PLAYING HOUSE
Minisinoo & Winter's Doubt

Summary:  Scott and Kitty finally take things to a logical conclusion.

Notes:  Scott sections written by Min; Kitty sections written by Stef.  Before anyone faints over the fact Min has written S/K, this story belongs to the X-Axis AU RPG and depends on events there, but we decided to do it this way.  It can be read without being up-to-date with the game (although at the story bottom, Stef has assembled all prior pertinent posts, for the really curious).  The Scott of X-Axis is 26 and based on the deaf Cypher Scott of How the Leopard ..., but he's not with Jean.  X-Axis Kitty is 20, has Jean's powers, and is a computer science senior at CUNY -- not a student at the school.  After suitable angsting over the fact he's a professor (however young) and she's an undergrad, and a scolding from Kitty ("You may be a teacher but you're not my teacher"), Scott got it through his head that he doesn't and never did see her that way, and perhaps he's really trying to avoid what she draws out of him.  They've had a date, they've fooled around, but now Kitty's coming back to his apartment in Washington for a visit, and she's not sleeping on the couch.  In X-Axis, the MRA passed and mutants are under siege.  Among other things, Cypher works with the ACLU trying to get the law declared unconstitutional.

Well, in truth, they'd been arguing since they'd left the little corner grocery.  Not over the food selections.  Agreement on what to eat had been easy, and they'd pushed the cart down the aisles with her caught between his arms so that her back was pressed up against his front.  He'd been forced to sign rather awkwardly and it had occasioned a lot of giggling.  He'd not been food shopping with another person since grad school, and never a female person, and he'd rather liked the picture they cut, and the glances of other patrons who'd checked their hands to see if they were newlyweds.  

But when she'd wanted to pay for half the groceries, his private little fantasy had imploded.  Like hell he was letting her pay for half the groceries.  She was his guest.  Guests didn't pay for groceries.  So they'd stood in the front aisle leading up to the register (it was a small place) and argued in sign language -- rather to the amusement of the staff, who knew Scott.  Despite the fact a mom-and-pop store was pricier, he always shopped here because it was within walking distance of his apartment and the staff was (mostly) familiar with his deafness.  They didn't try to ask him questions ('Paper or plastic?') with his back turned.

She'd shut up long enough to let him check out, then had stayed silent in the car because he was driving and couldn't argue.  (Keeping his hands on the wheel was preferable if they didn't want to end in the hospital.)  When they'd reached his building, he'd stopped by the landlady's groundfloor apartment to let her know that the Mercedes in the little parking lot out back was his for the duration (he didn't want it towed), and to alert her that he had a guest staying for a while.  He'd had guests before, even female guests, but hadn't usually bothered to alert the landlady.

They started arguing again on the stairs while hauling up grocery bags, plus her luggage and his, in several trips.  She had money, she said.  Yes, he knew she had money, he said.  This wasn't about her having money.  She was his guest; guests didn't pay for groceries.  She didn't want to be a burden.  She wasn't a burden.  (She definitely wasn't a burden.)  It wasn't fair that he'd had to pay $87.63 for groceries to feed her.  Well, he'd paid $87.63 for groceries to feed himself, too, he pointed out.  She was a guest and guests didn't pay for groceries.

You can pay for groceries next time, he'd reminded her.  If she was still at his apartment when they ran out of food, she would, he supposed, have moved out of the category of 'guest' and be approaching the category of 'short-term roommate.'

And if this sort of slid over into rooming then . . . they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.  Along with the grocery bill.

Go ahead and settle in, he signed.  I'm going to put food away and start cutting things up for dinner.  It was early for dinner -- only mid-afternoon -- but doing it now meant he didn't have to do it later.  Then I need to run to Georgetown -- pick up mail.  He'd drive; it'd be faster.  And going into the office now meant he wouldn't have to be up early tomorrow morning.

If you want me to stay on the couch, it's okay --

Obediently, he went out to the kitchen and unpacked groceries while the cat played in the bags.  Periodically, he realized he was smiling like a fool for no reason and tried to wipe the grin off his face.  He didn't, entirely, succeed.

Quietly surprised when Scott actually did as she'd said, Kitty set about organizing her things.  She hadn't really meant to pack as much as she did, but she was one of those people who, on occasion, got the urge to pack for 'just in case' situations.  Granted, her suitcase was only three-quarters full of clothing; her shoulder bag held a few smaller bits and pieces, while the suitcase held what hadn't fit in the bag.  Then there was her trusty laptop (which, of course, had been essential and could not have been left behind).

Standing silently in the middle of Scott's bedroom, Kitty took a deep breath.  Her eyes kept falling on the bed, and her mind flickered to the events of Sunday night, and to the conversation they'd managed to have.  Just thinking about it caused her heart to start beating faster than normal, whether out of anticipation or nerves she wasn't sure.  Tearing her eyes away from the bed, she turned and left the bedroom.  There was no point dwelling on it right now.

Her movement did catch his eye.  Turning his head to look at her, he was wearing the grin that made her insides melt.  She'd always thought that to be such a cliché, but with Scott it was true.  He sent, Hey, and continued to chop up whatever it was he had on the board.

He shot her an amused glance, stepping back slightly so she could see.  It made her feel a little foolish, still standing on her toes.  She could see that, on the board, he'd cut up tomatoes, onions, and had started on black olives.  Making dinner, he told her, giving her a quick kiss on the nose.

Taking a seat at the counter, she watched him for a few minutes before picking up one of the newspapers that he'd left there.  She skimmed titles and read articles of interest, pointedly avoiding anything related to the 'mutant issue'; she was in a good mood and didn't see any point trying to ruin it.  The next time Scott turned around, she was absorbed in the cryptic crossword.

She contemplated making a comment about that, but decided against it.  I'll be fine, she signed back.  She was getting better at signing, although she was far from perfect, as the trip to the grocery store had proved.  I think I can keep myself occupied, she added with a wink.  More seriously, she signed, I'll probably have a nap, or something.

Oodles of it, she sent back without looking up.  She finished writing in the current word before she did eventually raise her head to see him watching her.  Under his intense gaze, she felt nervous and bit her lower lip.   What?

She nodded and hopped off the chair.  Yes, you should, she told him.   That way you can get back here earlier.  That received another amused glance from Scott, and she shrugged it off with a smile of her own. 

Because Scott never drove to Georgetown, he couldn't precisely recall where the guest parking was and had to stop and ask, thus it took him twenty minutes to find a place.  Annoyed, and convinced the trip would've been faster if he'd walked after all, he crossed the grounds towards the Bunn Intercultural Center where his office was located.  The skies overhead had clouded up and he realized that he hadn't thought to stash an umbrella in his briefcase.  Splendid.  Kitty had definitely derailed his usual attention to detail.  Last week, he'd been spending extra hours on campus; today, he couldn't wait to get in and out and back to her.

It suddenly occurred to him that Kitty might be feeling the same.  Part of what had originally drawn him to her was that her demeanor was as composed and serious as his own.  (If anything, he was the more gregarious of them.)  Perhaps these feelings were as disconcerting to her?

The receptionist, Trish, saw him enter and followed him into the mailroom.  She waited for him to turn, then said, "I read an article in the papers about a metal mutant boy who's on trial out in California for huge amounts of property damage.  His name's St. John Allerdyce.  It's the same boy, isn't it?"

Scott sighed and tried to remember that all she'd know was what the papers had reported.  Tugging his pad out of his breast pocket, he scribbled, He IS so nice.  It didn't happen like the papers say.  He was attacked first - didn't do attacking.  Manifestations get magnitudes worse when kids are scared for safety.  Scary enough when one suddenly starts doing things out of science fiction novel.

She should, but Scott didn't want to say so.  In his experience, people tended to be gullible about what they read, especially if it tapped into their fears.  Instead, he just smiled and took his mail, heading downstairs to his office off the language lab.

I'm at the office, and I didn't tell her a time, but I've been here a while and it's after five; she might be worrying.

Scott was annoyed, because Jeff was right.  Maybe.  But call her anyway.

Scott went back to work for a while and when he left a second time, the skies were clear, though the sidewalks were slick and the storm had blown down stray leaves and the pollen cones of a male Ginkgo.  Everything smelled wet and fresh and the light was verdant.  With the cooler air, it made a lovely evening and he felt lighter of heart than he had, going in.

After managing a half-hour nap, Kitty had grown restless once again.  She'd paced the length of the living room, and had pretty much explored the entire contents.  After making a mental note to ask Scott about some of the pieces around the room, she went back into the bedroom to grab her laptop and a small collection of folders.

The point was that he wanted her to do some design work for him.  Which wasn't unusual -- she'd helped him out before, and she didn't mind doing it, either.  This time, however, he wanted to pay her.  She'd told him he was mad, and he'd shot back that he was taking up her free time, so she'd better just accept it.  After much grumbling, she had accepted it, and had taken all the data he'd thought she needed.  "It isn't urgent," he'd said over coffee (and in Kitty's case, tea).  "I just figured I'd ask you because I didn't think you had anything else going on."  She hadn't been sure whether that should have insulted or complimented her.  Knowing Daniel, she wouldn't have been surprised if it had been a little of both.

While she was majoring in computer engineering, anything computer-related fascinated her.  After a series of courses during high school, she'd picked up a love of web design, which she carried on now as a hobby.  All of the knowledge she'd gained in this particular area of computer science was self-learnt, but she was very good at it, particularly at the designing level.  She usually let someone else do the coding, although she was quite capable of doing it herself.

And still no sign of Scott. 

Twenty minutes passed when a phone started ringing, jolting Kitty back out of her own little world.  She realized she had no idea where the phone actually was.  Thutmose came to her rescue, and she followed him into the kitchen.  "Thank you," she told him, before picking up the receiver.  It was Jeff Donovan.

Kitty didn't really know what to say.  "Oh, okay," she managed to get out.  Great, now she did sound stupid.  "I was wondering about that, actually.  Before I realized it was raining."

Dinner?  Oh, that was right.  She nodded her head (even though he couldn't see her), "Yeah, it sounds great.  I can't wait to finally meet you.  Scott's always talking about the work you and Matt do."

"Yeah, I'll let him know," she replied.  After exchanging goodbyes, she hung up the phone, and wandered back to her space on the floor.  She wondered why he hadn't just sent her a text message, before she realized she'd never given him her cell phone number.  Suddenly that got moved up on her list of things to do when he got back.

It still took a lot of willpower not to jump up when Scott walked in the door just after six-thirty.  The second she heard the door start to open she'd started packing up her things.  When he walked into the room to find her still sitting among her collection of files and the laptop still playing music, she said, "Hey," out loud, without looking up at him.  Then she realized what she'd done, and looked up, signing, Sorry.  Not that he'd necessarily have seen that she'd said anything.  I heard the rain caught you out, she said, standing up to offer him a smile.

Don't worry about it, she signed back.  I kept myself occupied.   Scott glanced down at the laptop and folders piled neatly on the floor near the couch.  I had some work to do, she told him.  For a friend.

Scott squatted down to see what she'd been up to.  Web design, it looked like -- not really one of his fortes.  He created functional interfaces, not particularly pretty ones . . . back to his lack of an artistic streak.  He studied her design sketches and coding.  "Nice," he told her aloud, then pointed to a series of codes and grabbed the pen out of his breast pocket.  But take a look at this . . . and he redid her code so that it was briefer and less clunky, only belatedly realizing what he'd done.  Sorry, he said.  I have a bad habit of taking over.  Swat me; I'll learn.  He hadn't meant to make her feel either inadequate or like a student.  I do that to everybody.

Embarrassed, he got to his feet.  I'm going to start supper, he signed and left to let her pick up her papers in peace.  He also needed to clean off the bistro table outside.  Grabbing paper towels, he opened the french doors to the balcony and went out to wipe down the table's mosaic-stone top and clean the chairs.

So he handed her the paper towels, pointing to the little trash bin under his desk, and went back into the kitchen, sending, It's okay if Thutmose goes out there.  He has better sense than to try to leap off.  The cat liked the balcony.  Scott had seen him lounge on the bistro table, pretending to sleep, while catbirds swooped lower and lower over his head.  All of a sudden a paw would shoot up . . . and that would be the end of the bird.

They'd had a rather awkward conversation the day before about her previous sexual experience.  He'd known she wasn't a virgin, and he hadn't wanted details, but he had wanted to know just how many times she'd had sex.  His suspicion had been 'not a lot.'  Give me a ballpark figure, if you don't want to tell me exactly, he'd sent, but her reply of 'three times' hadn't done much to ease his mind.  He worried that he might hurt her inadvertently, or disappoint her expectations.  Granted, he wasn't the typical college boy happy to have an opportunity and finished almost before he was out of the gate -- and preferring girls who didn't know any better.  All his girlfriends from the first had been older, or occasionally his age, and had known what they wanted.  He didn't find that intimidating.  To his mind, it made things easier.  What he found intimidating was the prospect of a lover who'd depend on him to find her pleasure.  What if he did something she didn't like?  Would she just lie there and passively accept it?  He doubted Kitty was the type to put up with anything that truly upset her, but a bit of stage direction was advantageous: 'Right there -- slowly, then speed up,'

You're over-analyzing, he told himself as he left the sauce to simmer and poured a glass of shiraz for Kitty, taking it out to her.  He found her sitting on the balcony with a very contented cat in her lap.  She was scratching Thutmose's chin and looking out over the neighborhood of Dupont Circle with its turn-of-the-century houses and old brick storefront shops beneath loft apartments.  Most of the houses here had been converted into flats like his, filled with the yuppie, white-collar class of Washington:  doctors and lawyers starting out, brash single MBAs and government aides, and the occasional stray academic from Georgetown, like himself.  He occupied half the upstairs of what had been some politician's townhouse a hundred years ago, and the interior, while modernized, still had polished walnut baseboards and window frames, arched doorways between central rooms, real wooden floors, and high ceilings sporting decorative medallion button tiles.  Really, it lay outside his budget, but he liked it enough to scrimp.

Kitty smiled at him as he set down the glass and kissed the top of her head, then went to plug in the garden lights -- little bronze-colored bells with dragonfly cutouts -- wrapped about the wrought-iron railing and hanging above the french doors behind.  He'd brought them from his old apartment where he'd had them in the bedroom.  Women liked them, and it provided enough light for him to see by without the unforgiving glare of the lamp on the night stand.  When he'd been forced to vacate to a new (unpublished) address due to harassment, he'd put the lights out on the balcony instead -- the balcony being the main draw of this place, even more than the walnut accents and wooden floors.  

Two lanterns sat atop a pair of plant-tables in the balcony corners; he lit these as well.  It was a ways from dark, but the sun was headed down.  Kitty watched with amusement.  Entertain often? she sent.

Finishing dinner, he cut the bread and carried it all out to the balcony.  Dinner is served, m'lady, he sent, because his hands were too full to sign, and how convenient her telepathy was sometimes.  He felt almost like a normal man.  She sat up in her seat with a smile, dumping the cat off her lap.  Her wine, he noticed, was half gone.  Be right back.  He returned to the kitchen for his own glass and the bottle, then seated himself and poured her more without giving her a chance to object.  If I get you tipsy, are you going to be reading thoughts in the houses across 20^th Street?

"Ah," he said, swallowing a grin.  I hope what you find there doesn't make you blush.  Because it very likely might.  He winked.

Thinking of her eyes reminded him, and he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing pasta plates to carry them into the kitchen.  She jumped up, too, almost knocking over her seat.  "Let me help," she said, forgetting either to sign or send, and it was a good thing he was looking at her.  "I'll do the dishes."  She clearly didn't hold her wine well, but he found it sweet.

She made an 'Oh' face and blushed, but grabbed the empty bottle and glasses and bread basket, and followed.  He put the uneaten bread away, and despite what he'd said about not doing the dishes, she'd pushed up her sleeves and was busy washing off the colander and putting water in the pot and the skillet.  He decided to take advantage of her distraction to ready his surprise, slipping out of the kitchen and over to his desk to turn on his computer.

So Scott was ready; he just had to turn it on, and he waited impatiently while the machine warmed up, keeping an eye on the kitchen door through which he could see Kitty still at the sink, her soft brown hair hanging straight beside her face.  Finally, Windows had loaded and he started the player, calling her aloud, "Kitty Pryde! Come here!"

He'd listened to the song over and over (or more precisely, felt it over and over), memorizing the rhythm, so once he had the beat, he let go of the speaker to pull her against him, left arm around her waist, right holding her hand.  I told you I could dance, he sent, grinning.  She was still laughing, but after her startlement had passed, she fell into the sway of the song with him, and he let his body be guided by hers.  Abruptly, she reached out to stop the player, sending, Wait a minute.

Hey where did we go, days when the rains came
Down in the hollow, playin' a new game,
Laughing and a running, hey, hey, skipping and a jumping
In the misty morning fog with our hearts a thumpin', and you,
My brown-eyed girl -- you, my brown-eyed girl. 

Sometime I'm overcome thinking 'bout making love in the green grass
Behind the stadium with you . . . my brown eyed girl, you, my brown eyed girl .  .  .

She grinned widely and blushed furiously, her face triumphant and her arms locked together behind his back, pressing hard against his shoulder blades.  You are a terrible romantic, she sent.

Not in the least.  I like sappy.  Sappy is good.

He returned with their glasses and the bottle and sat back down; she offered him half the blanket and he tossed it over his shoulder, turning so he could nuzzle her neck.  She giggled and squirmed, which made him giggle.  It wasn't very dignified but he didn't particularly care, and they got lost in each other for a while.  His arm was braced across the back of her seat while his free hand roamed over her chest with the blanket for concealment.  It was a bit thrilling, to grope her in public without the public being able to see.  She didn't object, and her own hand rested against his chest, though she attempted nothing more than licking his earlobe or biting his jaw and neck lightly.

She turned in her seat, because sitting side-on was not giving her nearly enough space to move comfortably.  In her mind she could hear Scott protesting as she moved her hands in order to do so.  You think too much, she told him, giggling the entire time.  Stop it.  It was a definite sign that she'd had too much to drink if she started giggling at the drop of a hat.  He started to protest again, and this time she took his head in her hands, and looked him straight in the eye.  Shut up and kiss me, she told him.  It was distracting to have someone else's thoughts floating around in her mind; she couldn't think clearly (and the wine also had something to do with that).

He was grumbling in his head, but she ignored it, and eventually he stood, offering to help her up.  A pretty good move considering that it took her a moment to gain her balance; the amount of wine she'd consumed had made her light-headed (on top of everything else).  Then again, she had warned him once about getting her drunk.  While he grabbed hold of the half-full bottle of wine and their (mostly empty) glasses, she picked up the blanket, and they made their way back inside. 

Folding up the blanket while he took glasses and wine back into the kitchen, she realized that she was grinning.  Everything that had happened since the time he'd walked in the door after stopping by his office sprang to her mind, and she kept coming back to his whispered 'I love you.' Standing in by Scott's desk, she started humming the tune to Brown-eyed girl.  In a split-second of clear thinking, she knew that she was his completely.  So this is what it felt like to be in love.  

Scott was exiting the kitchen, and she let him wrap his arms around her waist while he kissed her hair again.  We should get ready for bed, he sent to her, and she nodded.  Her nerves had returned a little, the dulling effects of the wine slipping.  But that's all they were: nerves.  She wanted this.  With another quick kiss, this time to her forehead, he told her, Go get changed.  I'll turn off the lights on the balcony.  Then he stepped away to do so.

He'd closed the bathroom door, which wasn't unexpected, so she leaned against the wall outside, waiting for him to finish.  After a few minutes of waiting, she decided a little teasing wouldn't go astray, and sent to him, Sheesh, you take longer in the bathroom than anyone I've ever met.  She found it particularly funny when he opened the door to see her smiling up at him in amusement, while he attempted to scowl at her.  It didn't work, and she laughed at him.  You finished yet?  she asked him innocently, because he was still standing in the doorway. 

That was cruel, he told her, wiping his face with his hands until she passed him the hand towel by the sink.  She just shrugged.  I mean it now, she told him.  Out.  He seemed to think it was a good idea to leave this time and did so that she could finish up in the bathroom.  She splashed more water on her face, trying to revive some of her dulled senses.  'I will not be nervous,' became her private mantra.

I will not be nervous, Scott kept saying to himself as he put on his pajama bottoms.  He wasn't sure why he was bothering.  Wasn't the idea here that they'd be coming off again?  But it felt important somehow.  This wasn't a fling, and he hadn't brought her back from a bar; she wouldn't be gathering clothes in the dim light of morning and leaving before breakfast.  She was sticking around.  So he put on pajamas, and they'd gotten ready for bed, hadn't just fallen there half-drunk and sweaty with need.  He'd even told her he loved her.

Sensing presence, he looked around even as she pushed away from the doorjamb where she'd been watching him.  He wondered how long she'd been watching..  She appeared nervous, too, her face pale despite the amount of wine she'd consumed, but she smiled at him as she hung arms around his neck, not entirely steady on her feet.  He slipped his own arms under her, scooping her up and depositing her on the bed.  It made her squeal in surprise (he assumed) and kick her feet -- then yank him after telekinetically so that he fell atop her legs.  That broke the dizzy spell of building suspense.  The butterflies still inhabited his stomach, but he could ignore them as he climbed her body, pressing her into the mattress and pinning her down.  Her legs came up around his hips, pressing together all the right parts.  He kissed her, propped on one hand while he used the other to fumble at her tank top, pulling it up and over her head.  His own undershirt followed it.  So much for the pajamas.  The tops, at least, had lasted less than five minutes, but he liked the feel of her bare skin against his, her small breasts making a slight cushion between them.  He was rocking into her just as he had the other night, lost in the pleasure of this ancient rhythm.  He might be deaf, but he had rhythm, yes, he did.  He panted with it.

I do, she sent back, I just . . .   She trailed off, and he could feel the heat of her embarrassment.

For a moment, she seemed unable to answer, her mind thrashing about against itself, looking for the words and battling insecurities.  The wine had brought down her shields so that he could feel her mind trembling against his, separated by a thin membrane of 'self.'  He cupped her face and waited.  Don't be afraid of me, he said.  Please.  This was exactly what he'd worried over, wasn't it?  That he intimidated her.

(Don't you want to be perfect for her?)

(You want to be perfect because you love her.)

He moved his head against her, a brief negation.  I want you to be you.

That'd take a lot.

No maybe about it.  He raised his head.  I don't want to upset you, either.  I worry about the same things --

So you say.  But you see the problem?

But he answered her solemnly.  Yes.  A little.

Yes.

And it struck him that this was true, and it made all the difference.  Propping himself up on an elbow, he caught the hand that was playing with his hair and laced his fingers through hers.  He could talk to her, both literally -- speaking with a freedom that was usually denied him in his silent world -- and figuratively.  Maybe the one had released the other, he wasn't sure, and he wasn't sure it mattered.  She'd said once that it wasn't his status as a public leader that had drawn her to him, but how he'd talked to her, like an equal.  Bending now, he kissed her.  "Quit worrying about it," he said aloud.

Sometime during the course of the night they'd managed to get beneath the sheets, and Kitty had curled up against him, content to let him hold her.  She was tired, and her head was starting to hurt (from the wine or from the complete abandonment of her telepathy, or both), but she was happy.  More than that, she was in love.

Her shields were back up, and if Scott were dreaming anything, she wasn't picking it up.  She didn't regret letting her shields down completely (in no way did she regret it), but it startled her to realise that she hadn't been afraid to do it, not for him.  She should have been scared to know that whatever he asked her to do, she would do it, but she wasn't.  She knew he'd do the same for her.

She could get used to it, though, even if they didn't have definite plans beyond 'a few days' (which was vague enough to mean anything).  But she had meant what she'd told Scott previously -- if she got to be a distraction, she could go back to New York.  Not that she wanted to.  She really didn't want to.  Of course, they'd only spent one full day with each other, which meant that they still had time to discover the personal quirks they each possessed, and see how they handled them.  She supposed her own personal quirk was her odd sleeping hours (but she could lay there for as long as she liked with his arms around her, even if she wasn't asleep).

I hate your alarm, she told him.  It was a lovely comment to start the day with, but she needed to say it.

And?

She gave a little frown, mildly irritated at that comment.  I nearly had a heart attack.

He smiled at her.  I will actually need to get to work in the mornings, and forgive me for saying this, but you can be very distracting.  His smile widened when she blushed, and he reached out to pull her closer again, but she didn't let him.

Even you need to sleep.

He sighed, and she felt badly.  She wasn't sure why she was pursuing this, but they'd started this 'visit' with an argument, and now seemed destined to have another one.  At least it was more healthy than both of them acquiescing on every single thing that the other did.  But she wasn't in the mood for arguing.  Not right now.

He shook his head, Don't be.  It does take some getting use to.  He reached out to her again, and this time she let him pull her to him.  He kissed her hair and she buried her face in his neck, acutely aware of his hands running down her back.  This wasn't such a bad way to wake up, not by any stretch.  Sometimes, she reflected, profound moments didn't come with fanfare.  

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