Old Enough

They weren't sleeping together yet. Which surprised him when he finally thought about it.

It seemed that would be the natural thing to do when two people endured trauma like that together and weren't exactly oblivious to each other to begin with. But it hadn't happened – not so much because they didn't want it to, but because it just hadn't occurred to them.

They slept in separate rooms, though they switched between them often, when nightmares woke one or the other in the night. They'd sit in the kitchen until dawn and listen to each other talk about stupid things or the Jazz records Ripley had been collecting or nothing at all. Sometimes they'd sit on the sofa and watch a movie and she'd shuffle into his side and he'd put his arm around her. He liked her warmth and the feel of her dark hair against his cheek, but that was the closest they ever came.

Sometimes she cried in her sleep and he'd kneel by her bed and stroke her hair until she quietened. He wondered if she did the same for him.

Newt slept more soundly these days, her childish mind strong enough to heal at least a little of the nightmares. But there were still a healthy share of nights that found the three of them curled on the couch while the sun came up. Newt always wanted to watch cartoons – he and Ripley never argued.

He supposed it was companionship that they really needed – someone who understood. And that was what they had. Sex just wasn't… appropriate, he supposed. It made him laugh a little to think of it, a hardened, foul mouthed marine like him being so damned chaste.

But before he'd been a Marine, he'd been a West Virginia country boy. He'd milked cows and rode horses and his Mother had raised him right. And that had all been part of dealing with that life – crazy, meaningless sex kind of helped when you felt like you could die any day. Now things were quiet and he felt like living and so it didn't matter so much.

Then, of course, he'd started dreaming about her. Not the usual dreams, where she was writhing within a sticky, putrid cocoon and begging him to kill her and he was emptying his gun into her while one of those screeching, hellish monsters burst from her in a spray of blood and bone and he was wiping her guts from his face and listening to the scuttle of those crab-like parasites and knowing they were coming for him next.

No, those had a tendency to wipe any trace of libido right out of you.

These dreams were different and even more real. He'd wake from a nightmare and find her beside him, in the bed, which she never did, but in the dream it wasn't unusual. She'd hold onto him like she always did while he shook and grit his teeth against sobs of pain. And when it passed, instead of running her hand through his hair and offering coffee, she'd press a kiss to his forehead and trail her fingers down his back. It differed slightly every time, sometimes taking longer, but one way or another he'd find himself suddenly pressing her into the bed, his mouth sealed over hers and her fingers at the waistband of his shorts. He'd bury himself in her and it would be the most incredible feeling in the world and just as she was gasping his name in his ear, he'd wake up.

It was funny, ludicrously funny, to suddenly be dealing with a raging hard-on instead of monsters. Since they'd gotten back, jerking off had been something involuntary that he needed to do now and again, like taking a piss, instead of something he actually enjoyed. Now every time he was in the shower images of Ripley from his dreams, Ripley in a towel, Ripley dancing in the kitchen to her Jazz records or any other fantasy he could dredge up would overwhelm him.

It felt great. It felt silly, kind of embarrassing and utterly normal. He was living with a woman he was attracted to and he was thinking about her naked. It was a relief to feel so mundane.

She noticed though. Not that he was masturbating in the shower every other day, he hoped, but that something had changed. He stared at her a lot, caught himself doing it all the time, and made her laugh a lot more. That felt good, to see her grinning at him in the way that lit up her whole face and chased the shadows from her eyes. He found any excuse to touch her too, held her more tightly after the nightmares, gently pressed her shoulder when he moved past her in the kitchen, trailed his fingers over hers when he handed her a cup of coffee.

And her smile got a little more secret and when their eyes met there was something intimate in her dark gaze that he hadn't seen before.

Newt noticed too, which didn't surprise him because he'd come to learn that kids were good at noticing things nobody else bothered with. She got happier and cheekier, more like a child her age should be. She even had days were she'd be totally hyperactive and would drag the two of them outside to a park or a beach and run rings around them and he'd pick her up and spin her till she screamed with laughter and she'd fall asleep in the car, curled into Ripley's lap. He'd carry Newt into their apartment and Ripley would watch him tuck her into bed and her eyes would be so soft and warm on his back.

It was after one of these days that things changed for good. Newt was passed out in her room, which they'd painted white and filled with warm, orange lights, clutching a giant furry panda that Hicks had won for her at the Fair. He stood with Ripley in the doorway and they watched her for a long time, though his gaze sometimes drifted to the woman beside him because she was glowing in a way he'd never seen before and she was beautiful.

Eventually, he draped his arm around her shoulders and they wandered into the living room and she put a movie on. Something black and white and ridiculous, but she wasn't really paying attention and he was too busy thinking about her. She was tucked into his side as usual, but her hand was pressed against his chest, which was new, and he could feel her eyelashes fluttering against his neck.

She fingered the dog tags he still wore and finally breathed his name against his skin. His dreams flashed behind his eyes and his heart skipped and he turned to look at her and she kissed him.

Same old Ripley - always taking charge.

It was better than the dreams, because nothing could compare to how soft her skin was, how loud her heart beat and how warm she was against him and around him. There was nothing in the world, nothing in the whole of existence that felt better than having her gasp his name in his ear and not wake up.

He wished he could say that they both slept the whole night through, with no plague of nightmares to stir them, and then lived happily ever after. It would be a lie though. She still gasped awake with her hands pressed over the phantom pain in the centre of her chest. He still thrashed through visions of his fallen comrades and little girls with monsters inside them.

But when they held each other now, it was warmer and closer and even more comfort. More like home.

He knew that everything could still go to shit. He knew that they were damaged, doomed people. But when the three of them sat around the kitchen table in the morning and Ripley pressed a kiss to his cheek while Newt debated the advantages of cereal over toast for breakfast… he felt that things could definitely be worse.

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A/N: Shameless indulgence in my wish for a happy ending. Constructive criticism very much appreciated.