It was not perfect.
How could it be? Between them, they have nearly a century of experience, have encountered the worst in humanity, have seen the worst in themselves. But they have survived, found strength and hope and love...found each other.
She snuggles back against his comfortable bulk, his leg coming up to rest on hers, his hand on her stomach pulling her closer still. Her fingers stroke the thin lines on his thigh; the once angry wounds now pale slashes of silver.
Silver scars.
She had some too; their jagged tracks marching across her belly. Hers were proud emblems of the depth of her compassion, her gift of life. His were a source of shame; the battle scars of a secret war that he had waged alone. She could only touch them at times like these, when awake he would steer her hand away. She had told him of her fears that dreadful night; how, even now, her heart still skipped a beat when he lay that way, the thought that she may have lost this, lost him, too painful to consider. But his past was closed to her; he had pulled her into his arms, held her tight, silent in his reassurance.
Her fingers caress smooth skin, surprisingly sparse with hair, considering the abundant thick curls on his head, the ever present stubble. She explores the fine ridges of the scars, trying to read their history, divine their mystery, as if they were Braille. But they are as silent as him on the subject.
She is glad she has stayed tonight. They hadn't moved in together; both of them too used to living alone, both of them needing time apart, the intensity of their feelings sometimes overwhelming. But today was the anniversary of his mother's death and he'd been unusually open. He had spoken of his adoration, his frustration, his hatred and his guilt, had spoken at length and with passion, had looked at her as he shared his feelings. There had been no fidgeting and fumbling for words, no head turned away, no eyes cast downward. She had listened and marvelled at how far he had come; heart swelling with yet more love, if that was even possible. And it had been her turn to hug him fiercely, her turn to be speechless.
His words had dried up, and he had reverted to his preferred way to express his feelings – physically. And in this, he was truly eloquent. Whether it was a gentle touch on her arm accompanied by a raised eyebrow to check if she was OK, or the rapture in his eyes as he moved within her, moved her; he made his feelings known.
She squirms a little, pressing her thighs together as she recalls their earlier love-making, feels him twitch and stir in response.
The sex was another way he had changed; in the early days, he had been frantic, desperate with need, as if seeking every opportunity to claim her, make her his. And when he realised she was not leaving, he became anxious to please, to use his nimble fingers, deft tongue and consummate skill to take her higher, farther than ever before. But she had not been a mere recipient of his knowledge; she had been a teacher, too. She had taught him that orgasm was not the only demonstration of love; that a tender kiss, an gentle caress, a playful pinch were equally valid and he had mastered this new language of love as quickly and adroitly as he learned other tongues. She had taught him the pleasure in receiving as well as giving, and together they had learned about each other; each moment now a shared experience, a shared expression of love.
Business as usual; sex and silence. But somehow, through this deep underlying connection, it now worked.
She realises that during her musings her hand had now strayed to that tender spot at the back of his knee, the one guaranteed to get a reaction. And sure enough, she can feel him swelling, hardening, his hand moving from her stomach to cup her breast, his breath hot on her neck as he buries his face in her hair.
No, it was not perfect. But it was very good, indeed.
The rich aroma of fresh coffee jolts him out of his morning stupor and he realises he has been staring, blank eyed, at the machine, lost deep in thought. Realises, too, that his feet are cold from standing barefoot on the linoleum, a minor discomfort considering the rest of him feels so warm. But this warmth is not from the ambient temperature, it comes from deep within him; it is affection, and fondness, and care. It is the warmth of love.
He feels his lips move and knows that they have shaped themselves into that little smile that she always says makes her think of margaritas. The reference is lost on him, one of a thousand mysteries she presents, but he knows it gives her pleasure and that is enough. His smile broadens to a grin; he had never thought that he would be content to exchange an unanswered question for a feeling.
He had never thought he would be able to talk so frankly about his mother, either. Especially not all the emotions she evoked in him. Especially not as she was so intrinsically bound to his dark past, to... He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, the memories safely walled away again. This is what he has been using his sessions with Gyson for; separating out his sordid, shameful secrets, locking them tightly away while learning to speak openly about other aspects of his past.
So far he had been successful; Gyson was still ignorant of this part of his life. Alex knew a little, had witnessed some of it and he knew she wanted to know more. She was curious about his scars; her stretch marks symbolised life for her but he knew his scars represented nothing but death. He knew there should be honesty between them, but he also knew there could be too much. She is going to have to accept unanswered questions, just like him; will have to embrace his feelings and their future, instead.
He takes his coffee and walks through to the living room, having to move the cushion and the folded throw before he can sit in his favourite chair. Her additions to his home a minor irritation, compared to the major upheaval that living together could mean. He had gotten used to the way he liked things, just as she had. He felt clumsy and giant sized in her home, she said his felt sterile; hence the concessions of throws on his couch, and a bigger bed at her place.
The door opens and he is still shocked by the sight of her, comfortable in his living room, wearing nothing but one of his old T shirts and panties. Maybe not even panties... He feels the surge of desire, although his body has not yet recovered from their pre- dawn love-making to turn thoughts into action. Instead he raises his mug in a silent offering and she shakes her head, equally silent in reply. He watches her settle on the couch, adjusting the cushion for comfort. He likes the way she does not have the need to fill every moment with noise. In these times they are free from the distraction of words, misunderstandings, hidden meanings, subtle subtext.
A quiet communion.
The sun breaks through the clouds, sending a shaft of light through the window, transforming her hair into a blazing halo. The symbolism is not lost on him. She is, indeed, the light in his life.