who put himself out there, he was the one who wouldn't take the shot, who wouldn't let her leave, who looked into her eyes and asked her not to run. And she didn't know how to respond to it. At least when they were in their ridiculous theatrical event of a marriage she could smile and tell him she felt the same. Because that didn't have to come from the heart.
But ever since they had started telling each other the truth, all the lies came apart, and she became almost addicted to the rush she got when she told him the truth; even if it wasn't pretty, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear, she knew he would rather have that than the lies and fake smiles and formal dinners in their dining room.
She hated that dining room. Sitting at opposite ends of the table, carefully placed cutlery, the salt in the exact middle. It was like living in a museum, every surface had items carefully placed for show, but the cabinets under them were empty. Kind of an apt description of their marriage, she thought.
Now, their marriage was a shambles. But so was the rest of her life, and so it fit very well for her. For as anal and oranised as he teased her for being, she thrived on being surrounded by chaos.
And he was nothing if not chaotic. She sighed to herself. She didn't know what got her onto this weird analytical track, but she understood that he had changed her. Not always for the better, but she meant what she had said. She wouldn't want to be anyplace else, and she doesn't want to be anyone else, except for the woman she is now. Because that is the woman he loves.
She won't tell him that, though.
Not yet, anyway.