The stuttering, starting and then stopping warmth of his whispers on her neck, the pressure of his dirty fingertips on her back, his other hand on her shoulder: all of it, it feels too good and hurts in too many painless ways. The room is dark, stained red with the traces of early morning light searing through the stormclouds, the scent of sweat and homegrown wildflowers mingling with their breath, the rush of a monsoon-like rain pounding in her ears; Carrie lies half-open--first edition and it's already dog-eared--on her (their) bedside table and a box of Dharma wine sits on the floor by the door, seeping into the floorboards. Our castle, he said last night, not quite drunk. Princess. She doesn't remember who said I love you first. His hand sweeps lower, brushing against her mark, her brand. His fingers feel like the press of phantom metal, long-extinguished fires searing into her skin.
She exhales in tandem with his sharp exhalation: "what the hell, Blondie?"and then "hey," and finally "tell me. What is this shit?" His voice is darker than before, or maybe it is her own projection, her own illusion (her own wish?). She opens her eyes, shifts his hands away with her movement, tugs the sheet up to her shoulders. He looks at her as if she's slapped him, eyebrows drawn down in the scowl that always makes her think of Han Solo and crazy people waving their guns in the air like palm branches and the flavor of smoke mingling with rum and sandy footprints that crisscross into the jungle and never return. It hurts, looking at him for too long, sometimes, and so she doesn't.
"Who the fuck did this to you?"
She bites on the words trembling between her teeth, wills herself silent.
"Juliet."
She smiles, faintly, fondly, at the blank white slate of the ceiling, and ignores the guilt in her wound-down shoulders. She's read his file, twice now. This is a big deal.
"What, no nickname?" Her voice is too soft in the already-too-soft room, blurring at the edges, a world of hushed promises and tentative twin smiles and blood that tastes like forgetting and familiarity and a love so calm, a trust so measured it is almost atheistic. Science and faith have no place here. She brings a hand gingerly to his musk-colored shoulderblade and traces the outline of her fingernails, shallow slices to the tendons. That was a mistake. "You'll want to apply some aloe. For the sting."
He rolls his jaw and settles back. She waits for the inevitable doctor/nurse crack and blinks, impressed, when it doesn't come. He draws her head to his slick and softening chest; she places her palm over the incision near his heart and listens to the smooth, predictable rush of heat building in his brain and surging down to his toes. He is giving up, for now, she sees, grateful.
"Juliet is a nickname, dollface. Woulda called you that anyway. Pinin' after Romeo all the damn time." His voice rumbles in her ear, a weak echo of waves and wavelengths. His look is at once an apology and a challenge.
She bites her lip and tilts her head, opening her mouth. "Starcrossed lovers, huh?" He snorts. Damn straight.
It doesn't really matter who they're talking about, not anymore. It only matters that they are talking at all and that their bodies are warm and comfortable and that she is not leaving anytime soon, not leaving or losing him, and if this is Jim LaFleur's greatest con ever at least it will be his last.
She sinks back into his arm, her hair fanning out over his neck. Today will be difficult. Today will be I got a right to know and don't you trust me? and I got your back, sweetheart, and she will burn the muffins but he'll eat them anyway. The clock will tick too slowly and she will hold her breath shallowly every one hundred and eight minutes. She will let go of his hand when they part at the door and blame the tears in her eyes on allergies.
Today, maybe he will remember.
She runs her fingers through his hair and lets him hold her like he knows her and listens, breathless, for the next bolt of lighting. Three. Two.
"Love you," he says. (One.) She winces through her smile.
We can change it, Jack said.
(He was wrong.)