Familiar

She may be an artist, but she's not a fool. And contrary to popular stereotypes, she doesn't live with her head in the clouds. She never really did, and certainly not since she lost Harold.

A job offer in another country with an all-expenses-paid flight and interview? Odd. Especially since she's never applied for a job out of the country.

A driver who turns out to be kidnappers/hitmen, and rescuers who are pretending to be police officers? That's weird, even for New York. She doesn't understand why anyone would be after her, or why anyone would be protecting her.

And then she's kidnapped, by a strange, menacing British man who makes tea and veiled threats and asks a lot of questions about Harold.

Harold. He's been dead for years. She remembers the memorial as though it was yesterday. The small, solitary cross, and only herself and the priest standing beside an empty grave. Not even any coworkers or friends in attendance. She doesn't understand why this man is interested in him now.

She is, however, furious when he starts to imply things about Harold. 'So he told you' indeed.

She grew up in a rough life. Being an artist, she thinks, made her even more sensitive to the world, rather than less, regardless of what most people think. She has a well-honed lie detector, and she knows when people are keeping secrets.

She knows Harold kept a lot of secrets. He told her he was a computer engineer, but never really discussed his work. He told her he was an orphan, but never really spoke about his family. He talked about his friends, but only sparingly.

But here's the thing. She knows he never told her a lie. He might have kept secrets, but he never told her falsehoods. For all the shadows and mystery he kept his past and his life shrouded in, he was one of the most genuine people she's ever met.

Harold Martin. He ate ice cream in winter. He had a passion for Sencha Green Tea. He had enough money to buy a private midnight viewing of a prestigious art gallery, and he spent it without thought when something caught his eye. But not on fancy cars, or large houses. On art and literature, sometimes fine wines and good food. He could look equally comfortable in a five-star restaurant or a hole-in-the-wall diner. He wore Saville Row suits and Wal Mart brand polo shirts with equal levels of comfort. Given a choice, he would have saved a library rather than lived in a mansion.

She didn't know where he got his money, but she knows how he used it. She didn't really meet his co-workers, but she knows that he cared for them, admired them, valued them. He didn't talk about his family home or where he grew up, but she knows his father loved watching birds, and he can name most of the birds in Central Park with barely a glance. She knows he was rich, but respected the working man, respected and valued everyone from the trash collectors to CEOs. He wore his hair cut short and spiky, and wire-rimmed glasses, and he had a crooked little smile that always looked shy and faintly surprised.

She knows he was smart and kind and shy and quiet and wonderful.

She sits in the darkened room with this British man who tries to imply that her Harold wasn't a good person, was a liar and a trickster, and she feels fury.

She also thinks she feels a glimmer of understanding, and a hint of suspicion.

Understanding, because situations like this? Harold was the type of man who would keep secrets to protect other people from situations like this. He was smart enough to be involved in government work. He was a genius. But he wouldn't talk about it, not if he thought she'd be in danger or if there was a reason she couldn't know. National security or something like that. All these shadows this man is trying to make her doubt, she suspects are shields put in place by a man who would rather have her distrust than see her harmed.

Suspicions, because why would anyone care? Why now? Why are they asking about Harold? It's been years since the bombing that took his life. Since the only friend she ever met, Nathan, was killed in the ferry explosion. Whatever he was working on, whatever he was doing, it's long since over.

Unless it isn't.

She sits in the dark after the man leaves and wonders. Harold's work. Harold's past. She held a memorial by an empty grave and mourned a man whose body she never saw. She's far from the only one to do so, but…

Harold would leave her in the dark to shield her. He would protect her with silence if he thought it was necessary. If he knew something like this could happen.

She isn't sure what to think. Whether to trust this growing suspicion, tinged with hope. It could so easily betray her.

She's still wondering when they take her from the room and put her in a car with a blindfold over her eyes. They're very careful with her, but also very careful about making sure she can't see anything. She wonders why. She's already seen their faces, hasn't she?

She steps out into the cold of early morning, a slight slope of the ground telling her she's on a bridge. Listens as the man who has been her escort gives her directions. Step forward. Walk about a hundred or so feet, straight ahead.

They're letting her go. But...didn't they want Harold? Or someone who knew him, knew what work he did?

She wobbles forward, blind and uncertain. Walking a hundred feet straight ahead never seemed like such a daunting task. She wants to rip off the blindfold, but doesn't dare. What if they shoot her for it? She wants to run, but she can't see where she's going.

She wants to know what's going on.

She's so lost in her thoughts, it's no surprise she trips. Stumbles, unable to see to catch her balance, and flails, expecting to crash into the hard ground. Expecting pain and bruises and scrapes.

Except...she's caught. Hands catch her arms in a gentle but firm grip, steady her. And she feels pain, but not the physical sort she expected to feel.

She knows those hands, that grip. It might have been years since she felt it, but she remembers hands on her arms during dates, during quiet dinners, and nights in. Sure, there are layers of coat and possibly gloves between them, but there were similar layers between them the night he proposed to her, and she couldn't forget that night even if she wanted to.

She knows those hands almost as well as she knows her own, and she's never wanted to ask questions or demand answers more.

But she doesn't know what will happen if she tries. What will happen to him, what will happen to her? There's a reason all this is happening the way it is, and despite all the anguish she feels, she has to trust him. She might not be used to intrigue and shadows, but she understands an exchange when she's involved in one.

She swallows and steadies herself. "Thank you."

He doesn't speak. She wonders if it's because he can't, because he doesn't choose to, or because he's afraid. She wonders if he knows she recognized his touch, or if he thinks that she believes him to be a stranger. She wants to cling, and forces herself to step away, feeling it as he does the same.

His footsteps are different. She can hear them, a slight unevenness to his gait. Is he injured? She doesn't know.

She stumbles through the dark, a hundred feet or a thousand, until she encounters a barrier. Strong hands, large hands, pull her around and forward, pull her – she thinks – to safety. Warm arms pull her close, giving her shelter.

She wants to rip off the blindfold and look back. She wants to see him. But the hands that hold her don't allow for that as they shuffle her forward and into a car.

When the blindfold is removed, she stares into the face of the man who rescued her while claiming to be a police officer. Her protector. Suddenly, she understands a lot more. He was her protector, sent by a man who loved her. A safeguard, sent from the shadows.

She can't look around him to see Harold. She wants to try, but...what if this too is part of her protection? She can't fathom why it would be, but then, she doesn't understand a lot of what's happening.

She has to trust him. Even if she can't see him, even if she didn't hear his voice, she knows now. She felt that touch, those familiar and loving hands. She told the man who took her that he was a good man, a trustworthy man, and she has to hold onto that.

She thinks she should be angry about mourning him for years, standing by an empty grave and all the tears she's shed.

But here's the thing. She knows that tragedy can change a person. Destroy and remake them. Harold lost at least one close friend the day she thought he died. For all she knows, he may have lost far more than that. She doesn't know what shadows reached out and ensnared him, what forces were at work in his life that day, or what he's dealing with now.

She has a feeling though, that even if she'd known, they both might have mourned Harold Martin. Sometimes, the darkness destroys too thoroughly to do anything more than rebuild from the ground up.

Yes, most people would see it as a betrayal. As a cruel trick to play. But she's not most people, and she knows that sometimes being left in the dark is a cruelty, and sometimes it is the only shield love can offer. And yes, she might hate that he made that choice for her, but given the situation, she can understand it.

Somehow, she's not terribly surprised when she gets the job in Italy, despite missing the interview. Or that all her moving and living expenses have been handled. First-class tickets and a beautiful living space, everything is taken care of.

Because being taken care of from the shadows? That's as familiar as the hands that caught her on the bridge. Looking back, she can see the traces, faint but real, of an unseen guardian in her life. And now she knows who it was, who it is. A familiar gesture of love, to give her the world while standing in the shadows.

Someday, she hopes he'll come back to her, step back into the light at her side. Someday, when the darkness that shrouds his life has been drawn away, and the danger he clearly fears is gone. Someday, she hopes she'll see that shy smile again, feel those loving and gentle hands.

Harold Martin may be gone, but who he is now...who he is now is still familiar, and still the man she loves.

Author's Note: Meh...I couldn't help it. This just sort of popped into my head one day. I just...these two...poor Harold. Poor Grace.