The room was cold, and blacker than pitch, when Rayna awoke with that bad, old feeling: She had no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there.
Naked, on top of the covers, in a strange bed. Some people might panic.
But Rayna Jaymes had spent nearly half her life in hotel rooms. She knew to lie quietly on her back until she got her bearings.
Her eyes searched the darkness until they found the illuminated display across the room: 4:37.
Then she heard it, to her right: The long, slow intake of air; the slight hitch at the top; the short pause; the long, slow exhale. The deep respiration of a vocalist.
Even though it had been 14 years, Rayna recognized the sound immediately.
She was in Deacon's room, in Deacon's bed.
With Deacon.
The memory of the previous few hours flooded back then, all at once, carrying with it a wave of happiness that started deep inside of her and coursed through her body until it threatened to burst out in wild laughter. She brought both hands up to her mouth, reflexively, her heart hammering suddenly, and managed to squelch the urge to shout, breaking out instead into a huge smile.
The night before had elicited a kind of giddy joy that had surprised the hell out of her. She hadn't felt this way since … well, she wasn't sure when she'd ever felt like this.
The morning Dr. Madsen had first put Daphne into her arms? Seeing Maddie, holding her guitar, collecting the sweepstakes prize in the grade-school talent show? The very first time she and Deacon had made love?
Deacon.
She rolled over on to her right side and propped herself up on her elbow, pushing her hair off her face. Her eyes had started to adjust to the darkness and she could see him, lying on his stomach next to her, heavily muscled arms hugging the pillow jammed under his head, his face turned away, breathing slow and deep.
The need to touch him was overwhelming. She reached out her left hand, meaning to run it over his bare shoulders and nuzzle her face into the crook of his neck. But the moonlight crept in through the closed blinds above his bed at just that instant, illuminating his features, and her hand stopped, mid-air.
The look she saw on his face could only be described one way: Blissful exhaustion.
Are you tryin' t'kill me?
They had been up all night, first out on his couch and then here in his bed, rediscovering one another's bodies in the kind of frenzy built from years of longing looks and fleeting touches and half-remembered love songs. For hours they had murmured incoherent endearments and held each other tightly, unable to stop kissing, unable to stop touching, unable to get enough of each other.
She wasn't sure when they had finally drifted off to sleep, but it couldn't have been long ago.
And now he was sleeping so soundly, and so deservedly, she couldn't bear to wake him. Instead, she contented herself with smiling down at him, her heart still beating hard, her eyes brimming with sudden tears.
How beautiful he looked, lying naked there, so close to her.
How very dear he was to her heart.
I love you. That's just never not been true.
Rayna gazed at him, silent tears slipping down her cheeks, shivering with the cold but unable to look away.
She thought back on the countless nights she'd awoken just like this – alone in a hotel room, or even in bed with Teddy – and been overwhelmed with this same craving for him.
How many times had she lain awake, wondering what he was doing, what he was thinking - wondering where he was at that very instant? How many times had she dared to hope he might be thinking of her? How many times had she sighed and looked out the window, finding some strange solace in knowing that the same moon shone down on both of them, even though they were apart?
Rayna's mind flickered back to the night before, when she had come across him arguing with Stacey backstage.
What'sa matter?
He had confessed, his face so haunted, his eyes so hollow.
You.
She wasn't exactly sure what had happened, but she had seen him – seen both of them – standing down front when the shout came from the balcony:
"Postcard From Mexico!"
It was a hot song, written at a hot time in their relationship, and singing it had always given them an excuse to sex things up on stage. Clearly, Liam had seen them perform it, and last night he'd been more than willing to play up Deacon's part, and then some.
When Rayna had looked down after the last guitar lick had died away, Stacey was all alone.
We're going to St. Lucia, together, so ….
Why, for fuck's sake, did she always feel the need to tell him absolutely everything? The look on his face as she walked away, his eyes trailing after her, nearly killed her. The pain radiating off him was so intense she felt it in her bones.
What had those two hours been like for him, alone in this house, thinking about what he'd lost with Stacey? And thinking about her, on that black sand beach - with Liam?
That devastation in his eyes stayed with her, even as she piled sandals into her suitcase on top of swim suits and sundresses and sunscreen, all the while wrestling with her fear and her secrets and her stupid, stupid pride.
Why had she mentioned St. Lucia? Was it because of the hurt she'd felt, realizing that he'd embarked on a serious relationship just days after finding out that she and Teddy were done?
Rayna didn't even want to think about what they might have missed if she hadn't stopped packing and put her suitcase away and pulled that other bag out of her closet, the one full of memories of him.
Of them.
It was reliving that week in Mazatlan that did it - that pushed her out the door and into her car and on to his porch, trembling. That Christmas week when they'd slipped away, impulsively, from work and family and a million obligations, feeling like outlaws and writing a song to match.
Oh, how they had laughed, riding horseback through the surf, drinking Cuba Libres at the hotel bar, then retreating arm-in-arm over the hot sand to siesta in their private cabana.
Oh, the way he had closed the curtains and unwrapped her sarong, untying her bikini, his eyes never leaving hers as his hands explored her - just like she was brand new, all over again, every afternoon.
It could be good. It could be so, so good.
I love you. That is the truth. And you can do with that what you will. But I needed to let you know…
Rayna stretched out on her back again, luxuriating in the memories, old and new, and wishing with all her might that she could stay here in this bed with him forever.
Instead she sighed and rolled quietly off the mattress, bare feet on the cold wood floor, making her way across the room.
She closed the bathroom door behind her before she flipped on the light, trying hard not to disturb him. She also tried hard not to look around too closely while she peed, for fear of finding evidence of Stacey.
Stacey, who had probably slept in this room last night.
Stacey, who would probably bad mouth her all over town.
Good thing she didn't have a dog.
Rayna snapped off the light and padded back across the room, feeling her way in the darkness. She paused at the foot of the bed and tugged at the covers crumpled there, lifting the sheet and blanket and smoothing them out.
She smiled softly to herself, recognizing what a motherly act this was and how weird it felt, especially on this night, when she felt less motherly than she had in years.
He shifted over to his side as she drew the covers up around him, and she smiled again as she remembered what a restless sleeper he was. Before long, he would throw the blanket off and then, in the morning, accuse her of stealing it; she could hear him now.
She walked around to her side of the bed, recognizing that – indeed – it was her side of the bed. They had unconsciously replicated even that smallest detail.
Shivering again, she slipped under the covers beside him, finally allowing herself the pure joy of pressing her body up against his back. He sighed and scooted over slightly, making room for her to snuggle herself into his warmth. She smiled again – she couldn't stop smiling - and pressed her lips to the nape of his neck as she slid her left arm around him.
"You okay, Ray?" he murmured, taking her hand. She could hear the smile in his voice.
"Yeah. I'm okay."
"Mmmm … I love you."
"Love you too," she murmured, but his body was already relaxing, his breath deepening again.
She kissed his shoulders, both of them, and relaxed too, melting into him and matching him inhalation for inhalation.
The long, slow intake of air …
We are really here, right now.
The slight hitch at the top …
In Deacon's bed.
The short pause …
In Deacon's room.
The long, slow exhale …
Under the same moon.
The End
A/N: A few of us are organizing a "deleted scenes" fic challenge for June. Please PM me if you would like to suggest a deleted scene from S1 to be written as a fanfic. If you'd like to participate in writing a deleted scene anytime in June 2013, please PM me and I will send you the prompts to choose from and the challenge guidelines. Hope this gives us a bit of fun during the hiatus. :-)