Johanna Mason was not quiet.
She didn't really know how to whisper, she walked like an elephant going down the stairs, her sneezes could frighten anyone, she kicked or smacked at things when they made her mad, and boy did she know how to yell.
He was used to it by now.
It was jarring at first for such a quiet, melancholy sort of person who had always spent most of his time in his own head to share a living space with someone who didn't seem capable of sitting quietly for more than two minutes. But now, he was used to it and had grown to expect and appreciate the fact that Johanna's personal volume settings hardly ever dropped below a 4 and usually ranged between an 8 and a 10.
Living with her made it impossible for him to let himself drown in his own thoughts. She was much too loud to give him any sense of peace and quiet for long enough to get stuck in his own brain. And if he somehow managed it, she'd often demand to know what he was thinking, which he pretended to be irritated by it sometimes, but he really did appreciate it.
Johanna truthfully made her presence known whenever she was any where, her voice carried. Gale's previous experience with people who had voices that carried consisted of his mother when she was mad and people with incredibly shrill voices. Johanna's voice just carried.
Her opinions were loud, too. She definitely let people know what she was thinking, even if hey didn't always ask to know. She was just as strong-willed and stubborn as he was, but where he usually let his actions speak for him, she spoke with her words.
Her screams were deafening.
She had far fewer nightmares now than she experienced when they had first reconnected, but those she had were vivid and violent and prompted screams from her that hurt him more than anything physical he ever had to experience and all he could do was hold her tight and tell her that she was safe over and over until she calmed down.
Her periods of silence spoke volumes as well. They were few and far between, but her really bad days made her fall silent and immobile. Grief drove her to silence as well. There were several days a year where she just wouldn't speak much that he never asked about. He loved her through all the not so great days, the days where her fiery attitude was extinguished. The Johanna he knew and loved was not quiet, but sometimes she paused, and that was okay.
Her laughter rang loud and clear through the house most days and she teased him for snoring like a train and could beat anyone anyone in a game of poker and bragged about it and that made everything worth it. Her quiet moments were part of her, but they did not define her. She was a brave, loud, playful, determined, sort of obnoxious person that he loved with everything he had.
They balanced each other out nicely.
Certainly they got on each other's nerves on occasion, but more often than not their "arguments" actually consisted of teasing and weren't serious. Truthfully, they understood each other on a deep level and they fit together like pieces of a puzzle- entirely different, yet perfectly matched. They still had the rest of their puzzle to put together, but they had plenty of time.
So when he woke up to Johanna leaning over him with a mischievous glint in her eye and called him a freight train, he called her an elephant and made her laugh. He rolled his eyes before he pulled her close to kiss her.
No, she wasn't perfect but neither was he. And they were working on being happy. And they loved each other. And that's all they could have asked for.