Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives is not mine, nor do I make any sort of claim to it.
Story Summary: She should tell him that she loves him more often… Post-ep for "Pleasant Little Kingdom."
Inadequacy
A story by Ryeloza
They sleep entwined that night, and she smiles.
There's so much security to be found in the dark. Can't see—the world fades away—there's nothing to else to think about or worry about or wonder about—just them. Just her in his arms, warm and solid and reassuring. There is no doubt, in her life or her worth or her being; the misgivings won't return until the sun shines into the room, shedding light on every fissure she sees in herself. Now it's just the rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his breathing (warm and moist against the back of her neck), the refuge of his embrace.
And she thinks that she doesn't tell him often enough that she loves him. Maybe she's started to take it for granted—that he knows it and trusts it and believes it—because it's not intentioned, just forgotten—just assumed. But she does. Love him, that is.
She thinks that it would take forever to list all the reasons why.
That falls by the wayside too. I love you implies such completeness, but doesn't encompass the sum of the parts that make up the whole, and she wonders what it would mean to remind him of the why.
The way he pours syrup on his pancakes in a curlicue pattern, spiraling outward like a blossoming flower.
How he usually misses that little dollop of shaving cream right under his left ear—like somehow he always forgets to wipe the towel over that spot—and she'll have to catch him as he leaves the bathroom with the corner of her robe, and the cuff of the sleeve smells like his cheek.
He pushes her. No one else will. They're all too afraid.
And sometimes when they're alone in the car, he'll turn up the radio and sing along, and she loves the sound of his voice. Loves how over-the-top he'll be just to make her laugh.
He always holds her hand when she needs him to. Always. And sometimes even when she doesn't.
How when they drive up to the lake every so often, he always acts like a kid again, eyes all lit up and laughing like he doesn't have a care in the world. He looks younger there. He looks happy there.
The way his body feels against hers when they make love. How he touches her and kisses her and nips at her neck. How he feels inside of her—like he belongs.
Because he never gives up on her.
And she wants to tell him. She wants to tell him she loves him for a hundred different little reasons and all the big ones too. She wants to remind him why she stays—why she's been with him for twenty years and why she'll be with him another twenty. Because even if he knows, she should still say it more often.
Somehow she knows, though, that come morning the thought will have faded into the background of her mind as the rest of the world comes back into focus after disappearing for a few short hours. She'll kiss him goodbye as he leaves for work and the words will fall off of her tongue so easily—I love you. Just part of a thought.
Three words really aren't enough.