Maybe We've Changed

He'd found her.

After all these months of first running away from her, then from his anger, and then from these unplaceable emotions he was sure he couldn't act on; and then, suddenly, he stopped running away. This wasn't him. This wasn't them.

47 had tried living without her, existing, not thinking about her, what had been, what could have been, but whatever he tried, he knew this wouldn't work. As long as she was out there, somewhere, his thoughts would return to her as soon as he let his guard down.

It had to end, one way or another. They had tried one way, and another, but after everything that had happened that day in Argentina when everything he ever believed in got destroyed, he knew there was no turning back for them.

He'd done it before, but this time he'd be acting on his own accord, this time there wouldn't be someone like Travis in his ear, telling him what to do, pressuring him to eliminate her already. This time, he could take as long as he wanted to ask questions and maybe get some answers; although, knowing Diana, they'd probably be riddles again, for him to solve, for him to despair over, after everything was done and he was truly alone again, forever.

There could have been a chance, for them, but she made her choice, and he had to make his, accordingly. She was too dangerous, knew too much about him, understood him too well. Not only did Diana know his weakness, she was it, and she knew it, and he knew that he'd drop everything in a heartbeat and follow her again, should she decide that he hadn't yet outlived his usefulness for her.

Her mansion lay before him, a beautiful building marrying glass and nature, blending into the surroundings yet standing out just enough to be admired by him.

"Up for some B&E, 47?" he could hear her words in his memory, said a lifetime ago, when he was in New Zealand and she'd just met the Constant a few days earlier, when she was still on his side, determined to help him recover his memories, no matter what. They both didn't expect to find something they'd better left buried in the fog at the back of his mind. It ruined everything, no, he had ruined everything, before they even knew each other. Their friendship had lived on borrowed time from the very start, a house built on sand, and the Constant had turned the hourglass they were in and upended their lives.

The glass door leading from the veranda into the kitchen is open. Was she expecting him, or did she feel that safe out here, in the middle of nowhere? It wasn't like her, but then again, had he ever truly known her? A small voice in the back of his mind protested at this thought, but it was true. In the end, they'd both just played a role, pretended to be what the other wanted to see, pretended that they had something real to make it easier to continue living like that.

Her kitchen was nice; a vast room with tall windows, he could see the entire surroundings and it was beautiful. She always had an eye for it, for beauty and scenery, always enjoyed and appreciated them. This kitchen, this mansion, it was full of her, even though she wasn't there.

It didn't take much imagination to see her working at the kitchen counter, laptop and coffee and maybe a bite to eat, nothing too unhealthy, nothing too distracting, she needed to focus on her work.

What was she doing nowadays, for Providence, against Providence? He considered opening her laptop to find out, if only to see if she'd finally changed her password from "Fortyseven" to something else, but a part of him didn't want to know, didn't want to see the "invalid password" message, didn't want to find out that she'd moved on without him, while he was still there with his memories of their time together; memories he still valued, even though they weren't the only ones any more, even though they hurt now that it was over.

Maybe later, after it was done, after there was no way back to a life with her by his side. He'd come here to ask some final questions after all, he shouldn't have to leave without all the answers. There wouldn't be another chance to ask, and knowing himself, he would regret it sooner or later. Probably sooner.