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You've been pottering around the kitchen for a while now while Zeno tries to enjoy the first day off he's had in what feels like years. He's been lying on this couch for an hour now, just staring at the ceiling and listening to you do your work while singing along to your music every once in a while. He doesn't know what you're making – he did tell you that he could just order whatever you wanted, but you looked at him like he was crazy and said, “Sometimes, the process of making something is more important than the result,” which threw him for a loop – but he does know that it smells divine: something sweet with a hint of fruitiness and lots of vanilla.
Just sitting on his ass and doing nothing is a foreign concept to Zeno. He's been doing things since he came out of the cloning vat – tests, training, studying, learning how to behave like a human when he wasn't socialised like one. Nowadays, his ‘job’ of overseeing Victor's research on Elpis and the hunt for the elusive weapon keeps him constantly busy. Even when he takes days off – a rare occurrence before you barrelled into his life like a storm and turned everything upside down, but a more frequent one these days because you insist that he needs to relax sometimes – Zeno still works in roundabout ways. Answering an email here, taking a phone call there, remembering that he forgot to look over those reports his assistant sent him last night while he was sleeping – he always feels the need to do something, no matter how small, to feel useful and productive.
Zeno doesn't know how to relax. Not really. But he's been learning. For you.
You quite literally barrelled into him the day he met you. You were late for a job interview and smacked right into him on the sidewalk when he opened the car door to get out; you were so worried and frazzled you failed to see him step out of the car. He didn't get a chance to catch you, too blindsided by the sudden attack even with abilities like his, and you hit your head so hard on the concrete on your way down that you got a concussion.
Safe to say that that interview never had a chance to happen.
Zeno took you to the E.R. and stayed with you until you woke up coherent but with a splitting headache. He took care of your medical bill, apologised profusely for indirectly causing you so much trouble even if it wasn't his fault you weren't looking where you were going, and got ready to finally take his leave once he saw that you were alright and wouldn't have lasting health issues because of your fall.
But then your doctor walked in and said that you could only be discharged if you had someone to pick you up and monitor you for twenty-four hours. And you started crying because you had no one in the city to help watch you and your pet was home alone and waiting for you and you couldn't just leave them to fend for themselves.
Zeno folded like a wet paper towel at the sight of your tears and signed you out. He stopped by your place to let you pack an overnight bag and get your pet, then drove you to his place and watched over you until the twenty-four hours passed and you could be left alone. Those were the best hours of his life up until that moment. He couldn't remember ever laughing half as hard as he did at your terrible jokes. He felt flustered when you flirted with him jokingly and blushed like a tomato when you said he looked cute without his glasses, that it made him look younger and softer and that it wasn't a weakness to be either of those things.
You'd been his guest for less than six hours by that point and had already gotten an incredible grasp on who Zeno actually was. With a concussion on top of it.
It wasn't really a wonder that he fell in love with you by the time he dropped you off back at your place the next day; you feeling the same and asking him out was.
And now here you are six months later, commandeering his kitchen like you own it and filling his gorgeous but empty villa with light, warmth, and personality.
You've taught him a lot of things in the time you've been together. You took his virginity – and he'll never forget how it felt to share something so intimate with you of all people, the look in your eyes as you called him beautiful and begged him to fuck you, and your warm arms wrapped around his body when it was done, pressing kisses against his sternum and saying he was the only man who ever made you want to cry because of how good and nice it felt – then made him watch all the movies he never had time to spare for the rest of that weekend; you let him cry on your shoulder when things became too much and then took him to a spa for the day because you said he deserved to be pampered just because; you made him hot chocolate for the first time and told him that his worth didn't hinge on his usefulness and that it was okay to take breaks every now and again.
He's still learning that last lesson.
The beginning notes of a song he's heard before but couldn't name if his life depended on it reach Zeno from the kitchen, the sound of trumpets, maybe? drifting from your phone speakers while you hum along to the instrumental. Zeno heaves himself up and walks silently towards you, stopping in the doorway as he simply watches: you're wiping the counter with a rag, everything else having been put away while whatever you decided to bake today is in the oven, and you're moving slowly in a dance that has Zeno rooted to the spot, his eyes drinking you in, as you twirl around the kitchen and sing along to the song, oblivious to his presence for the moment.
You finally notice him about halfway through and your face breaks out in a radiant smile, excited to see him. It takes Zeno's breath away to be looked at with so much sincere love, especially by you.
“Z! How long have you been standing there, silly?”
“Not long,” Zeno lies, not really knowing why. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to fluster you by letting you know he's been here since the song started. Or maybe he feels vulnerable in this moment, witnessing you be so comfortable in his home, like you fit here, like it could be your home too, and admitting that he's been watching you for so long would be like admitting some of that desire to keep observing you here for the rest of his days. It's irrational and deeply sentimental. “What are you making?”
“It's a surprise.” You smile at him playfully, a wink accompanying your words, and it makes Zeno want to do stupid things, like tell you he doesn't think he'll ever love anyone half as much as he loves you and get down on his knees and beg you not to ever make him have to try.
The song comes to an end in the background and leaves the two of you in complete silence, the faint humming of the oven the only thing left to disturb the stillness.
“Nice song,” he remarks, sad that he interrupted your dancing with his creeping. Sometimes he wishes he could fade away and simply watch you unhindered: just you and your bright smiles and that graceful way about you that carries you through life. He has yet to realise that you smile brightest when he's around.
“Oh, it's one of my favourites! I've always wanted to dance to it with someone,” you answer, your voice bright and wistful, before your face lights up with an idea. “Why don't you come here so we can do it together, hmm?”
“Oh, I– I don't think that's a good idea, sweetheart,” Zeno stammers, backing away from you without even realising it. He hates the way your face falls, kicking himself for ruining your cheer – he should have just stayed in the living room and left you alone. But he didn't. He came into the kitchen and interrupted your dancing and now you're sad because he denied you something you've wanted since you were young. He needs to make it better, make it clear that this isn't about you – it's just him being defective, as per usual. “It's not that I don't want to dance with you! I just…” He swallows, shame building in his chest like a real, physical weight for once again letting you down by not being normal and not having the normal experiences built into him that everyone else does. “I don't know how to dance.”
Your face clears up of every trace of sadness as his words register. It softens visibly, reminding Zeno of chocolate when it's been left out on the counter in the summer, before a smile graces your features. Your arms extend towards him and you make a beckoning motion with your fingers.
“Come here,” you call out softly, your eyes filled with so much love it makes his chest hurt. “I'll teach you, it's not that hard.”
Zeno follows your invisible string and finds himself standing before you before he knows what happened. You have this effect on him – he never quite realises the power you have over him until he's already moved three mountains in your name simply because they blocked the sun from reaching you.
“There he is,” you murmur, that soft smile playing at your lips still, and your palm is soft and warm when it cups his cheek and when you rub a thumb beneath his eye with all the tenderness in the world. He doesn't know how worthy he is of your love, but he craves it all the same.
Zeno leans his cheek against your hand and closes his eyes briefly, just soaking up the feeling of your body so close to his. He loves you more than words can say.
You press a soft kiss to his lips, then another, and then one more before you pull away. Those same beginning notes start up again, making Zeno pull his eyes open, and you take his hands in yours and place them over your hips before your arms wound around his neck.
“Follow my lead,” you utter softly, your voice hushed as if whispering a secret in his ear, then gently start swaying in place. What a needless instruction – he'd follow you anywhere.
Zeno copies your movements, his own much more stiff and unsure than yours are, but slowly, as the song goes on and your smile never falters, he lets himself sink into the moment and forget about his usual worries of getting it right on the first try and excelling at everything he attempts – here, with you, he doesn't need to be perfect. He doesn't need to be anything: he can just be flawed, he can mess up.
And he does mess up. He accidentally trips over your foot when you try to twirl him around and you laugh so hard you have to clutch your stomach as you make fun of him for the squeak that escaped him when he almost fell flat on his face. He can't even be mad at you for it, not when you look so gorgeous with a huge smile on your face and your eyes filled with happy tears from how hard you're laughing.
It takes a few tries – half a dozen song loops, at the very least – for Zeno to get decent at dancing to this song without tripping and throwing off your rhythm, but when he gets it right… He dances with you in the kitchen, twirling and swaying around the counter and chairs, dipping you in front of the oven and making you giggle breathlessly from the unexpected move, and Zeno thinks he might remember this moment for the rest of his life: you, bright eyed and flushed with life and joy, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows, holding him with gentle hands and a patient smile present on your face throughout the lesson, while the smell of some kind of vanilla flavoured fruit cake lingers in the air.
You've never been more beautiful than you are right now.
‘Never thought that you would be
Standing here so close to me
There's so much I feel that I should say
But words can wait until some other day’
He feels those words in the very marrow of his bones. He never thought he'd get to have this, that something so pure and kind and gentle could be for someone like him – Zeno was not made to be loved, he was made to serve a purpose. But when he's with you, he feels like the only purpose worth having is to love you, cherish you, and make you happy. He doesn't know how to put it into words, fears that he never will, so he just spins you around some more, listening to your delighted laughter ringing in his ears and making his own smile stretch so wide it makes his face hurt, and tells himself that it can wait. He'll figure it out, just not today.
‘You'll never know how many dreams I dream about you
Or just how empty they all seem without you’
He looks into your eyes when those lyrics play over the speakers and by the way your lip wobbles and you slow the dance down to a softer sway so you can kiss him, he knows you understand what he means without him needing to say it. His tears don't fall, they just glimmer in his eyes and cling to his lashes, but you make him bend his head to your level so you can brush them away with your lips, soft petals that handle him with more care than he knows what to do with, while he clings to you and lets the jazz instrumental carry you through the final seconds of the song.
When it ends, he stays locked in an embrace with you for long moments. You kiss him softly and caress his back like he's something precious and Zeno wishes he had the words you deserve but instead he just stands there, holding you and kissing you back wordlessly.
You pull away when your alarm rings to let you know you should turn the oven off but you only step aside to snooze it before you're taking his face in your hands again.
“I've never felt like this either,” you tell him, soft and sweet while you caress his face. “I love you, Z.”
Zeno nods, throat tight and heart doing jumping jacks in his chest, and turns his head so he can kiss your palm.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
You finally step away and turn the oven off while Zeno watches you pull a pan out of the oven and let it rest on the stove while whatever is inside cools down. He can't truly believe that you're here, that you love him, that you're teaching him so many things with so much patience and love. He doesn't know if he deserves it or if there even is a way for him to earn this, to be worthy of it. But he does know that he'd do anything, sacrifice anything, in order to keep it. To keep you. And he knows that he will marry you one day, no matter how far off into the future that day is, because there is simply no version of the future in which he ever does anything else.
(He does marry you only a year later. After you propose to him. He's had a ring burning a hole in his dresser from the first month of your relationship but it's still you who takes the lead and finally gets the ball rolling, just like in every other aspect of your partnership. Zeno marries you in the fall, early on before the cold sets in, when everything is russet and gold, just like that day in the kitchen. He has found the words to tell you what you mean to him by the time you meet at the altar and he says them all before the guests and the officiant, but most importantly, before you.
You cry, but you insist that it was just dust getting in your eyes.
Your first dance as a married couple is to It's Been A Long, Long Time, the same song you taught him how to dance to, the first song he ever danced to, and the first song you danced together to as a couple. Zeno's movements are sure and precise as he leads you in front of all the wedding guests – he's come quite far from the fumbling man he was a year ago. But he still remembers you bare footed in his kitchen, giggling at his bumbling steps, and golden in the late afternoon sun. He doesn't think he could ever forget.
It's truly been a long, long time since he's ever felt like this. But now he knows that he always will – as long as he has you by his side, anything is possible.)