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He knows he won’t get a second alone with her in Colorado next week and it’s already making him melancholy.
Of course she’s bringing Bob, why wouldn’t she? He’ll bring Raegan too, mostly to balance some invisible equation he feels obligated to uphold.
But he already has the clarity to recognize with every cell, every fibre of being, every nerve ending he will miss her even when she’s sitting right next to him on a stage, within arms reach in an interview, tucked beside him in a photo op. Because they won’t really be themselves. They’ll be edited, redacted, hyperaware of how they act towards one another. He’ll fuck it up and slip up somehow, he’ll stare at her far too long when she’s speaking with an inappropriate amount of adoration, his hands will find her over her blue flight suit and give away that they are actually far too familiar with her body, he won’t be able to help himself from praising all of her achievements he’ll cheerlead her a little too voraciously; more than what a normal colleague would.
But they aren’t normal colleagues. Not at all really. Not for a long time.
Europe has been the most incredible escape from reality. Which has been revered as much as it has been disdained. They both tried so hard to be composed, strong, practical, but the minute the other showed any sign of wavering, all focus, composure and collectedness evapourated into the ether. He’d nearly crossed every carefully constructed boundary with her last night, he couldn’t help it, she was there and she was perfect. But he had stopped himself. He’d stopped himself out of love for her.
They had mastered being warm, professional, cordial in interviews, absolutely supportive and encouraging of their shared teamwork and mission. But in the quiet spaces, when they allowed themselves honesty, when they stopped pretending to be best friends, or just incredible colleagues, they were deeply, inextricably, inconveniently in love.
Being miles away from obligations in America, Europe in comparison, felt freeing, a vacation despite still being on payroll. They hadn’t left one another alone a single night of the entire trip.
One thing that was always abundantly clear - he never wanted her to hurt. He knew all of this was hard on her, he did everything to carry more of the burden. He made sure it felt like it was only ever him who was pursuing her, he shushed her with kisses before she could ever admit to loving or wanting him back, he of course knew that she did; he didn’t need to hear it. When she’d knock on his hotel room door he made sure he was the one pulling her inside so she could claim to be a little reluctant. She never was. She knew what she did to him.
He’d been able to memorize her so intimately this week, every soft kiss to her skin, every time he made her breath hitch, every little whimper when his hands ghosted over her ribcage, everything he whispered in her ear that made her flex her hands against his shoulder blades.
They were both vulnerable and honest. Last night he’d taken her clothes off, knowing they were leaving and his window of opportunity was closing. He’d done it slowly. His eyes always checking in with her. She was pliant and so soft, so encouraging, inviting every further touch he made on her little frame. “Christina tell me to stop.” he’d whispered against her chest desperately. And in return she had just held his eye contact shaking her head. “No.” He didn’t ever rush with her but he was excruciatingly slow with her last night. His lips and tongue traced absolutely everywhere; he could still feel her skin under his mouth in his memory. “I wish you were mine,” he had raggedly admitted in her ear as his hands possessively ran the length of her torso. She had arced into him then and melted and whispered back that she really honestly was. But she couldn’t be, not entirely, certainly not honestly, and it had snapped him back to reality. He had kissed her softly apologizing for getting carried away with her again but that he couldn’t help it. He never could help it, he longed for her. He wouldn’t make her regret anything. He couldn’t cross that line. Yet. Maybe Ever? He’d grabbed one of his t-shirts and pulled it over her so he wouldn’t be tempted again, and held her close. “For what it’s worth I really wanted to Reid,” she’d admitted. He’d already known that. He kissed her softly, “I know, me too.”
He didn’t know when he’d next be able to hold her. He’d have to be content to sit next to her with an undercurrent of shared longing for the next round of press availability. To search the hallways of Johnson for just a glimpse of her frame when he missed her so much he couldn’t breathe.
He already knew he wouldn’t get to have her in a bed in Colorado. And that was already making him sad.