Interlude [h.s]

seventy-five

"Done," Anthony says, and she takes the black sweatshirt and hands it to Harry. He puts it on, and the doctor leaves the room.

Harry waits until the door is closed, and then he speaks. "You're upset," he says.

Alouette's head snaps in his direction. "What?"

"You're upset," he repeats, "it isn't the first time." He tilts his head and regards her with an attentive look. "Is it about last week?"

About last week. Such a nonchalant way to describe a moment like that. It doesn't encompass all the times she wakes up at night gasping and has to check that Harry's still alive beside her, nor the stress she feels when she's showering and wondering if he's still alright in the other room. She's constantly on edge, constantly expecting something awful to happen, constantly worrying he might notice and think less of her for it.

And now he's right in front of her and he's waiting for a reply, and the reply is obvious, in fact, it's three words: I love you. But she can't make herself say them. Some confessions come with more strings attached than others, and this one comes with an entire web of repercussions. I love you. How foolish. She likely won't see him again after he goes back to the Palace. And even if she did, what right does she have to love him? She, that came to him with the intent of killing him, that lied to him and betrayed him and took him away from his home. That web of unwanted repercussions was hers before being his. No, she has no right to love him. Not when she's the one that put him in danger, not when he's risked his life more than once because of hers.

No matter how she looks at it, the guilt she feels is encompassing. In the end, he wouldn't have been in Dacran during the insurrection if she hadn't brought him there. If she hadn't stolen him from the Palace, there would have been no revolt in Dacran at all. No one would've lost their homes, their lives in the fire.

Harry is still studying her. "You can't always know everything," he says, standing up and taking a step towards her. "It's what you told me once. Do you remember? You couldn't have known this would happen—any of this. You can't keep the world from falling apart."

"You almost died because of me—"

"No, not because of you. If it'd been because of you, I wouldn't have survived."

Alouette lets out a sound between a sob and a laugh and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her in a hug. Harry tenses up immediately, and she loosens her grip on him.

"When will you understand I have no intention of ever killing you?" she whispers into his ear. "Not today, nor tomorrow, nor in a week or a month from now."

Harry's fingers brush against her sides, up and down in a way that's more soothing than it's meant to be. "What about a year from now?"

"Not even then," she replies, "not even in ten years, or more."

"You can't predict the future."

"I don't need to, because I know." She lets out a sigh. "I still like you," she mumbles. Her voice is a little broken, a little aching, a little sad. "Do you still like me?"

Harry lifts her chin and presses his lips to hers in an unexpectedly gentle, open-mouthed kiss. "I still like you, too," he murmurs as soon as they break apart, "my Lark. I always will."

She hides her face in the crook of his neck. He smells like soap, now. Something a little flowery, somewhat sweet. "You can't predict the future," she says, using his same words from before.

"I don't need to, because I know."

She giggles. "Thank you."

Harry leans his chin on top of her head. "What for?" It's such an affectionate action that she nearly gasps in surprise. She wonders if he did it instinctively, or if he knew what it meant while doing it.