Beauty is Relative, Babe. 6/?
Title Beauty is Relative, Babe.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M
Summary When England begins to show signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating T for naughty words and strange thinking.
Warnings America spills the tea and England is obstinate.
America ached.
From his head to his toes, a deep, pulsating, constant ache had managed to seep into his flesh, splay over the muscle tissue and settle within the marrow of his bones. With every step taken his body protested, dragging to the point where he could swear he heard the sound of muffled screaming coming from beneath his skin. He had conquered and moved beyond the precipice of weariness; his body moved systematically with little input from sources outside basic instinct and memory.
So when an inconspicuous mass of modern technology that sat atop the marble countertop buzzed for the fifth time, filling the kitchen with a familiar jingle that could only be associated to one person, every fiber America contained cringed away from the device. He knew what was awaiting him behind the clever rouse of plastic and wires. With a shaky, haggard sigh and a bit of fumbling as it slipped and slid from his clumsy fingers (He needs me, he needs me; remember: He needs me.), he flipped the cover and held the receiver to his ear.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
A loud, angry voice exploded through the connection, leaving America to flinch back at the vehemence of the words.
“I know, sir. That was the original plan, but -”
The voice raised an octave higher as it reached a new peak of anger. America’s eyes fluttered shut (Breathe, breathe, keep breathing.), lips thinning out to a fine line as he listened and waited.
“Yes, sir. I know, sir, but I can’t -”
A new bout of rage sounded and America couldn’t help the small tremors that ran through his in his hands at every syllable being blasted into his skull.
“I know, sir, I know; but I can’t -”
A small part of him was shocked the poor cellular hadn’t simply shattered from the sheer volume and outrage that surged through; it must have reached twice the amount that was received in the beginning of the call. His sympathy for the phone slammed to a halt, however, when the subject of his true concern was voiced followed by one too many harsh words.
“Enough!”
The plastic cracked under the vice of his grip (Or maybe it’s the last of your sanity, a small voice offered. Wouldn’t that suck.) and his shoulders shook with the effort of keeping further outbursts locked away. With a fleeting moment of satisfaction for the silence received on the other end, America picked at his train of thought in a slightly more subdued manner.
“Sir, I understand you need me back home. But I can’t leave right now and I won’t leave right now. I don’t care how many reasons you give me or whether any of them even matter. As much as my people need me, I’m needed here.”
An exasperated enquiry shouted though the phone.
“Fax the paperwork over here. Send me transcripts of all the meetings and I’ll send you my input either by email or fax. You can always send me extra updates if you absolutely need to.”
There was a slight pause before another frustrated query was bitten out. America bristled, his free hand moving on its own accord as it swung out in a sort of helpless rage, knocking over pot of tea he had been trying to heat. His voice, however, was eerily calm.
“You tell them that their nation, the very reason they live the life of luxury and wealth, has another priority on his hands and that he will stay with that priority until that priority’s needs are taken care of.”
A long, strained silence fell, leaving only the soft crackling of the connection to fill in the tense atmosphere that traveled between continents. Finally, a sigh followed by a tired resignation was given.
“Thank you, sir.”
Another few mumbled words and a huffy farewell was voiced, which America politely parroted before snapping the phone shut with a sharp click! and replacing it on the counter. He stared at it for a while, as if will alone could cause an explosion in a wonderful show of sparks and its plastic shrapnel. The thought seemed more and more appealing with each second that crawled by - to be the sole controller of this phone, this one thing, and to have the opportunity to completely annihilate its existence without touching it - without laying a finger on it.
But he couldn’t and didn’t, seeing as he had things to do; things he should have been doing before the interruption. He turned back to the stove and a rather desolate looking pile of broken ceramic and spilt water on the clean whites and blacks of tile. Stooping down to scoop the shattered remains up, he immediately jerked his hands away from the pool of broken bits that were cradled in his palm with a sharp hiss. They were hot; too hot for flesh to be in direct contact with. He gave his right hand a suspicious glare and, sure enough, there was a small welt of pinkened, irritated flesh on the heel.
(Deep breaths; in out, in out. Repeat as needed.)
Allowing the oxygen to gather, to inflate his lungs to their fullest extent, America held the breath there, letting it sit and fester within tender tissue, holding it as the overly-full sensation shifted into a tight burning of pent up carbon dioxide clawing for release. He granted the request with a painfully slow exhale, the air sifting through a barrier of gritted teeth as it sought a hasty exit.
The repetitions continued until his legs began to give protest to the crouch that they’d been forced into for a tad too long for their liking. He acquiesced to their plea quickly enough and leveled himself to his feet, setting off in search of the broom and dustpan within the small closet that stood adjacent to the kitchen. Upon entry, he couldn’t help the tiny, strangled sound that bubbled up from his throat.
The storage cupboard was impeccably clean and well organized. So very much like England to keep even a broom closet like an office space, with labels and all. The country reigned his house in the level-headed regard he would when commanding troops - everything had a rightful place, time and order. There was absolutely no excuse for a sloppy living space, much less a sloppy self-appearance.
(He’s getting better, he’ll get better.)
America retrieved the necessary items with clinically precise movements, forcing all other thought into a tiny bottle before shoving aside to the farthest corners of his mind. Overemotional thinking would only prolong the work he had to do, and he needed to finish quickly. The closet door shut with a resounding slam. America ignored the thundering whump! of it falling to the ground.
-
“England, I have dinner ready,” America called with a smile, fumbling slightly with the lock to the bedroom door while he balanced a tray that was tipping precariously to its doom. “It’s beef stew. I even made added the Guinness to it like you always -”
He stopped short as the lock gave way and door eased open. The acrid stench of sick permeated the air. He tossed a quick glance to the bathroom entryway - the alarm was still rigged to sound if the door opened. His gaze fell to the man sitting on the bed, pillow cradled like a safety precaution between his middle and America. Even if this was the umpteenth time this had happened, blue eyes puddled with tears.
“Where is it, England?”
His voice was hoarse and his smile fell into something more akin to a grimace. There was a hesitancy in the face that refused to look up, green eyes shifting nervously from their gaze upon trembling hands. With a sad twitch at the corner of his lips, he set the tray down on bedside table, careful not to slosh the stew or tea too much as it was lowered. He then turned to the small island, moving to sit on the edge of the bed with a gait much like one would use when approaching a wild animal.
“England, baby,” he sighed as he settled onto the plush mattress, “where is it?”
Narrow shoulders shook under the weight of the question. America smoothed a hand over them.
“I’m not mad.” He inched a bit closer and noticed the smell became stronger the closer he edged the small island. “I just need to clean it up, that’s all. Can please you tell me where it is, babe?”
The anxious shifting was back, and for a second America was positive England would flee. But violently trembling hands seized the pillow, handing it over grudgingly to the younger nation. America accepted the offering with a curious frown. He paused for a moment, simply holding the downy bundle before venturing to look into the open slit of the pillowcase. Sure enough, there was a puddle of vomit within, already soaking into the stuffing within. It would have to be replaced.
He swallowed down the sudden rise of bile as he looked up into the streaming eyes of his lover and hated the cold helplessness that stabbed at his chest.
“You can’t keep doing this, baby,” America murmured, stroking his thumb gently across a tear track. “You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up. This needs to stop.”
Green eyes looked imploringly at him, swirling with self-deprecation and a madness that America knew lay just beneath the surface. He wanted to scream, to break things, to do something about the mess that the love of his life had fallen into. He wanted to come face to face with whatever demons forced England to do this to himself and kick their ass, to save him from himself.
But in the end, there was nothing he could do more than what he was already doing. So he drew the older nation closer and placed a chaste kiss on the sweat-beaded forehead and whispered his love across against the fevered flesh before getting up to place the pillow near the door to be tossed after the meal.
“So I made beef stew,” America started again, trying to pick up the lighthearted air that he’d entered with as he plucked up the tray from where he’d lay waiting. “Probably not the same as how you’d make it since there were no fire extinguishers involved, but I think I did an okay job.”
“Why are you doing this?”
America didn’t falter at the soft, trembling query, simply nestled the tray onto the quilts atop the bed and took his seat next to the nation.
“Because I love you,” he said lightly. “Do you want the tea now, or after dinner?”
When no answer came, America took it upon himself to prepare the tea. “I hope you don’t mind the Afternoon blend. It’s all that I could think of serving you this late without you bitching at me that it’s the wrong tea to drink at the wrong time, and all that English propriety junk.”
They sat in silence, the only sounds in the room the soft pitter-patter of a late afternoon London shower and the tinkering of the tea set as America worked. He followed all the steps that England had taught him to a tee, from “elevating” the tea to letting it steep for exactly five and a half minutes before pouring. He added a dash of milk and a teaspoon of honey to the blend, stirring it lightly before handing it over to the nation beside him atop a delicate saucer. The small island looked at the proffered cup tiredly before looking away.
“England,” he pleaded, hand still outstretched with tea, “baby, you can’t drink this? It’s just tea. Tea with skimmed milk, honey, no sugar.” He waited a few more beats. “You won’t even take a sip?”
The small island only slowly pivoted his head away.
America withdrew his hand and replaced the tea on the tray with a shaky sigh. Instead, he took up the small bowl filled with a hearty stew, complete with potatoes, carrots and bits of parsley scattered across the top. He knew this would be the main struggle; since his involvement in England’s “problem,” the nation had fought tooth and nail against food once he found most of his attempts at self-induced vomiting thwarted. Though it killed him to see emerald eyes so desperate and full of such raw hurt, he knew it was for the good of the proud monarchist’s well-being.
“Babe, you have to eat this,” he stated softly, pushing the tray out of what might be harm’s way. “And we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can take this and eat it on your own or I can feed it to you myself. It makes no difference to me in the end - you’re getting fed either way.”
There was a definite stiffening in the small island’s shoulders. America heaved a small, sad sigh before setting the bowl down. England immediately reacted - he scrambled around the bed and bolted for the door, slipping over his own feet in his rush. The younger nation caught him by the wrist, leading him, as the older tugged and sobbed and shouted, to the large armchair kept in the corner of the bedroom as he picked up the bowl of stew.
He proceeded to push the nation into the seat and promptly straddled his thighs, blocking any escape route possible as he carefully settled his weight onto the other. Setting the bowl down on the arm of the chair, the younger quickly took hold of both flailing wrists and pinned them to the plush cushioning of behind the older. The pleas and tears might have derailed him before, but there was no distracting him from his duty.
“Open.” The command was firm, but the voice was gentle as America prodded the spoon against lips. Green eyes glared defiantly to blue as the lips pressed firmly together in their battle against the stew.
But if America was anything these days, it was patient. He held the spoon there, pushing it firmly upon the disobedient lips and waited. When it reached the five minute mark, the young nation began to sink into desperation.
“Baby, please eat,” he implored, his voice edged with raw emotion. “You need to eat. You just threw up every bit of breakfast and lunch and you need something. Please, for the love of God, eat a bite for me.”
The room sank into a heavy silence. Tears slipped from emerald eyes as their lids fell and the mouth opened with a soft sob. America kissed the mop of golden hair and eased the spoon in, withdrawing when he felt the resistance of lips closing over the utensil.
They continued on for four more bites before England shut down, simply refusing to raise his head or meet the sad gaze of his partner. So America leaned back and stepped to his feet, taking the bowl and the tray to the bedside table before lifting the unresponsive nation into his arms and settling into bed beside him. He ran his fingers through soft golden locks as he held the small island close, drawing the blankets over them and whispering words of love to coax him to what he tried to convince himself was a blissful sleep.
“I love you, babe. I love you so much. You’re so beautiful. I love you. I love you.”
-
Hours later, America was jolted awake by the shrill shriek of an alarm and immediately shifted to “action mode.” He swiftly slipped out of the comfort of the warm bed and sprinted to the bathroom door, launching himself at the hunched form. He grabbed at the fingers that made a desperate effort to burry themselves down an open mouth as he hugged the nation to his breast.
“Stop it!” the older screeched, struggling with such desperation that America couldn’t help the tears that brimmed his eyes. “I need to do this! You bastard, let me go!”
“No,” America said softly. “I’m not going to let you go, Arthur.”
“You fucking twat,” England screamed, fingers clawing at the strong arms that held him in place. “I hate you! Let me go, I need this, let me go!”
“I won’t let you go,” the younger repeated, tears trailing down in steady tracks. “I won’t because I love you, Arthur. I love you.”
Two days had never seemed so long.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M
Summary When England begins to show signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating T for naughty words and strange thinking.
Warnings America spills the tea and England is obstinate.
America ached.
From his head to his toes, a deep, pulsating, constant ache had managed to seep into his flesh, splay over the muscle tissue and settle within the marrow of his bones. With every step taken his body protested, dragging to the point where he could swear he heard the sound of muffled screaming coming from beneath his skin. He had conquered and moved beyond the precipice of weariness; his body moved systematically with little input from sources outside basic instinct and memory.
So when an inconspicuous mass of modern technology that sat atop the marble countertop buzzed for the fifth time, filling the kitchen with a familiar jingle that could only be associated to one person, every fiber America contained cringed away from the device. He knew what was awaiting him behind the clever rouse of plastic and wires. With a shaky, haggard sigh and a bit of fumbling as it slipped and slid from his clumsy fingers (He needs me, he needs me; remember: He needs me.), he flipped the cover and held the receiver to his ear.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
A loud, angry voice exploded through the connection, leaving America to flinch back at the vehemence of the words.
“I know, sir. That was the original plan, but -”
The voice raised an octave higher as it reached a new peak of anger. America’s eyes fluttered shut (Breathe, breathe, keep breathing.), lips thinning out to a fine line as he listened and waited.
“Yes, sir. I know, sir, but I can’t -”
A new bout of rage sounded and America couldn’t help the small tremors that ran through his in his hands at every syllable being blasted into his skull.
“I know, sir, I know; but I can’t -”
A small part of him was shocked the poor cellular hadn’t simply shattered from the sheer volume and outrage that surged through; it must have reached twice the amount that was received in the beginning of the call. His sympathy for the phone slammed to a halt, however, when the subject of his true concern was voiced followed by one too many harsh words.
“Enough!”
The plastic cracked under the vice of his grip (Or maybe it’s the last of your sanity, a small voice offered. Wouldn’t that suck.) and his shoulders shook with the effort of keeping further outbursts locked away. With a fleeting moment of satisfaction for the silence received on the other end, America picked at his train of thought in a slightly more subdued manner.
“Sir, I understand you need me back home. But I can’t leave right now and I won’t leave right now. I don’t care how many reasons you give me or whether any of them even matter. As much as my people need me, I’m needed here.”
An exasperated enquiry shouted though the phone.
“Fax the paperwork over here. Send me transcripts of all the meetings and I’ll send you my input either by email or fax. You can always send me extra updates if you absolutely need to.”
There was a slight pause before another frustrated query was bitten out. America bristled, his free hand moving on its own accord as it swung out in a sort of helpless rage, knocking over pot of tea he had been trying to heat. His voice, however, was eerily calm.
“You tell them that their nation, the very reason they live the life of luxury and wealth, has another priority on his hands and that he will stay with that priority until that priority’s needs are taken care of.”
A long, strained silence fell, leaving only the soft crackling of the connection to fill in the tense atmosphere that traveled between continents. Finally, a sigh followed by a tired resignation was given.
“Thank you, sir.”
Another few mumbled words and a huffy farewell was voiced, which America politely parroted before snapping the phone shut with a sharp click! and replacing it on the counter. He stared at it for a while, as if will alone could cause an explosion in a wonderful show of sparks and its plastic shrapnel. The thought seemed more and more appealing with each second that crawled by - to be the sole controller of this phone, this one thing, and to have the opportunity to completely annihilate its existence without touching it - without laying a finger on it.
But he couldn’t and didn’t, seeing as he had things to do; things he should have been doing before the interruption. He turned back to the stove and a rather desolate looking pile of broken ceramic and spilt water on the clean whites and blacks of tile. Stooping down to scoop the shattered remains up, he immediately jerked his hands away from the pool of broken bits that were cradled in his palm with a sharp hiss. They were hot; too hot for flesh to be in direct contact with. He gave his right hand a suspicious glare and, sure enough, there was a small welt of pinkened, irritated flesh on the heel.
(Deep breaths; in out, in out. Repeat as needed.)
Allowing the oxygen to gather, to inflate his lungs to their fullest extent, America held the breath there, letting it sit and fester within tender tissue, holding it as the overly-full sensation shifted into a tight burning of pent up carbon dioxide clawing for release. He granted the request with a painfully slow exhale, the air sifting through a barrier of gritted teeth as it sought a hasty exit.
The repetitions continued until his legs began to give protest to the crouch that they’d been forced into for a tad too long for their liking. He acquiesced to their plea quickly enough and leveled himself to his feet, setting off in search of the broom and dustpan within the small closet that stood adjacent to the kitchen. Upon entry, he couldn’t help the tiny, strangled sound that bubbled up from his throat.
The storage cupboard was impeccably clean and well organized. So very much like England to keep even a broom closet like an office space, with labels and all. The country reigned his house in the level-headed regard he would when commanding troops - everything had a rightful place, time and order. There was absolutely no excuse for a sloppy living space, much less a sloppy self-appearance.
(He’s getting better, he’ll get better.)
America retrieved the necessary items with clinically precise movements, forcing all other thought into a tiny bottle before shoving aside to the farthest corners of his mind. Overemotional thinking would only prolong the work he had to do, and he needed to finish quickly. The closet door shut with a resounding slam. America ignored the thundering whump! of it falling to the ground.
-
“England, I have dinner ready,” America called with a smile, fumbling slightly with the lock to the bedroom door while he balanced a tray that was tipping precariously to its doom. “It’s beef stew. I even made added the Guinness to it like you always -”
He stopped short as the lock gave way and door eased open. The acrid stench of sick permeated the air. He tossed a quick glance to the bathroom entryway - the alarm was still rigged to sound if the door opened. His gaze fell to the man sitting on the bed, pillow cradled like a safety precaution between his middle and America. Even if this was the umpteenth time this had happened, blue eyes puddled with tears.
“Where is it, England?”
His voice was hoarse and his smile fell into something more akin to a grimace. There was a hesitancy in the face that refused to look up, green eyes shifting nervously from their gaze upon trembling hands. With a sad twitch at the corner of his lips, he set the tray down on bedside table, careful not to slosh the stew or tea too much as it was lowered. He then turned to the small island, moving to sit on the edge of the bed with a gait much like one would use when approaching a wild animal.
“England, baby,” he sighed as he settled onto the plush mattress, “where is it?”
Narrow shoulders shook under the weight of the question. America smoothed a hand over them.
“I’m not mad.” He inched a bit closer and noticed the smell became stronger the closer he edged the small island. “I just need to clean it up, that’s all. Can please you tell me where it is, babe?”
The anxious shifting was back, and for a second America was positive England would flee. But violently trembling hands seized the pillow, handing it over grudgingly to the younger nation. America accepted the offering with a curious frown. He paused for a moment, simply holding the downy bundle before venturing to look into the open slit of the pillowcase. Sure enough, there was a puddle of vomit within, already soaking into the stuffing within. It would have to be replaced.
He swallowed down the sudden rise of bile as he looked up into the streaming eyes of his lover and hated the cold helplessness that stabbed at his chest.
“You can’t keep doing this, baby,” America murmured, stroking his thumb gently across a tear track. “You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up. This needs to stop.”
Green eyes looked imploringly at him, swirling with self-deprecation and a madness that America knew lay just beneath the surface. He wanted to scream, to break things, to do something about the mess that the love of his life had fallen into. He wanted to come face to face with whatever demons forced England to do this to himself and kick their ass, to save him from himself.
But in the end, there was nothing he could do more than what he was already doing. So he drew the older nation closer and placed a chaste kiss on the sweat-beaded forehead and whispered his love across against the fevered flesh before getting up to place the pillow near the door to be tossed after the meal.
“So I made beef stew,” America started again, trying to pick up the lighthearted air that he’d entered with as he plucked up the tray from where he’d lay waiting. “Probably not the same as how you’d make it since there were no fire extinguishers involved, but I think I did an okay job.”
“Why are you doing this?”
America didn’t falter at the soft, trembling query, simply nestled the tray onto the quilts atop the bed and took his seat next to the nation.
“Because I love you,” he said lightly. “Do you want the tea now, or after dinner?”
When no answer came, America took it upon himself to prepare the tea. “I hope you don’t mind the Afternoon blend. It’s all that I could think of serving you this late without you bitching at me that it’s the wrong tea to drink at the wrong time, and all that English propriety junk.”
They sat in silence, the only sounds in the room the soft pitter-patter of a late afternoon London shower and the tinkering of the tea set as America worked. He followed all the steps that England had taught him to a tee, from “elevating” the tea to letting it steep for exactly five and a half minutes before pouring. He added a dash of milk and a teaspoon of honey to the blend, stirring it lightly before handing it over to the nation beside him atop a delicate saucer. The small island looked at the proffered cup tiredly before looking away.
“England,” he pleaded, hand still outstretched with tea, “baby, you can’t drink this? It’s just tea. Tea with skimmed milk, honey, no sugar.” He waited a few more beats. “You won’t even take a sip?”
The small island only slowly pivoted his head away.
America withdrew his hand and replaced the tea on the tray with a shaky sigh. Instead, he took up the small bowl filled with a hearty stew, complete with potatoes, carrots and bits of parsley scattered across the top. He knew this would be the main struggle; since his involvement in England’s “problem,” the nation had fought tooth and nail against food once he found most of his attempts at self-induced vomiting thwarted. Though it killed him to see emerald eyes so desperate and full of such raw hurt, he knew it was for the good of the proud monarchist’s well-being.
“Babe, you have to eat this,” he stated softly, pushing the tray out of what might be harm’s way. “And we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can take this and eat it on your own or I can feed it to you myself. It makes no difference to me in the end - you’re getting fed either way.”
There was a definite stiffening in the small island’s shoulders. America heaved a small, sad sigh before setting the bowl down. England immediately reacted - he scrambled around the bed and bolted for the door, slipping over his own feet in his rush. The younger nation caught him by the wrist, leading him, as the older tugged and sobbed and shouted, to the large armchair kept in the corner of the bedroom as he picked up the bowl of stew.
He proceeded to push the nation into the seat and promptly straddled his thighs, blocking any escape route possible as he carefully settled his weight onto the other. Setting the bowl down on the arm of the chair, the younger quickly took hold of both flailing wrists and pinned them to the plush cushioning of behind the older. The pleas and tears might have derailed him before, but there was no distracting him from his duty.
“Open.” The command was firm, but the voice was gentle as America prodded the spoon against lips. Green eyes glared defiantly to blue as the lips pressed firmly together in their battle against the stew.
But if America was anything these days, it was patient. He held the spoon there, pushing it firmly upon the disobedient lips and waited. When it reached the five minute mark, the young nation began to sink into desperation.
“Baby, please eat,” he implored, his voice edged with raw emotion. “You need to eat. You just threw up every bit of breakfast and lunch and you need something. Please, for the love of God, eat a bite for me.”
The room sank into a heavy silence. Tears slipped from emerald eyes as their lids fell and the mouth opened with a soft sob. America kissed the mop of golden hair and eased the spoon in, withdrawing when he felt the resistance of lips closing over the utensil.
They continued on for four more bites before England shut down, simply refusing to raise his head or meet the sad gaze of his partner. So America leaned back and stepped to his feet, taking the bowl and the tray to the bedside table before lifting the unresponsive nation into his arms and settling into bed beside him. He ran his fingers through soft golden locks as he held the small island close, drawing the blankets over them and whispering words of love to coax him to what he tried to convince himself was a blissful sleep.
“I love you, babe. I love you so much. You’re so beautiful. I love you. I love you.”
-
Hours later, America was jolted awake by the shrill shriek of an alarm and immediately shifted to “action mode.” He swiftly slipped out of the comfort of the warm bed and sprinted to the bathroom door, launching himself at the hunched form. He grabbed at the fingers that made a desperate effort to burry themselves down an open mouth as he hugged the nation to his breast.
“Stop it!” the older screeched, struggling with such desperation that America couldn’t help the tears that brimmed his eyes. “I need to do this! You bastard, let me go!”
“No,” America said softly. “I’m not going to let you go, Arthur.”
“You fucking twat,” England screamed, fingers clawing at the strong arms that held him in place. “I hate you! Let me go, I need this, let me go!”
“I won’t let you go,” the younger repeated, tears trailing down in steady tracks. “I won’t because I love you, Arthur. I love you.”
Two days had never seemed so long.