A teenie post epi for Secret Santa, which gave, and continues to give me, an abundance of feels.
"When we finally kiss goodnight, how I'll hate going out in the storm. But if you really hold me tight, all the way home I'll be warm."
Can you taste the joy on someone's lips? Taste the thrill and newness of rediscovered happiness? The spark of Christmastime that lingers, like the gentle smell of outside and snow, over someones skin?
Can you kiss a person so softly and gently with the barest brush of your winter chilled lips, that they have to cling to you, brush their face against yours with tender reverence, breathe you in completely, just to make sure you're real?
Can you kiss light into darkness? Happy into sad? And together into lonely?
He's pretty sure she can.
Because she is, she does.
Her lips move against his as the smile on her face has to be forced back down deep inside so her mouth can press every little bit of it into him. So she can deepen the kiss and the meaning behind it.
She tries, she tries so hard, and still the smile spills through.
Somehow, in the true spirit of the season, Kate is in his arms, warm against his chest and freezing where her fingers creep at the hem of his shirt, her arms loose before they wrap around him.
Her face is tender and soft as she whispers, "Merry Christmas." Her smile immediately breaking free again. And, with this beautifully infectious grin, lighting her up from way down deep inside, comes a quiet sigh that makes him wonder, just for a second, if she was expecting the words to be painful as she breathed them into the room.
They're not. In fact they sound almost new. And her smile is relief and happiness mixed together. Wonderment at the taste of the words over her tongue, the sweet festivity and saccharin trace of him as he pulls her close, all mingling together and proving she can be here.
She can do this.
That more than anything she wants to. She gets to be more when it matters most and Kate smiles at him. Her eyes close and her forehead rests against his, pleased with herself, for herself.
He can feel it in the way she grips his arms, clinging tight as the tingle of self belief washes through her.
He's proud of her and it breaks his heart apart. To be so in love, so in awe, so grateful, thankful and proud of the person she finally gets to be and he smiles back because she kissed him.
She came to his home, came for him once again, proving how she feels and what she wants, not just him but everything that comes with him. The family, the love, the light bright happiness and the trips, trials and troubles.
She proves it all over again and she kissed him.
She fought hard, continues to fight, and this year, instead of standing guard for others as they revel in the warmth and love of family, she gets to have one. Even if it's not quite her own yet, even if she's still tiptoeing around the edges, she's here, where she should be, holding his hand.
And she kissed him.
Right in front of his tree, with his rambunctious mother and too adult teenager staring at them, she came for him, open and willing and vulnerable.
He doesn't have to break down walls anymore to know her, they have a door that swings back and forth freely and she makes herself vulnerable, leaving the door open for him to gaze inside at her cracked and chipped reflections, the broken inner mechanism of her soul that they are slowly, surely and beautifully piecing back together.
Every day he sees a little more, and tonight she not only opened up the most painful part of herself to him, she let his family see it too.
His heart feels like it could swell three sizes and burst right out of his chest but instead it thunders against his ribs, shudders at the nearness of her body, clambers over itself to love her.
She's willing to put herself on the line in front of the people he cares for most in the world. She wants to be one of them.
She came to his home even as he was rushing to be with her, because it's what they do now, they battle the painful and they bump and graze each other but instead of stepping back and licking their wounds, they lean towards each other, on each other. They listen, they understand and they comfort.
She comes for him as he reaches for her, and together, they meet in the middle.
Her soft voice lulls him back, "It really is beautiful." She repeats, as if remembering, letting go and accepting all at once. She drifts from his arms, turning away to look at his tree. The warm glow of the lights, the sheer intensity of Christmas laying right there before her.
"You're beautiful." He whispers directly into her ear, not willing to let her go far and he tugs until she falls back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her.
And later, he won't need to ask if she's staying.
She'll move past him with a brief squeeze of his fingers, she'll slip her coat off and his mother will hand her a glass of wine.
He won't need to plead in silence with an abundance of longing looks and the firm, insistent, persuasion of his roaming hands.
He won't need to, because she's proving now she came here for him, for them. That they are crafting new traditions, creating a new way forward for them both.
She's staying, of course she's staying.
It's cold outside, it's still snowing and if he had to he would be able to convince her to spend the night. But he won't have to.
Here it's warm, here there is comfort and understanding, hope and possibility, happiness, laughter and joy. Here there is love, and her smile, the way she laces her fingers with his, the way she kisses him all over again tells him, there isn't anywhere else she would rather be.