It'd been building all day.  First she'd let him sleep in - not woken him
up at all, actually, which meant lying still and feigning sleep herself
for hour after hour, because even after nine and a half months, he still
twitched halfway to consciousness every time she tried to creep out of
bed.

When he *had* woken up, she hadn't insisted on his getting out of bed
immediately ... or for quite some time, and the less said about that, the
better.

After a breakfast that was more of a late lunch, she coaxed him out
shopping, over his protests.  Somewhat to his surprise, there were only
two stops on the trip:  first a music store, then Eclectic, which left the
back of the car half-filled with CDs and books after they emerged.  At
which point she produced the movie tickets, and told him they had thirty
minutes to make it to the theater and get a seat.

The film was quasi-historical, and the argument that *that* spawned,
starting with the inaccuracies in the portrayal of local history and
branching out into another round of timeline-comparison and
multiple-universe theory, lasted till two-thirds of the way through
dinner, at which point he finally emerged far enough from the debate to
notice that not only had they had reservations, but she hadn't complained
once about his table manners or choice of food.

"There had better not be a party after this," he told her.

"Only a private one," she answered with a wink.  "Finish your curry."

After they left, it wasn't their house they went back to; she gave him
directions to a hotel.  Not a fancy one, just anonymous.  She'd clearly
had access to the room earlier, because it *looked* like one of theirs.
Coke and Scotch stocked on the table, a couple of packs of cigarettes by
the ashtray, a handful of candles.  A change of clothing for each of them
hanging in the closet.

She leaned up and kissed his cheek, before starting to tug away from his
hand, head for the bathroom, to freshen up or - he caught a glimpse of
something sapphire-blue and lacy laid out on the counter - to change.
"Happy birthday," she teased over her shoulder.

He reached out to catch her by the shoulder.  "Wait."  She glanced back at
him, surprised, but let him lead her over to the table.

Deliberately, he chose one of the candles, lit it, and set it in a glass
as an improvised holder.  Then he looked at her.  "First time in the real
world, innit?  For us."

Her breath had caught when his eyes met hers, but she'd had the few
seconds while he was speaking to let it even out.  "There was Bermuda,"
she said slowly.  "But - no.  You're right.  That doesn't count."  And she
reached out and took a second candle, lit it from his and placed it
beside.  "In the real world, this time."

They'd both stayed in so many hotel rooms, so many of them
indistinguishable from one another.  Working.  Getting a job done.  They'd
never had time for anything but the job - which was all right; they were
at their best, closest, when they were working together.  In the dream,
Seravina's dream, they'd *made* time for that.  But this time, in the real
world ...

This time, the job *was* each other.  Working at making each other happy.
Nothing other than that.

She did what she'd done in the dream:  she took his hand with her right,
reached up for him with her left, pulled herself up against him for a
quick and fierce kiss.  When it broke, she murmured again, "Happy
birthday."

"Yeah," was all he said, and all he had to.