New Certainties

Together again,

It will feel so good to be in your arms

Where all my journeys end.

She wakes to the quiet warmth of the early morning sun streaming from the open window. The curtains, caught in a breeze, flap gently overhead, almost in a measured dance. While senses are readily accessible, consciousness is slow to wake; it takes her a moment to remember where she is. The faint stirring beside her, the soft breathing, clues her in and the memory of the past few days come rushing back and she can't help but smile.

She squints the sleep and sunlight off her eyes. When she turns her head to the side, she's welcomed by a very awake Jack, and a very amused smile from him. He's lying on his side, facing her, his right hand propping up his head, while the left, planted in front of him, maintains his balance. The sunlight plays about him, making a luminescent canvas of light and shadow with his face, bare chest, and the white sheets twisted lazily around his legs, and he's beautiful like that but she tries not to let that distract her.

"Why do you always do that?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Hmmm?" he finds that he can't let go of the smile just yet.

"Wake up before I do."

He lets out an amused laugh to go with the smile. "Just want to make sure last night wasn't a dream."

"Oh, is that so? Well, what about the night before last night?" She raises her arms, hands almost touching the headboard as she gives her body a stretch. The sheets slip off her shoulders, and rest along the incline of her breasts. "And the night before that? And how about…"

"What? You haven't heard of recurrent dreams before?" His tone is teasing, and his smile, innocuously content and pure awhile ago, has transformed into one that could only be described as cheeky. And she thinks two can play that game.

As soon as he'd let out the words, she leans to the side, her hands finding his neck to pull him into a kiss. When she finishes with him, his cheeks are flushed, his breathing ragged and that smile, she especially notices, has finally been wiped off his face.

She leans back fully on the bed, quite satisfied with herself. "Good morning, Jack."

"Okay, so it's not a dream," he assents; if dreams were that good, that real, maybe all those years shouldn't have been so hard on him. But he's not giving up the tease without sufficient compensation, "How about you give me another one, just to make sure."

"You're too cute." She just laughs it off; it bothers her sometimes, the idea that after days of being with him, even with the comfortable intimacy they'd manage to build between them, that he could still make her nervous, sweaty palms and all that.

"And here I thought you said it was creepy."

Her eyebrows shoot up at that. "I didn't say…"

"Oh you did." He scoots closer, losing an inch or two of the unwanted distance.

"Don't remem…"

"Sure you do." His hand comes to settle on her stomach. She tries to calm down by telling herself that the butterflies-in-your-stomach thing was just a figure of speech. "It was just yesterday morning."

Still, it takes her a beat to lose the shyness. "What can I say; I'm unpredictable. That's why you like me so much."

"Oh, I don't know about that…," his hand travels upward, hovers above her chest, and comes to rest on her cheek, steering her head towards his. By this time, with her face only an inch away from his, all he has to do is whisper. "I bet I can think of more endearing qualities."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and holds it until she feels the breath of his lips on hers. His kisses remind her of rollercoaster rides; she knows what's going to happen, she tries to imagine how it would feel, even try to prepare herself for it. And it shouldn't be that hard, she thinks, because she's done it before, so she should have a pretty good idea of how it'll be.

But every time, every kiss manages to leave her in a momentary shock, paralyzed in thrill and awe. Because each kiss is somehow different than the last; there's always a new loop, a deeper plunge, a higher slope. She doesn't get what she'd expected. And yet, ultimately, everything she hoped for.

When they break apart, both are literally panting and smiling. He leans forward, wanting to kiss her again, but she backs away, placing her hands on his chest to hold his advances; if she doesn't play her cards right, the next kiss might just do her in, and in all likelihood, they could end up spending the whole day in bed, which isn't necessarily a bad idea – come to think of it, not a bad idea at all – but he has work to go to, patients to cheer up, lives to save and she thinks she can't be the one to keep him from that. Heroes and their girls, she muses, what a pair they make.

He frowns at the apparent resistance, his eyes unsure and searching; yes, sometimes he lists her unpredictability as his least favorite trait. Nonetheless, he stops midway into leaning, and holds his ground. She lets out a good-natured laugh, both charmed and touched by his self-control and consideration for her. And even as her senses have yet to settle down, she gives him a quick kiss, making sure to pull away before the desire to do so leaves her completely. Then, she props herself off the bed, taking the sheets by her arms as she tries to sit up. She makes a move to get up, but a hand tugs lightly at her arm.

"Hey, hey, where are you going?" he asks, with an expression that picks at her heart, that keeps her in place.

"Breakfast isn't going to make itself, Jack."

"That can wait. Come on, Kate." He doesn't release his grip on her and she makes the mistake of looking him in the eyes. How can she say no to that? She rolls her eyes, and promptly falls back onto the bed. "Let's just," he makes her turn to her, his hand finding their way to her back, angling her body to face his, "let's just stay here for awhile." She follows his lead, and rolls on her side. If this is going where she thinks it's going, she doubts if they'd even make it to dinner.

It's not that she doesn't enjoy it, of course – his kisses, the sex, the closeness, his presence. But the medley of feelings he inspires in her, no matter how delectable, addicting, always comes with the slightest trace of guilt from the things of the past that she can't quite let go of yet. Her reservations, although essentially spineless and easy to yield, are not for the lack of desire, need for him; on the contrary, she's worried that she might be enjoying it too much.

"Shouldn't you be getting to work?" she suggests, trying to dissuade him even as she eases into the embrace, inching her way closer to him until her cheeks brush against his chest, and her warm breath is blowing over it. "You know," she points to his chest, drags the finger around in a doodle, "put on your spandex and cape, and go save someone or something?"

And she thinks nothing of it, does it only out of casual whim, but she gives him a peck on the chest and she feels him jerk against her lips.

"And who are you supposed to be? My sidekick?" he manages to reply. But the tension in his voice is something he can't quite cover up with humor.

"You okay?" she meets his eyes, confused. In truth, she doesn't know what to make of it; but she gets an idea as she smoothes her hands over his chest – he's shivering, his body racked by tremors, slight and otherwise unnoticeable, if not for their proximity.

"Never better," he says as he inhales sharply.

"But you're…," she just wants to be clear on this.

"Yeah I know," he says, biting his lip, as if that wasn't supposed to come out.

She stares at him, incredulous, and not quite sure how to react to that. Her body, on the other hand, appears to know exactly what to do as she feels her cheeks burn up with a warmth that seems to permeate her skin all over, pierce her flesh right down to the bone. She also finds that her breaths come at a pace quicker than she'd like them to.

"That's what you do to me," he adds, as if that could explain everything.

The pleasant warmth is now replaced by the overwhelming feeling of something burning in her chest. Or is that her heart melting? This is starting to play out like the mid-afternoon soap operas she'd watch while growing up, the types she had come to love for their predictable plots and nauseatingly sweet dialogues; the Austen household was, among other things, the perfect breeding ground for cynicism. She's certain that somewhere in soap opera history, there's a similar, if not identical, storyline to what she finds herself in now. But she discovers it's not remotely repulsive, or even the slightest bit funny when you're at the receiving end of the dialogue. And there's nothing predictable about it when it's your turn to speak.

Her silence leaves him baffled for a moment. Was it too much? Too cheesy? Too honest? Well, he does have the tendency to take everything about her to the extreme. He's sure he's used the term passionate before.

"Are you okay?"

But yeah, it is nauseating, might even cause mild to severe lightheadedness; for all the good kind of reasons, of course. It's a good thing they're lying down, she manages to think. "Yeah, it's just…," she shifts her eyes to his chest again. She decides she can be brave about it too. "A girl could get used to that, you know."

"You make it sound like it's a problem," he chuckles, reverting to their previous banter.

But when she doesn't answer, his tone, just as easily, flips back to serious. "Is it?"

"What?" Already, she knows the question, and the implications hanging on it, but she needs to buy herself some time.

"A problem."

Wasn't this everything that she dreamt about as a kid, watching her parents squabble about money, alcohol problems, their mutual abuse of each other and wishing she'd never have to see the day that she becomes them? Wasn't this everything that she had worked for all those years? Even when guilt hounded her every step, along with it was the distant, and yet, constant dream of a normal life. On the island, she watched that dream take on dimensions when she met him, in that shaded, sacred plot of sand, on his knees, bleeding and pleading for her help. When the handcuffs sounded to a lock with an air of finality, she believed she'd made the foundation for that dream – a clean slate, a fresh start because that was what he deserved. Wasn't this the very thing that got her through every second of the last six years? She deserves this. She deserves him. Maybe it'll take her years to finally get that through her unforgiving, stubborn brain, and maybe even then, she won't be wholly convinced, trip on doubts once in a while, beat herself up for her mistakes but she's not about to give this up. Maybe, in her mind, she won't ever be what he deserves, but she sure as hell's going to try.

"No." The word feels good on her tongue and she says it again for her sake. "It's not."

She looks up to his eyes and repeats it, this time with all the conviction her voice could affect. "Not a problem at all."

"Good," he says with a smile. The hand that supports his head on the bed comes to slip about her neck, nestling her head, while the hand around her waist grips her tighter, and if it were even possible, pulls her closer. He rests his chin on her head and seems to have foregone any ideas of moving.

"Yeah, that is good." She resumes her former position in his arms, hands on his chest, cheek against his skin. And he can't see it, but she's smiling as well.

He closes his eyes, and breathes out heavily, as if in relief. He tries to think of a joke, take up where they left off; the light teasing, and the easy silence in between. He promised himself they'd take it one day at a time and although his mind is buzzing with questions, he resolves that, no matter what, they're going to do just that. "So what are we going to do today?"

Her smile widens as she hears that – We – it comes almost naturally now, like they've been saying it for years. What are we going to eat for dinner? We are not going to your mom's. We should get that carpet for the bedroom.

And although she welcomes the habit, she can't pass up a good ribbing. "We, huh? Sorry, but your sidekick's gonna guard the headquarters, make sure we're safe from regular, mortal villains, you know, your average robbers."

"Or you can come with me to work."

"You, however," she snubs him, continuing with her enumerations, "are going to have to save a couple of lives today, maybe more, ignore the female patients and/or acquaintances who shamelessly throw themselves at you, and don't even pretend you don't notice, splurge on a dozen of cups of coffee, and come home to me."

When she finishes with her instructions, he finds himself laughing again, which gives him all the more motivation not to go; he hasn't been this happy for as long as he can remember and he's not too keen on separating himself from its only source. "Or…I can call in sick and stay in bed with you." He's persistent, she'll give him that.

"Or…," she mimics his tone, "I'll stay in bed and wait for you." But she can be just as persistent.

"Yeah, that'll work," he snorts.

"What? I'm perfectly capable of staying put if I really wanted to."

"Uh-huh."

She feels him bobbing his head in agreement, but his voice tells her he's anything but agreeing.

"Besides, I'm sure I'll find something to keep me busy," she says burrowing her cheeks into his chest, comfortable and at home. "I haven't even gone through the photo albums yet."