and joy was never sure

[collects_strays]

"I didn't know you could cook."

Graham sets the plates in the sink, but doesn't turn on the tap. Molly is sitting cross-legged on his bed, tapping her fingers along the tin cup he had half-filled with white wine. The room is dark, lit only by a few candles set along the counter and bedside table, and the fire crackling in the stove. He can see the dark curve of her smile rise up along her cheek. He turns to walk back toward her, careful not to step on any of the dogs that are curled in their beds, scattered across the floor.

"Did you know that much about me?"

"No," she says, watching him. Graham sits back down on the bed. It dips slightly at his added weight. "You keep a pretty tight lid on that."

He doesn't say anything. She waits a moment, and then leans back, fading from the light of the candles. It's only a flicker, as she returns, having picked up his cup from the bedside table. He reaches to take it from her.

"All right," she says. "I know you can catch fish, and you can cook fish. And –" she gestures toward the floor. "I know you like dogs."

Molly watches him, red firelight catching in her hair, and when he still doesn't speak she rolls her eyes, lifting her cup again. "And you choose some pretty good wine for someone who doesn't own any glasses."

"I don't usually drink it."

"See, there you go," she gestures toward him with her cup. "You can talk."

Graham shakes his head, drinking from his own cup. Molly gives a heavy, exaggerated sigh, and puts her hand down on the mattress, sliding herself over it to sit closer to him.

"All right," she says. "Let's try it this way. Where did you grow up? I know it wasn't here."

"Um." Graham lowers his cup, holding the cold tin between his hands. "Mississippi, Pennsylvania, Louisiana, South Carolina –"

"What, were you a military brat or something?"

"Uh, no," Graham shakes his head. "My dad wasn't good at holding down a job."

Molly's close to him, angled so that he can no longer make out even the side of her expression the dim light. She makes a soft, 'mmm,' kind of sound. He knows she wants to sound understanding, but not pitying. "What about your mother?"

Graham shrugs. "I didn't know her."

"All right," she repeats. "And before you came here you were… some kind of cop?"

"Do we have to talk about this right now?"

He can see her hair tumble from her shoulder as she lowers her head. "Maybe not now." Graham hears her next words, But we will sometime, even though she doesn't say them. But then, she lifts her head again, nudging herself closer to him so that her thigh rests against his.

"This is what we can talk about – you need to move out of this place."

He laughs, low. "What's wrong with this place?"

"Maybe nothing if it were," Molly lifts her cup again, moving it through the air, yellow light flashing over it, as she searches for the right words, "I don't know, a place you spent weekends. But it's dingy and too small."

"It's not too small."

"Will," she says, and even unable to see her he knows she's looking straight at him. "For seven dogs, it's too small."

"They're usually outside."

Again, Molly shakes her head, and he feels her hand on his knee. She doesn't speak, and doesn't move at first, but then he feels the weight of her hand shift, and her figure lowers, as she reaches down to put the cup on the floor with a soft tap. As she rises back up, she lifts her hand from his knee, and he next feels it in his hair, her fingers moving along his ear, the line of his scalp, above his eyebrow and then –

"What is that?"

Her fingertips press, curious, against the scar, and Graham reaches up, gently wrapping his hand around hers, pressing his thumb against her palm.

"It's an old injury."

"How –" She follows as he guides her hand away from the scar, too distracted to notice the movement. "Did you take a knife to your face –"

"Something like that." He lowers her hand, holding her fingers close to his lips. She doesn't try to move away, or to pull her hand back. Graham knows she's waiting, for him to release her hand, or move her fingers closer. But he's not sure what he's waiting for.

Finally, when he still doesn't move, Molly does tug at her hand, and Graham releases her. She pulls back, the soft light folding along her skin as she presses her hands together, like she's trying to spread the feel of him between them.

"I'm not actually into this silent stranger thing, Will," she says, the fire lighting up her face as she turns to look across the room. "I need to know you're going to open up, at some point. Even if it's not tonight."

Graham nods, and leans forward, putting his own cup down on the floor. Nearby, Buster's shadow flutters, ears twitching. The windows are black, her truck is parked just beyond in the frost, Billie is spending the night with a neighbor. No one is going anywhere. Graham reaches over, and takes her right hand again, prying it free of her left.

"I worked for the FBI." It's whispered, but the room is so quiet that it makes little difference. "And I had a case that went – worse than I could have imagined. And I finally got out."

Something changes in Molly's voice when she speaks again. She wraps her fingers around his, turns toward him, resting her head against his shoulder. "All right."

She means it. He can hear the pieces collecting in her mind, the blurred recognition of his name, his face, coming into focus. She means it, but she's also making a decision, right now.

"That's all right."