To Be Alone With You
The room is dark and I can make out the remnants of dinner on the little round coffee table on the other side of the couch that Mac and I didn't get around to throwing away. I'd guess it's late, judging by how exhausted I am, even though I can't see the clock from here. It briefly crosses my mind that maybe the bed might be more comfortable, though I tried it out when I first checked in and it's more like a toss-up between it and the couch where we are right now. Plus, he's sleeping and I don't particularly want to move.
He'd come over with dinner hours ago- he'd guessed right that I hadn't made it down to the restaurant on the first floor of the hotel yet. It had been a long day for both of us, especially after the fire at my place turned into a homicide and a kidnapping and honestly, I was grateful for the surprise company. As he unpacked the cooler, I wondered when he'd had time to cook for us and find me; I'd only gotten to the hotel an hour and a half after clocking out at the lab. It's been awhile since we've had the chance to spend any long period of time together outside of work though, so I wasn't about to question my good fortune.
We'd sat down on the pull-out couch and turned on some sappy movie that neither one of us had ever heard of as he poured us both glasses of wine and made a crack about the movie's foolish costume choices that were nowhere near period-accurate. About halfway through, I felt myself relax into the cushions and I was curious, foolishly, if his shoulder would be a comfortable place to rest my head. Before I could talk myself out of it, I settled against his side, allowing myself to enjoy the fuzziness in my head from the wine and the enveloping warmth of him next to me. At first, his arm found its way across my shoulders but then, startling us both, I think, I felt his hand move down my back slowly. I immediately felt the soothing motion in my chest, the way it slowed and excited my heartbeat all at once. The warmth reached through my shirt all the way to my fingertips. It traveled further south until his fingers stopped just above the hem of my shirt.
I'd pressed my cheek to his shoulder in approval and a moment later, I felt him graze the bare skin of my lower back with the edges of his nails. Once, he'd tickled me unintentionally- or so I assumed- when he brushed my side. I couldn't help it: I'd squirmed against him. At first, his fingers moved away, but he seemed to think better of it and returned to the spot. I'd gasped. "That tickles." I knew perfectly well that he did it intentionally and I could tell he was smirking when I heard a short breath leave him. His hand moved again to draw gentle patterns on the middle of my lower back. I shifted and smiled when I found the place on his chest where I could hear his heart beat. His hand and the steady rhythm of his heart commanded all of my focus- I couldn't care less that I had no idea what happened in the rest of the movie.
Somehow after it ended, we'd ended up here: with the back of my head against one arm of the couch and my feet folded under his back as his head rests on my hip and he snores quietly. My hand is still curled into his hair, threading and unthreading itself gently to keep him relaxed. I think back to a short time ago when I literally felt him fall asleep against my hand- his whole body was like letting slack into a taut string. I smile, a little proud of my instant cure for his insomnia.
I'm not sure how long we've been laying here like this, but it's of little consequence. I'd forgotten how easily I can forget about time constraints with him when we're not working. It's just us, suspended indefinitely in the dark.
I let his snores carry me away into a peaceful sleep. Soon, memories of the day begin to slink in, much like the smoke that woke me up early this morning. I see the inside of Bonnie's apartment again, watch myself skirt the dancing flames that look gentle enough from a distance, but threaten to jump in my way every time I dare to dart around them. I feel the whoosh of scorching air on my back as the flaming rafter falls, nearly crushing me and Austin as we flee. I jerk, not realizing that I must have been holding my breath. Stretching my legs out from under the blanket over us, I have to gasp to remind myself that I'm not choking on smoke.
That's when I feel Mac's thumb, under my right leg, tracing patterns gently over my pants. It's as if he knows what I was dreaming about. I sigh contentedly as my attention shifts to the feel of his hand and all thoughts of the dream dissipate. He seems encouraged by the quiet noise: his fingers press more firmly, still tracing those gentle patterns. When his other hand finds the sole of my left foot, I curl my toes back and he responds immediately, pressing his palm against it.
I want to tell him to keep going because I've forgotten just how good it feels when he touches me, but I can only murmur another sigh and curl my fingers into his hair. This seems to be enough motivation for him though- the hand that was just under my leg appears on the top of my thigh over the blanket. His fingers spread out and come together again as they slowly move up and away from my knee.
But as suddenly as it appeared, his hand moves under the blanket again to knead my calf. I think a moment later that I want him to move back to my thigh and, as if reading my thoughts again, he does. When he gets there this time though, I feel his fingers close around it and gently pull it toward him so I rest my knee on his chest. His hand kneads higher and higher until he reaches the crease of my hip and I open my eyes to commit this image to memory so I can remind myself tomorrow that this isn't a dream. Then I gasp because he's not snoring anymore.
I nearly pull away when I think he's only doing this because he misses Peyton: I know the break-up is still fresh for him and I think maybe I'm a stand-in for what's been missing from his life for the last couple weeks. A second later though, I know that isn't true. Mac doesn't let himself get close to people if he can help it. He never touches anyone unless he trusts them and even then it's a challenge. He doesn't do stand-ins or mistake people for his ex-girlfriend. He's always aware of everything he does.
I've gotten used to being the one to offer a hand on his shoulder or a hug or a kiss on the cheek because I know it makes him feel like he's not alone. I've gotten used to him rarely reciprocating, even though I'd like him to. Despite the fact that the affection in our relationship is mostly one-sided, I've always known that he's just as invested in our friendship as I am. Still, the fact that he's not snoring and that his hands are touching my legs and we're together in the dark, just because he wanted to surprise me after the day we had, is new to me. New, but natural, I think. I don't have a name to give this, whatever it is we're doing, but I don't care. All I care about are his hands and how he anticipates what I want when I don't say a word.
I curl one foot around his calf with another sigh as my fingers weave themselves through his hair again and I hope he understands that I know he's awake and that this is something I want. Just the fact that he's still here tells me he does.
I don't have a label for this, but I don't think either of us would want to find one, even if one exists. This is us. Time constraints have never really mattered to us anyway.
A/N: Do we really believe Mac would leave Stella alone the night after her apartment burned down? Yeah, me neither! ;) I've been trying to challenge myself with writing descriptions- they're a bit of a weakness for me. So, what'd you think: too wordy? Too choppy? Enough of a mental picture? Let me know! Also, the title of the story and the feeling (that I'm hoping I got across) was half-inspired by "To Be Alone" by Hozier (who's freaking brilliant, by the way).
I'm working on a follow-up for GFD (and of course the IAL sequel), too so stay tuned!
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