Something Like an Instinct
A/N: I've toyed with writing Mac's POV of "To Be Alone with You" for awhile and finally got it finished! Enjoy!
I'm not sure how I know; I never have when it comes to Stella. She likes to joke that I know everything, but that's because I read- journals and news articles and documentary transcripts and, yes, textbooks. I'd never live it down if she knew for sure about that last one. As far as the job, I'm almost certain that nothing can surprise me anymore; between this and the Marines, every situation is really just a variation of one I've already been in. It can be dangerous to think like that if you get complacent, but I'm not. I've just gotten good at dealing with things as they come up. I think that's just as surprising to me as it is to anyone else.
I have reasons- clear, tactile reasons- for why I know what I know, but not when it comes to Stella. The best way I can describe it is something like an instinct. I never have to overanalyze with her. It truly is a gift to just be, to just understand without putting in the work to do it. I'd say it's because we've been working together too long, but that doesn't account for the times that we were able to work off each other so easily when we caught our first serial her second week on the job. I suppose it should be frightening, and it probably would be with anyone else, but it's not with her.
I can't explain how I know which hotel she'd picked to stay at until she finds a new place. I can't explain how I know that she hasn't eaten more than a granola bar and an orange today, but I make us dinner, pack it in a cooler, find her room, and knock on something like an instinct.
She opens the door wearily at first, but then her exhausted eyes light up with her smile. She laughs and asks how I know when I hold up the cooler. She steps out of the way so I can follow her into her hotel room. I know to step carefully so I don't catch the frayed hems of her old alma mater sweatpants as we go. I shrug and return her grin because it's always felt good to smile with her. "I have my ways," I say.
"This part of your 'ways' too?" She asks, holding up the bottle of wine that I know is one of her favorites.
"No," I answer as seriously as I can manage before she laughs again and I join her.
When she pulls out the Tupperware with the stir fry, her eyes crinkle and say "thank you" because it is rather obvious why I'm here.
You almost got barbequed and crushed today, Stella. Of course I'm here, I think, but don't say.
We turn on a movie and break into dinner and I discover that I'm right: she's scarfing down her chicken and linguini like she hasn't eaten in a week. I'm trying not to laugh when she catches me starring. "What?"
"Nothing." I'm better at the stoicism this time, but I can't resist nudging her shoulder.
She rolls her eyes and swallows with a mock-indignant glare. "Watch the movie."
There is something that I can't guess about this situation: why she didn't accept the guest bedroom at my place. We've stayed overnight at each other's places enough that we both know she doesn't snore. Maybe she thinks it's still too close to the break-up with Peyton. Or maybe it's one of those times when she thinks she has to do this all by herself. Whatever it is, I want to make sure she doesn't think either of those things because she's always done the same for me. I'm just not sure how to say it.
I turn to her sitting next to me, thinking the words will somehow just be there. She's finally relaxing against the back of the couch with heavy-lidded eyes. Her empty paper plate and wine glass are pushed away from her on the little circular coffee table. I feel a little pull in my chest when I remember what almost happened to her today and I want to find the words to tell her that she doesn't need to do this alone more desperately than ever. When they don't come, I want to pull her towards me. She beats me to it, though, and leans her head on my shoulder. I wonder if she knows that her hand is on my thigh, if she's aware that her thumb is tracing gentle patterns that have my mind emptying pleasantly. I don't want her to move, so I wrap my arm around her shoulders and smooth my hand down her back, slowly because I can feel her breath, steady and existing.
My hand keeps going until I feel the hem of her shirt and I stop because the last thing I want is to startle her. But she presses her cheek into my shoulder and then I'm touching the small of her back, right above the waist of her sweatpants. I've never thought of Stella as being "soft". "Soft" implies "pliable", "malleable", "weak" and Stella is none of those things. She's strong, compassionate, tough, full of fire. But apparently, today is a day for learning new things because the second I touch the skin of her back, I realize that she is. Soft.
I start out at just one spot at the base of her spine, but when I realize that "soft" is actually the perfect word for her, I find my fingers traveling a bit. My hand curls around her side and her fingers close on my thigh as she squirms. This second bit of new knowledge is both entertaining and oddly appealing, so I trail my fingers back to test my theory. Sure enough, she presses into my side and murmurs "that tickles". Her hand clutches my leg again and I breathe out a chuckle of amusement at this fact about her and surprise because of the feeling of her holding onto me. I can't resist kneading the skin of her hip just once before I return to the small of her back. I feel her smile as she burrows into the center of my chest.
After the movie ends, we change in the usual routine: she takes the bathroom first and then we trade. We end up back on the couch, our eyes adjusting to the darkness. She settles into one side of the couch, using the arm as a pillow as I regard the space between me and her curled-up legs. I find that I want to be closer to her than this because it's a reflex to be drawn to her, so I turn and plop my head onto her hip, holding her legs hostage under my back. It's mere seconds after her fingers weave themselves into my hair that I drift off.
At first, my sleep is mercifully dreamless, but then I see it, what it must have been like for her in that burning apartment. I watch her skirt flames, cower and dodge flaming rafters, protect Austin as best as she can. I hear her gasp and reach for her to try to pull her out. I wake with my thumb on the back of her leg. I keep my eyes closed when I realize that her legs are no longer under my back and that I'm touching her. I don't open them because I think I can hear her better if all I can see is darkness. I don't mean "hear her" in the literal sense; I mean "hear her" as in understand what my instincts are telling me to do.
When she sighs, I press my thumb more firmly against her, trying to copy the patterns she'd traced on my leg earlier. I think her feet must be tired after the day she's had- she always insists on those damn heels- so I reach down with my other hand until I find the sole of one foot- her left. Her toes curl back and it seems like a decent opportunity to knead the tension out of it.
She makes a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a hum, and her fingers take possession of my hair again. At her sound, I decide it's time for another change, so I knead the top of her thigh for a moment before I move to her calf. The tension there releases immediately and she shifts enough for me to turn my attention back to her thigh. I realize I could reach more, work out more of her stress if I had a better angle so slowly, so I don't scare her, I pull her leg toward me and allow her to rest her knee on my chest. I press my fingers higher and higher until I get to the crease in her hip. Her gasp is real this time. I think she knows I'm awake.
I go back to the pattern on the back of her leg with my thumb to soothe her and let her know that, yes, this is okay with me.
I hope she knows this is about her and me, about how this was the only thing I thought of that would calm both of us. After a day like this one, having her apartment burn down and rescuing two kidnapped children, I know closeness is what she needs. I keep going with the pattern on her pant leg until I feel her fingers flex in my hair one last time before they finally relax because I know this is the only thing that will make her relax properly.
I can't explain how I know. It's just something like an instinct.