Eight long months of nothing. It isn't surprising. Even when he was by your side, he wasn't much of a talker. There was no reason to believe that should have changed when he went overseas. But still, you hoped. But that eventually faded.
There was an angry part of you that wanted to just say 'fuck him' and go hop on the first man you could find. But then the softer side would speak up. Remind you of how it felt to fall asleep in his arms, your combined body heat enough to make you sweat but not enough to separate you. Of the nearly orgasmic foot massages he would give you while both lounged around and watched movies all day, sharing a couple of pizzas. Man, could he eat. You never seemed to be able to keep the cupboards full enough. Now, after months apart, they seem far too bare.
The apartment still feels empty, your bed too large. You almost miss the wet towels that he'd leave on the bathroom floor, as much as they used to infuriate you. Or the way that he would leave empty food wrappers on the kitchen counter, even though the trash can was just feet away. And the way his sneakers stunk, you chuckle to yourself, so badly that you made him leave them outside.
Things are bad when even the shit that used to annoy the ever living hell out of you makes you nostalgic for his presence.
Sometimes, he comes to you in your dreams. The more pleasant ones have him whole, smiling that full-lipped grin that he reserves just for you before he nuzzles at your neck and pulls you into his embrace. The nightmares are something else. He stumbles in bloody, wounds on nearly every inch of skin, just silently watching you as he bleeds to death before you wake up sobbing, reaching out for a phantom that isn't there.
Deep down, you know he's okay. They don't notify girlfriends, only wives. But Pilar would have heard something if he wasn't, would have passed it along to you. It's a small comfort, but a comfort just the same.
"I love you." It's a whisper, so soft that you're sure it's a dream. You keep your eyes closed, holding onto the words and the feeling so tightly that your joints hurt. A tear falls before you can stop it, a lump in your throat. It is taking every fiber of your being to grab onto that feeling, that he's right there, to squeeze it tightly before you fully wake and the illusion disappears in a puff of smoke.
You scramble upright in the bed at his first touch, the back of his knuckles just brushing against your cheek. "Tommy?"
His lips quirk up into that grin that you love so much, the image stealing your breath away. "Yeah, babe, it's me."
How you can go from asleep to awake and pissed off in about five second is beyond you, but next thing you know, you're on your feet and hitting every surface of him you can reach, screaming. He barely flinches, just lets you flail and spew profanities at him until you collapse in his arms, sobbing. "Thank God, Tommy, oh thank God."
He shushes you, pulls your face into his chest and holds you until the front of his BDUs are soaked with your tears. It's an ugly cry, full of snot and red cheeks and undignified tears. But you're just so grateful he's home, safe and sound. There has been no feeling as beautiful as his hands in your hair, his breath warm on your skin as he just holds you and doesn't let go. You want to grip him tighter, want his skin under your nails, some evidence that he was there for fear that he'll just disappear again. The anger boils up again, you're suddenly so furious that you can't stand the sight of him. "Out."
"What?"
As much as it pains you, you push him away.
How dare you? you want to scream.
How dare you leave for eight months without a single fucking word and traipse back here like you were never gone? "Get out, Tommy." You're surprised at how even your voice is, despite the emotional roller coaster you've ridden since you woke.
"Babe." His voice is placating, maybe even close to pleading with you. But now that you know that he's safe and sound, you just want to rail against him until he feels the same pain that he put you through.
"GET THE FUCK OUT, TOMMY!" The first object you grab is a pillow, aiming it at his head but hitting his shoulder instead. When you go for the alarm clock, he holds his hands up in surrender. "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
"Alright, alright." His fingers rub against the stubble of his shaved head, looking genuinely anguished. Tommy looks like he's going to talk more but when you pull your arm back to throw your alarm clock at him, he shuts his mouth and drags his feet towards the doorway. His back is to you when he pauses, his voice barely a whisper when he speaks again. "I'm sorry, babe."
It was a dream. That's the first thought when you wake, yawning and padding into the kitchen to brew some much needed coffee. You pause mid-stretch when you notice the couch is in a little bit of disarray. And then remains of the last of your eggs, sitting in their carton on the kitchen counter. "Dammit, Tommy, the trash can is three feet away," you mutter with irritation, but you can't help the smile that it brings to your lips to see the evidence. Even his messy scrawl on the notepad you keep by the fridge, four simple letters, 'eggs' is enough to choke you up a bit. It's all evidence that it's real, he's home, that it wasn't some cruel dream.
You grab the coffee filters and grounds out of habit, grab the decanter to fill it with water when you notice it's already full. Such a stupid little thing shouldn't bring tears to your eyes, but it does. He made you coffee. Like he always used to.
The phone rings and you hurriedly wipe your eyes and sniffle once before answering. She doesn't even wait for you to speak, just shrieks "THEY'RE HOME!" in your ear loud enough that you have to pull the receiver away from your head.
"Morning Pilar," you chuckle.
"You should have seen the kids' faces when they walked into the kitchen and Manny was cooking them breakfast! It still smells like burned pancakes because they just wouldn't let him go."
You can't help the wide grin that spreads across your face. Little Manny and Maria are the sweetest kids you've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Their dad's absence had been hard on them, a lot of questions and a lot of tears. A lot of nights comforting Pilar on their couch while she cried into your shoulder. For them to have their father back gives you more joy than you would have thought. "I'm so happy for you guys, Pilar."
"You seen Tommy yet?"
"You could say that."
"What happened?"
You're half-tempted to make the coffee Irish, but resist and sigh instead. "Creeped in in the middle of the night."
"Oh did he now?" Her tone is suggestive, and you have to hold back a snort before you shoot coffee out your nose.
"I might have kicked him out," you mutter, twisting your fingers in the phone cord while you bite your lip.
Pilar laughs in your ear, a nearly giddy sound as you fight off a smile. You missed hearing that laugh from her, one that was free from worry and stress. She had her Manny back. Of course he would change her laugh. "Serves him right, staying quiet this whole time. You should make him wait eight months before you spread your legs for him again."
This time you actually snort, the abrupt sound turning into a full throated laugh. "I'll consider it."
"So barbeque, this afternoon? Just like old times?"
"Yeah, I'll bring the usual."
A/N - A prompt. It all started with a little tumblr prompt. Something where Tommy is still a Marine? Maybe has a girl waiting for him to get home?
It spun off something completely different. I know I already have a Tommy/OC story out there, so I'm hoping that it doesn't detract from this or vice versa. But the idea brewed and I just love it. It took such a hold of me that as much as I've tried to sit down and write other things, I can't. Because I just have to get this story down on paper.
Review, follow, all that jazz. I love all of you guys.