A teeny tiny drabble-esque post-ep for Transition.

Counting down

With three weeks, six days to go, he called her up, the mouse hovering over the 'confirm booking' button on the screen, and told her that he was going on vacation, that Sam was basically kicking him out of Washington for a week, and that would she, possibly, maybe, that is, if she wasn't otherwise occupied, perhaps consider going with him?

With three weeks, five days to go, he kissed her on a beach, silhouetted against the sunset, her hand warm in his, and realised he'd made up his mind.

With three weeks, four days to go, he looked at her, blonde hair spread across the pillow in the morning light, and told her he'd figured it out, he did want a life, but only if she was in it.

With three weeks, three days to go, they stopped counting.