She was crying. The words on his lips dissipated  before he could utter them and Solomon shut his mouth.

Every time they argued, his betrayals would be thrown into his face. Today had nothing to do with that - nothing to do with those women, with his indiscretions, but Irene would always hurl it out anyway. Maybe she had a right to, though. He was her wizard.

"I would have..." Sol started and then trailed off, realising he would lose all credibility if he lied. "I would have asked you not to go. But I would have taken no for an answer."

He believed that. It would not have been an easy conversation but preferable to the argument they were having right now. Solomon looked at his wife and felt his insides turn, unable to reach out or to comfort her. Crying. His witch was crying.

"If you want to do this, if you feel you have to," he looked away, because it was hard to see her like this. "Fine. We can work something out."

The confirmation that Irene needed came. He’d have asked her not to go. She knew him well enough. Irene also knew herself well enough that she’d have very likely relented. Not through obedience or any nonsense about being fearful of his reaction, but because she’d been asked. It was part of the reason she hadn’t given him forewarning; she knew how she’d have reacted to his request. Solomon was right, Irene wasn’t a political figure, she didn’t have the stomach for it.

“I don’t know.” she muttered, once more crossing her arms. Suddenly, with Solomon’s change in energy, Irene wasn’t sure what to say. They’d been fighting and it felt like that was all they knew how to do nowadays. She was purposefully cold towards him, for fear that she might relent to his charms and be hurt again. Irene deeply missed the closeness they’d shared, but she knew that letting him back in only meant accepting his deception and betrayal and she didn’t want to deal with that again. She blamed him completely for the mess their marriage was in now. So they argued.

“I don’t want to. But surely you see through this charitable nonsense. ELF are dangerous and they will only thrive on silence and fear.” Irene looked back across to her husband, giving her head a shake. “And your silence. I don’t understand your silence. You claim partnership but stay reticent and inactive on a topic that your own wife is affected by."

He was on his feet before he could stop himself, talking as he crossed the study.

"Irene, please..." Solomon's irritation, softened by the sight of her tears, had mellowed into something more gentle. "You need to let me do this at the pace I think is right. I know what it looks like but I... there is no partnership as Minister, I have to take that step by myself."

But as he approached the doorway, Sol hesitated and buried his hands (his hands wanted to hold her) in his cardigan pockets. They all had reason to hate ELF but right now he hated that foundation for the rift they created in his marriage, for their damnably slippery methods, their masquerading intentions.

"You put yourself in danger today," he swallowed, avoiding her gaze for a moment. "If you don't want to tell me the next time you do something like this, tell Darkwater. Anyone else. If something happens to you, someone has to know where you are and how to help."

Regardless of how either of them felt about the sit-in, what was done was done. Her name was going to be in the papers and all manner of eyes - friendly and unfriendly - would turn their scrutiny onto her.

There’d been a time many years ago that Irene had truly felt like she didn’t have to share her wizard with anyone. Away from the ministry, he was hers. As the years went by, he became more and more swallowed up by the Ministry, but he’d still been hers when he’d come home. Or so she had believed. There was a jarring disconnect between the job and the wizard she knew, a disconnect Irene had learned to manage. There were still, however, times when it infuriated her. While she certainly wasn’t the sort to have thought her thoughts and feelings would get preferential treatment because of who she’d married, she did at least hold a certain expectation that he would have her back personally.

There was no partnership as minister. That much was glaringly obvious.

Solomon asked her to at least tell Darkwater or someone where she was. “I had my brooch.” The look she got from her husband made the witch sigh and nodded. “Okay.” On that much, Irene could relent. She knew the dangers, it was why she accepted the hitwitch’s presence, even if she didn’t like it. “It was selfish of me to not at least tell you.”

Letting out another long sigh, Irene brushed some of her hair back from her face. She looked up at him, her expression more calm now some of the tension had dissipated from the room.
“So let’s just put aside Minister C for a minute and talk to me as Sol. What does Sol think about this new threat, this outright hatred? How does Sol think his wife should be feeling about it right now?”

He smiled his thanks, though his eyes remained serious. Maybe one day she won't be his anymore - maybe she'll leave. Even if that happened, Solomon would be unable to help himself. He would still worry.

"Sol?" he echoed with a hoarse laugh, corners of his eyes crinkling. "Merlin, let me think about that."

It was so very Irene to ask a question like that. She helped him to step outside himself, which he did not like to do in general. Sol was not naturally inclined to examine his life in the same way that an artist might, picking it apart and questioning each piece.

"Sol would like to put Alfred Bitterwood in a holding cell until he breaks," the wizard reached out tentatively, brushing errant hairs from his wife's face and then touching the back of his knuckles to her cheek.

She was so beautiful. It seemed grossly unfair that women could look so beautiful after they have been crying.

"Sol thinks his wife should feel as angry as she likes," he used his thumb to brush a tear from the corner of her eye. "And he hopes she feels safe with him, despite everything, when she's done being angry."

While she may not have been a politician, as a politician’s wife, Irene had learned a lot about people and how they came across. Such knowledge and research helped with her work, she found. While she couldn’t remember the specific numbers, only a small element of communication was the words themselves. More came across in how the words were said, and even more in the actions of the person speaking. So when his hand found her cheek, Solomon’s words held slightly less gravity. While she still listened to his answer, Irene’s mind went to his touch. Physical intimacy in private had long gone because she had rebuffed any attempts years ago following his admittance of the infidelity. Such separation was lonely and even more painful because she had always been a very tactile and affectionate person. She needed physical intimacy.

Irene didn’t push his hand away. Blue eyes cast up towards the ceiling, letting out a long slow breath in an attempt to school her emotions.
“I hope so too.” Physically, Irene had always felt the safest with him. Despite his many years out of the field, she wouldn’t want the protection of anyone but him if it came to it. It was why she didn’t sleep as well alone, his arms had always felt like the safest place in the world. It was her heart that she’d stopped trusting him with.

Despite her attempts to push back the emotion, the tears continued, and Irene once more made eye contact with her husband. “And how’s he going to make her feel safe with him?”

He frowned softly, wishing her tears away. "I don't know," Solomon shook his head distractedly and knew he should retreat.

Everything was already so complicated. When had his life become so complicated? Their love had been so simple once upon a time, a rock solid fact he could lean on in the darkest days. Not could but did - through a war. More.

"Do you want me to hold you?" he asked so quietly that he was surprised to hear himself at all. "Can I?"

It was a selfish thing because he wanted to hold her as much, if not even more, than she needed to be held. The unease brought about by watching Irene cry could only be assuaged by taking care of her. He couldn't imagine doing this for anyone else, or even wanting to do it for them. It was just his Irene.

His question was a surprise to say the least. To anyone else it might seem ridiculous; a husband asking his wife for permission to embrace her. But for them, there was so much between them. Years ago, there’d have been no question, for they had been so physically close. She’d trusted him implicitly. They’d grown into adulthood together. So much had changed.

Irene’s responsible side wanted to say no, to tell him to respect her space. Her heart wanted the opposite and that was what won out when she nodded. The nonverbal response was all he needed because within seconds, the familiar arms were around her, and Irene’s head rested on his chest. She closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar and reassuring scent of sandalwood with the faint lingering of his pine soap. It was home.

They stood like this for what felt like several minutes, arms wrapped around one another, a jigsaw that just fit together right. When Irene finally pulled her head back slightly, she went with instinct. She reached up, pressing her lips against his in a soft kiss. They’d kissed briefly in the past couple of years, a peck to keep up public appearances. But never in private, not like this.

She was warm in his arms - where she belonged. Before she was a photographer or a mother or a werewolf or whatever the wizarding world imposed on her image, she was the Irene that Solomon held in his arms.

His frustrations and his anger lost to much softer feelings. There wasn't room for those things in this embrace.

The kiss came as a surprise. He tensed up, unsure of it, pressing his lips back as an afterthought and then pulling away with an almost shy expression. It had been so long. He felt a like a schoolboy who'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, and the thought made him laugh a little. Grown man that he was.

"We shouldn't," Solomon didn't move away but he slid his hands up onto her shoulders, squeezing. "It's been a long day for you."

She still had blood on her, someone else's blood. He didn't know where her mind was and it didn't feel right, to have enjoyed that kiss so much when she was so very vulnerable.

"Let me draw you a bath?" he offered instead, voice still low. "And you should eat something, before bed."

She’d anticipated a moment of comprehension before he went in for another kiss when Solomon pulled away, but instead he gave a quiet, awkward chuckle and put his hands on her shoulders. Irene would have gone further, she wanted to at the moment, but she didn’t say anything for fear of rejection or sounding ridiculous. They’d shared no intimacy for over 2 years. In the light of day, she would likely realise that doing so in the wake of an argument wasn’t a sensible move for either of them.

So while Irene wanted to shake her head and pull him closer, she didn’t. Solomon was right, and she loathed that truth right now because she hadn’t realised that she needed him. He was also right that she needed to eat. He knew his wife well enough, especially to the point that she would often just forget to eat. Irene, when emotionally triggered or deep into a project, so often forgot to nourish her body. She got distracted by the feelings or the creativity and would go hours without even thinking about food. Their house elves knew this too, and had made a habit of leaving healthy snacks dotted around the house in places that they reckoned she might just pick them up.

Right now, Irene realised she’d not actually eaten since a quick slice of toast shovelled down before the sit in. Reluctantly, the witch nodded.

“I miss you.” She found herself barely whispering.

They were, in more ways than one, well suited.

Irene saw the sense to his caution despite what they both might prefer to fall into tonight - he was too aware of her condition not to listen to that worried voice at the back of his head. The same voice that had compelled him to hesitate and go slow shortly after the war, after his wife had been bitten.

"I'm right here," Solomon replied as he lowered his hands to capture both of hers, kissing the back of her knuckles. "I miss you too."

He could smell the studio on her skin. His artist, who saw the world so differently. Sol really did miss this. Not only the physical intimacies, the sex - he missed the simple gestures of affection.

"Come on..." the wizard remembered himself. "Food first, then bath. I'm sure Greenie's dying to feed you."