Author's Note:
They're not mine, though I wish they were.
This is just a fluffy drabble from Mac's point of view. Really, you could read it for whatever couple you wanted.
His arms are my favourite place. Firm and sure, they wrap around me with gentle pressure and I can feel his muscles ripple against my sides. His hands on my back are simultaneously soothing and possessive – somehow, with their soft pull, the tension flows out of me breath by breath. Tears roll down my cheeks and soak into his shirt. My head is buried in the soft fabric, pressed against his chest. He moves one hand from its position on my back to smooth my hair with his thumb, following it down to the curve of my shoulder. My breath slows and the wracking sobs turn to whimpers, then cease. He strokes a strong, broad hand up and down my back, and I can feel the pain easing out of me with its passage. He said once that if everything of his is mine, then his arms are certainly not an exception. He is the only one who can make me feel this safe, as if I could block out the world and everyone who's ever hurt me.
I sigh as I close my eyes, savouring the feeling of security. He squeezes me to him for a moment, and rests his head atop mine. I think, perhaps, these are my favourite moments with him. Many couples would say they prefer the joyful memories – getting married, holidays, moments of complete and utter bliss – but I think we've both learnt, long and hard as our pasts have been, that those moments pass. Grand gestures are beautiful and memorable, but this feeling of solidarity, of confidence and respect and safety, is what I've always wanted. I just never knew what I was looking for until now.
He's learnt not to ask questions until I volunteer information; it's been only months together, but he understands me in a way no-one else ever has. The impenetrable wall of miscommunication that typified our old relationship is coming to pieces. We promised to knock it down together, and every honest word we say to each other clears the view a little bit more. He's surprised me with what he's willing to do to make this work. I still become the awed schoolgirl whose crush just spoke to her every time he says the 'l' word, although I should probably be used to it by now. In the early stages of our relationship I found myself keeping a mental tally of the flyboy smiles I received, like merit stickers, every time I opened up to him. Now that number, too, is far beyond my count. It could never get high enough.
I breathe out softly and snuggle further into his arms. Sensing the tears are over, he walks us carefully towards the sofa but doesn't let go. He's had plenty of practice at walking backwards around my apartment, and if I wanted to test him I think he could do it without the light on. I don't, though, I just want him. Always him. Only him. I lean my head up and he strokes his thumb under my eyes, collecting the salty moisture and drawing it in a cross on my forehead. The first time he performed the curious gesture I was all cried out, drifting off in his arms. Somehow, I found enough sleepy energy to ask what it meant. He answered simply that his mum used to do it when he was little as a way of telling God to keep the demons away. I've become fond of the idea and it's somewhat of a ritual between us whenever someone cries. My hand drops to my stomach, and briefly I imagine sharing it with a child someday.
I kiss his palm and sit up, leaning my forehead against his. "Thankyou," I whisper in the space between breaths, and I can feel his understanding. It's not just this moment I'm thanking him for. He's the only one who can make me feel this loved, this safe, this valued. My life is so much better with him in it. He leans in to press a soft kiss to my forehead, then sits back slightly so I can slide off his lap. Drawing strength from our laced hands, I begin to tell him everything.