Author's Note: Unbeta'd since the lovely Priscellie is away on vacation. Do send her love and be kind to my errors. Title shamelessly nicked from a Neil Gaiman book which you should all read.

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She looks so fragile.

There really aren't any other words for it. Frail implies weakness, and if there's one word that never enters my mind regarding Murphy, it's weak. Delicate edges towards girliness. Brittle— well, she can be brittle, but only sometimes, never as an ongoing thing. Fragile is the only word that suits my sentiments and hers.

I don't like to watch her sleep. I know the cliché. You're supposed to be so in love that even the sight of your lover sleeping warms your heart. But I don't like to watch Murphy sleep. Most of the time it's because I'd rather be sleeping myself, but sometimes, more and more lately, it's because sleep is unconsciousness and unconsciousness is one step from death. Her death. The one thing that scares me white.

Because she is fragile. She'd hurt me if I said it out loud, but the fact remains. Karrin Murphy, my partner, my wife, my lover and my best friend, is mortal, and fragile. And I am not.

She's not asleep now; she's cleaning her gun, kneeling at the coffee table, a single-minded line of concentration between her eyebrows. I sit across from her, pretending to read but really watching her. There are deepening lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and silver hairs in the gold. Her hands are just a little slower than they were, her reflexes a hint less. Sometimes when it snows, her scars ache.

And mine do not. I don't even have that many scars anymore.

I don't know if she's noticed that. I don't know if she's thought about it. Murphy settled her own worries about our lifespans long ago, long before anything happened between us. Whereas I... I thought I had.

What will I do without her?

It's odd that I never thought about that before. Murphy and I have been lovers for twelve years now, and friends for another decade or so before that. So long that I honestly don't remember living without her. Or, rather, I do, but those memories have all been categorized as my "stupid kid" years and only get referred to when I want the younguns to learn from my mistakes.

I guess it just never entered my head that she might die of old age. Tumultuous as our lives were— hell, still are— I expected that someone would have killed us both by now. I thought she and I would go down swinging, together. It's looking like that won't happen.

That should be a happy thought. But neither of us are done yet, and our enemies are definitely still out there. There's still time for some big baddie to take us out, and that should be a worried thought, not one of relief. There is definitely something wrong in my head.

She's finished with her gun and she's looking at me now, concern mixed with mild annoyance. I don't know if she's read my mind or just my expression, but I don't think she's happy with the way my thoughts are tending. Come to think of it, I don't think I'm happy with the way my thoughts are tending.

"Harry," she says. It's all she has to say.

"I'm fine," I answer, and get up, and hold out my hand. "Come to bed?"

She arches an eyebrow— I'm usually more subtle about my invitations— but takes my offered hand and pulls herself to her feet. Small and fragile, mortal and beloved, and mine for as long as I have her.

For now, that is all I will think.