He doesn't try to tell her it's alright, because it isn't: Tommy came back from France with his family broken but still alive. If either of his brothers had died, anonymous in the mud, he doesn't think he'd be able to go through the days like she does.
So it's not alright, and he doesn't try to pretend it is. Instead he wraps his arms around her waist to pull her up against him, as close as he can get her, as he hushes her softly and strokes her hair. "I'm so sorry," he whispers instead, rocking her as best he can. "I'm so sorry, Letty."
She fights for a moment, just briefly, aimlessly, the spark of who she has to be in order to do exactly that, to get through the days; she pushes back like she might get up, storm out of the room, hit him. Something, anything to stop feeling what this feels like. Certainly if anyone else tried to touch her just now they'd pay for it in blood of one fashion or another.
But it's Tommy, and her first instinct remains her strongest, and she lets him gather her in and it feels worse for several moments, feels like she's ripped open and raw and powerless to stop it, but then she starts to feel better. Then she starts to feel like maybe at long last, she can let go of some of this pressure.
She doesn't know how long it takes to quiet herself again, to let the rocking motion she didn't notice start up lull her, to listen to the sound of his voice and let it draw her back. Her fingers are digging into his shoulders like she has to physically anchor herself to him or risk drowning; she breathes deeply, wetly, and sighs out a shuddering breath.
"Women's hysterics," she croaks, disgusted with herself, grateful, and utterly unable to even lift her head yet, let alone stand on her own. Her grip has relaxed on his shoulders, but her fingers remain crooked and cautious.
He lets her wind down in her own time, lets her cry and wheeze and grip him as hard as she can. In that time he's moved up on the sofa, pulled her up close while he sits there and rocks her. It's breaking his heart to see her like this, but he does notice when it goes from something shameful to something helpful. It isn't good, but it's better, and he lets that console him at least a little.
At least he can be there for her. He tries not to think of her life alone, on the road, with that loss weighing on her.
"I know," he says, and finds that he sounds proud when he speaks to her: proud of her strength, and proud of her ability to let go, now. "I always hoped that when you did, I'd be there."
She wouldn't argue that it wasn't strength, of course, but far more than that it had been fear that held her together for as long as it did; fear of exactly this, that once she started she wouldn't be able to stop, that she would still be alone out there somewhere, vulnerable and trying to fight against every obstacle before her as well as her own broken heart and loss of self.
But she held it together long enough to make it to safety, and now that she's here, it was only a matter of time she supposes. It's painful, crying this hard, and her voice is thick with it, and she'll have a headache all through tomorrow, but she's heard that sometimes it helps. That sometimes after all of that, she'll feel better. Time, wounds, healing. She has to trust in that.
Or trust in him, which hasn't been the easiest for either of them, but apparently isn't impossible.
"I just... it's so useless. All of it. And I know all the words, but it doesn't change anything. It just hurts. It just hurts."
"I know," he whispers, raising a hand now to stroke it through those thick curls of hers. "Nothing can make that right. I can't lie to you about that. But you need to know that I'm here- I'm here if you need me for anything, Letty."
"No, you can't." Lie to her about that; even if he tried, she knows the shape of her grief better than he does, knows how her life changed when suddenly she was alone in it. It didn't kill her, she didn't let it break her, but it can't be made right. Not ever.
Better, different, but not right. But he doesn't try, and she loves him for it, she leans into the touch of his hand and swallows an apology back down into her chest where it belongs, one of her hands sliding down off his shoulder to splay instead across his chest, two fingers below the collar of his shirt right against his skin, the rest over top.
"Thank you." Because she does know that. "I don't think I've ever said that enough. For everything. Thank you. For all of it."
He shakes his head, frowning- that feels wrong, like he did her a favor. When really, she's made his life better in ways he hadn't even imagined were possible.
He leans down, presses his lips briefly against those two fingertips. "I've always been more than happy to do all of it. You deserve it."
She knows better than to argue, mostly because she saves her energy and her effort for battles worth fighting; who owes who more is not among those. Any other time and she'd smile.
She doesn't feel like smiling, but it's not his fault. She follows the lift of his head back up to smooth her thumb over his cheek, and tilts her head so she can see his face without having to pull away.
"It's not about deserving," she says, low. "Just the same. I love you."
He nods and doesn't argue with that in turn, his eyes soft and kinder than they ever are. "I love you too, Letty Ortiz. You're the best woman I've ever known, and don't let Polly hear that."
It's inaccurate to say that this is the side of the man she fell in love with, because she fell for the whole of him, not just the side that rocks her in the middle of the night and tells her he loves her. She loves, too, the hard-eyed soldier that knows how to make tough but necessary calls, she loves the deep, loyal root of his heart, she loves the barbed wire he's put up around it to keep all others out. She loves his cunning and his ruthlessness and his stubbornness and his recklessness.
She loves his strength. "I wasn't born stupid enough to cross that woman," she assures him, and she kisses his chest where her head is resting because it feels three sizes too big for her shoulders, because her eyes still sting, her entire face feels puffy and hot and she doesn't want to move any more than they already have. That still leaves her fingertips in range to card through his shortshorn hair, so she does.
Neither of them are much given to tenderness, but they are both more than capable of it.
"I'd yell it from the bloody rooftops if I was sure I'd leave with my dignity still intact," he says, gently ribbing her. He's stroking her hair as much as she is stroking his, now, and it's a pleasant loop of feedback.
"D'you want some water, love? Something stronger?"
"Not that," she corrects, quietly, but she lets it stand with a small smile, the motion of her hand slowing to trace the edge of her thumb along his cheek now that she's looking at him.
And then he says that and she makes a sound that, on a better day, will be a laugh. "Good lord, yes," she agrees immediately, until she realizes he'll have to get up to get it, and for one, childish moment she doesn't want that at all.
Then she gets hold of herself - women's hysterics, she admonishes herself again silently, and starts to take her own weight back from him, reluctant as she is to do so.
"We can go back to our bed," he offers, stroking his knuckles along her shoulder and upper arm. He has a bottle there, and a glass, which is an old habit he hasn't broken and has no interest in breaking either.
"Alright, love. Let's go, then." He kisses the top of her head, lingering a little before he helps her up. He keeps an arm around her waist as they walk, quietly, careful not to wake anyone else.
He settles the blanket around her shoulders before he pours her a drink, and then he sits back down and pulls her up against him. "Think you'll be able to sleep again tonight?" He suspects not.
Letty, for once, lets him help her up and leans against him down the hallway; she could have made it on her own, of course, but she doesn't have to. For once since she left her mother's kumpania she doesn't have to, so she doesn't, just lets him lead and follows where he goes.
She accepts both the blanket and the drink and, drinking it in small, slow mouthfuls, she's quick to tuck her feet back under her and lean against him, tucking herself in close against him, shoving away the way she feels foolish now, drowning it in another mouthful of liquor.
And, unsurprisingly, she shakes her head after only a moment. "No," she confirms. Not tonight. She is, if she's honest, a little afraid to try. But her free hand is over his chest again, her thumb tracing the line of his collarbone, and she frowns a little. "You should still try though. It's not worth two of us dragging the day through."
"Ah, I'm awake now," he dismisses that with, as his thumb rubs slow circles into her upper arm. He likes the solid weight of her against him, the warmth of her body and the touch of her hand on his collarbone. It helps with telling himself she'll be okay: she's still here, after all.
She is tired but it's the edge-singing kind and not the absolute, bone tired kind that would make her do something stupid once they both go about their day; her eyes will burn and her mind will feel heavy, but she'll make it. She's real, and she's still here, and she'll be okay.
She presses her lips together but part of her is relieved enough not to argue and anyway, they are similarly stubborn between them. Not worth it. Not when she wants the company anyway, selfishly.
"Shall we review the numbers for the month," she asks dryly, teasing. She could - she has the important ones memorized, because the safest place for them is in her own head - but she knows that's not what he means.
She only bites her lip instead of giving him the satisfaction of yipping like she sometimes does when he surprises her, pulling her thumbnail across his skin by way of retaliation, but that's where she drops it. She's looking at the crescent-shaped bruise on her knuckle. She's thinking about family.
"They're fantastic," she says, and the truth of it is that they've all accepted her and she's accepted them, and that doesn't mean everything has been smooth, but it doesn't mean she needs it to be. It's the right kind of in-fighting, sharp and sudden and resolved in the next moment instead of carrying over, gruff and chafing but not serious enough to hold onto. Arthur scares her, not for herself; Michael amuses her, not always intentionally; she and Polly bicker like dogs with a fence between them and yet turn as a single unit on anyone attempting to intervene; she and Ada have the most in common and the least to do with one another.
They're fantastic. "Realized I'm not going anywhere, I think, and decided to go ahead and accept that more or less. It's everyone else still having trouble with that notion. They say you've odd taste."
"And what they mean by that is that they're jealous," he says, mildly- but he's smiling, because he can hear how genuinely she meant that. It warms him right up, to notice and to hear how close she's become to them.
It's two of the most important things in his life, coming together peacefully. It lets him rest easy at night, makes both his business and personal life so much better.
"They wouldn't know what to do with a woman like you."
She takes refuge in that knowledge for a moment, letting her eyes fall halfway closed and breathing deeply until the smell of the liquor stings her nose.
Then her lips quirk. "Am I to assume that means you think you do, Mr. Shelby?"
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So it's not alright, and he doesn't try to pretend it is. Instead he wraps his arms around her waist to pull her up against him, as close as he can get her, as he hushes her softly and strokes her hair. "I'm so sorry," he whispers instead, rocking her as best he can. "I'm so sorry, Letty."
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But it's Tommy, and her first instinct remains her strongest, and she lets him gather her in and it feels worse for several moments, feels like she's ripped open and raw and powerless to stop it, but then she starts to feel better. Then she starts to feel like maybe at long last, she can let go of some of this pressure.
She doesn't know how long it takes to quiet herself again, to let the rocking motion she didn't notice start up lull her, to listen to the sound of his voice and let it draw her back. Her fingers are digging into his shoulders like she has to physically anchor herself to him or risk drowning; she breathes deeply, wetly, and sighs out a shuddering breath.
"Women's hysterics," she croaks, disgusted with herself, grateful, and utterly unable to even lift her head yet, let alone stand on her own. Her grip has relaxed on his shoulders, but her fingers remain crooked and cautious.
"I never cried, Tommy. I never did."
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At least he can be there for her. He tries not to think of her life alone, on the road, with that loss weighing on her.
"I know," he says, and finds that he sounds proud when he speaks to her: proud of her strength, and proud of her ability to let go, now. "I always hoped that when you did, I'd be there."
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But she held it together long enough to make it to safety, and now that she's here, it was only a matter of time she supposes. It's painful, crying this hard, and her voice is thick with it, and she'll have a headache all through tomorrow, but she's heard that sometimes it helps. That sometimes after all of that, she'll feel better. Time, wounds, healing. She has to trust in that.
Or trust in him, which hasn't been the easiest for either of them, but apparently isn't impossible.
"I just... it's so useless. All of it. And I know all the words, but it doesn't change anything. It just hurts. It just hurts."
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Better, different, but not right. But he doesn't try, and she loves him for it, she leans into the touch of his hand and swallows an apology back down into her chest where it belongs, one of her hands sliding down off his shoulder to splay instead across his chest, two fingers below the collar of his shirt right against his skin, the rest over top.
"Thank you." Because she does know that. "I don't think I've ever said that enough. For everything. Thank you. For all of it."
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He leans down, presses his lips briefly against those two fingertips. "I've always been more than happy to do all of it. You deserve it."
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She doesn't feel like smiling, but it's not his fault. She follows the lift of his head back up to smooth her thumb over his cheek, and tilts her head so she can see his face without having to pull away.
"It's not about deserving," she says, low. "Just the same. I love you."
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She loves his strength. "I wasn't born stupid enough to cross that woman," she assures him, and she kisses his chest where her head is resting because it feels three sizes too big for her shoulders, because her eyes still sting, her entire face feels puffy and hot and she doesn't want to move any more than they already have. That still leaves her fingertips in range to card through his shortshorn hair, so she does.
Neither of them are much given to tenderness, but they are both more than capable of it.
"You won't tell anyone."
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"D'you want some water, love? Something stronger?"
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And then he says that and she makes a sound that, on a better day, will be a laugh. "Good lord, yes," she agrees immediately, until she realizes he'll have to get up to get it, and for one, childish moment she doesn't want that at all.
Then she gets hold of herself - women's hysterics, she admonishes herself again silently, and starts to take her own weight back from him, reluctant as she is to do so.
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"I'd like that best," she admits, still quiet, her voice still rough.
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He settles the blanket around her shoulders before he pours her a drink, and then he sits back down and pulls her up against him. "Think you'll be able to sleep again tonight?" He suspects not.
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She accepts both the blanket and the drink and, drinking it in small, slow mouthfuls, she's quick to tuck her feet back under her and lean against him, tucking herself in close against him, shoving away the way she feels foolish now, drowning it in another mouthful of liquor.
And, unsurprisingly, she shakes her head after only a moment. "No," she confirms. Not tonight. She is, if she's honest, a little afraid to try. But her free hand is over his chest again, her thumb tracing the line of his collarbone, and she frowns a little. "You should still try though. It's not worth two of us dragging the day through."
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"I'll keep you company, eh? We can talk."
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She presses her lips together but part of her is relieved enough not to argue and anyway, they are similarly stubborn between them. Not worth it. Not when she wants the company anyway, selfishly.
"Shall we review the numbers for the month," she asks dryly, teasing. She could - she has the important ones memorized, because the safest place for them is in her own head - but she knows that's not what he means.
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"I don't think so, Miss Ortiz. How about you tell me how my loving family has been treating you lately, eh?"
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"They're fantastic," she says, and the truth of it is that they've all accepted her and she's accepted them, and that doesn't mean everything has been smooth, but it doesn't mean she needs it to be. It's the right kind of in-fighting, sharp and sudden and resolved in the next moment instead of carrying over, gruff and chafing but not serious enough to hold onto. Arthur scares her, not for herself; Michael amuses her, not always intentionally; she and Polly bicker like dogs with a fence between them and yet turn as a single unit on anyone attempting to intervene; she and Ada have the most in common and the least to do with one another.
They're fantastic. "Realized I'm not going anywhere, I think, and decided to go ahead and accept that more or less. It's everyone else still having trouble with that notion. They say you've odd taste."
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It's two of the most important things in his life, coming together peacefully. It lets him rest easy at night, makes both his business and personal life so much better.
"They wouldn't know what to do with a woman like you."
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Then her lips quirk. "Am I to assume that means you think you do, Mr. Shelby?"
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"I think I stand a fair change of figuring it out somewhere along the way," he concedes, leaning to press a kiss to her temple.