Chapter Text
They’ve always been each other’s safe space. Before, when they were trading smokes and secrets under the bleachers, young and dumb with nothing but time; later, when her kid went missing and he was drowning in the loss of his, thrown back together and held that way by determination and sleepless nights and that tiny, nearly invisible sliver of hope. And now, on the other side of death and prison and too many explosions and monsters to count, they create safety in the space between them. It looks different now, new trauma and nightmares and guilt thrown into the mix, but nothing will change the way she feels in his arms, the way her hand in his grounds him.
They share a bed now. The act itself is not new to them; back in high school she’d climb through his window and into his bed when things were bad at home. But now, this is their bed, their room, their lives meshing together. She sleeps curled into his chest, her nose brushing his collarbone, like she needs to be tucked into his heartbeat before she can let her defences down enough to drift off. He keeps an arm around her, needing to know she’s there with him. Too often, in Russia, he’d dream of her and wake up alone and desperate for her. Now, he wakes up with her hair in his mouth and her legs tangled with his, and he’s never felt luckier. Now, the reality is sweeter than the dreams.
Something that is new is the way they reach for each other. They’re not strangers to seeking each other out for comfort, but now, they’re allowed to touch, allowed to explore. He learns that tracing over her collarbones and the tops of her breasts will make her gasp. It’s a beautiful sound, one he immediately commits to memory, and he can’t believe he’s allowed to see her like this, memorize her. She’s eager to learn him too, a fact that amazes him every time he thinks about it. Her hands on his skin are gentle, tender, tracing and caressing and seeking. He’s spent so long craving her touch, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming. For his part, finding her solid and real beneath his hands is tangible, undeniable proof that all of this had been worth it. He gathers her close, kisses her slow and hungry, lacing his fingers in her hair and holding her there. His palm skims over her shoulder, along the soft curve of her hip. She hums, fingertips brushing over his cheek, and tips her forehead to his. Her eyes, when he meets them, are soft, and he lets himself get lost. She melts into him, winding herself around him as close as she can, and it chases away everything dark and terrible until all he can sense is peace. Her fingers graze along his temple and down over his jaw, repetitive, like she’s committing him to memory. When she kisses him, he can feel the way relief loosens her shoulders, like being this close to him is enough to shake everything else away.
Sometimes, they can’t get close enough, and that’s when he pulls her on top of him, bare skin pressed together. She fits against him like she’s meant to be there, and his fingers flex over the soft skin of her hips as he guides her over him. They take their time, her trembling breaths warm against his neck. She presses her lips under his jaw, finding his pulse, and he tilts his head back to give her more room to work, his hand smoothing a languid path from her ribs down to her knee and back up. He loves touching her, exploring every inch of her skin like it’s his life purpose. Her movements turn fervent, instinctive, and when she falls over the edge, he follows her. She presses a strangled cry against his shoulder, and he turns his head to kiss the damp hair at her temple. They curl up together in the afterglow, her head tucked under his chin and their hands linked over his heart. He loves her, fucking aches with it; there’s a part of him that can’t fully grasp the idea that he’s allowed to have this, allowed a second chance at love and trust and familiarity. He knows her better than he knows anybody, and he doesn’t take that for granted. They’ve found home in each other.
When they fall asleep, it’s tangled together, chest to chest and his fingers curling through her hair. They’ll shift apart in the night, but never far enough that he can’t feel her. It’s a practiced ease at this stage, more than muscle memory.
Safe.