"One," she says to him after a simple day, kissing his cheek and whispering. It's the routine.
If you asked April a year, a month, or even a day ago if she would have gone through with this she might have said no. There might have been a time when she would have thought otherwise, and that this was meant to happen, but, all told, she wouldn't have said yes. Some part of her would be disgusted, or laugh, and think it's a stupid idea, but then something else underneath all of that would have a very different opinion on the matter and what, really, what she wants. Which part of it? Who knows, because she doesn't even know herself. All April knows is that it's happening now.
It's freedom and lucidity, but harsh and painful. Which parts she expected the most are unclear, but it is truly new to her and, in the end, shakes the dust off of her bones and every bit of weakness in her muscles dies for a newfound will. He says things, harder things, and she loves them. She expects more from him, and every single time he gives now. It isn't even a question anymore, and there's no longer a need for any sort of safety net. Andy simply gives, and it's the most fulfilling experience of her life. So, she may be angry at the time it took to get there or that he took longer than she would have hoped for but, still, she's there and he gave and gave. He took time for her, and learned, and together they're stronger and better.
This gives the room a new meaning, the one she retreats to for comfort when the world feels sharp and crushes her every day. There is a routine, but sometimes she needs to speed it up for the day and he understands, and so they build their own way to speak over the children about it.
Kissing his cheek and telling him in a whisper, "Two." That lets him know how many. Walking back to the room, waiting for him to follow after an explanation.
The sound-proofing, solace, and ability to be open even when the kids aren't that far away, is what lets her know that telling Andy this years ago was worth it. It fills her with the sort of love for him that she can barely comprehend. Eager, caring, and still the routine. It works for her, and reminds her why it's all worth it in the end. It sparks a fire in her muscles that spreads so far that she wants more, but knows she can't have it. That's not the deal, and she's so relieved to be like that and open, honest, with him that it usually makes her cry.
It's always a weak thing, her sobs. She's not particularly used to it, and the first time that she did it Andy was so shocked that he almost called the whole thing off and wanted to make sure she was okay. She was, and she was so damn good that she explained to him over and over again - weeping, wilted thank you's - that she loves him, and that she has never felt more alive and real. It is her, and everything she wants he gives her and the tears are because she wants to make it part of their life, and give her the confidence and reinforce her strength and independence. He does it, and she loves him for it.
He'll tell her, whispering to her at work when he drops by for lunch, "Three."
It nearly burns her inside and out, and she can't wait for him to fulfill that promise of three. After, he takes but after giving so much she willingly hands it over with the utmost devotion that she can only hope to replicate from him, that undying love in him that she simply doesn't understand how he can have for her after all this time. After everything, and who she still is, he gives. It's only right, only fair, for him to take.
The old April would laugh at this, and think it stupid and just the same she would think about it later, in the confines of pretended privacy within her head. April of then would wonder, and question herself over and over but, in the end, conclude that it is a lie and she doesn't need that. She surely can't be that person. That April would be lying to herself. She would convince herself that it's all a joke and stupid, or gross, or a lie of life.
And, yet, she would be wrong.
So wrong that April can scarcely imagine being without it. Without that dream of his warmth around her, that stinging along flesh, and the metered, final whisper of, "Four."
A/N: So ends the spectacular failure that is, "Think for yourself" week!
Next week, I want to dig into some angsty stuff. It's been a long time since I've done so, and, well, as much as I love the kids and writing them and being entrenched in those headcanons there are times when I'd like to do other stuff!