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Axl caught (Y/N) looking at herself in the mirror again.
It was simple enough to say, wasn't it? Simple enough to just be simple. But somehow, it wasn't.
It wouldn't be such a big deal to him if he could ascribe it to some sort of vanity. With all his other girlfriends, that certainly would have been the case—after all, Axl had loved a lot of astonishingly coquettish women; haughty, soft-spoken creatures with unparalleled perceptions of beauty, like a flightless bird that flaunts the rainbow feathers of its wings. But he loved (Y/N) too—gently as it might have come to him, whispered in the night like a secret—and the way she stared into the mirror was something he couldn't put a word to. It wasn't preening, and it certainly wasn't admiring. It seemed like she was tempted to remember something. But at the same time, she was trying so very hard to forget.
That was where she was now, in front of the mirror. It was a long, sturdy thing, silver-backed and plain; the place where she had gotten dressed every day since the day they met, and the day she went back to Kenny's apartment to collect her things; and the day he told her to stop putting makeup on her bruises and let them heal. She'd slept here, too, in the comfort of his bed—ever since the day he'd moved his things to the living room, and he'd driven her to the hospital to collect a box with her baby's name on it, and they'd made the long pilgrimage upstate and across two borders to find a proper burial spot. She didn't want her baby just anywhere—but then, she didn't want Kenny or anyone to find them, either. So on the outskirts of Seattle, just before the countryside turned into more of a modern scene, they stopped the car and walked. About a mile in from the interstate, she found a stand of woods, a pine glen just safe and silent enough to bury the box within. And when she'd finished digging her fingertips into that sodden, icy ground; she'd stood, and waited. And he'd waited with her. And all that came between them was the rush of wind; the murmur of the shivering sea in the distance.
Axl remembered how white the sky had been, how foggy, how bleak—the way the black branches waved in the high winds and groaned and complained to those below. She was just as silent now as she had been then. And as she stared into the mirror, Axl couldn't help but see a little of that same fogginess in her eyes. Some days, it was almost as if they'd never driven back. Some days, it was as if she'd never left.
"Hi," Axl said, ignoring the fact that she was holding her stomach again, that she had broken her gaze from the mirror only to stare down at her own flesh. "You okay?"
"Oh—hi. Sorry." (Y/N) snapped out of it instantly, mustered a pretty, nervous smile; and tugged her shirt down so fast it was like something had bit her. Though her reaction was a little startling—usually, she was too lost in the swamp of her subconscious to respond so easily—Axl found himself thanking God for that smile. As tiny as it was, as nervous as it was; it was still precious; like a citrine stone glimmering in the sunlight. "I-I was just—getting dressed. I know I still have dishes to do and everything. I—"
"Slow down," he said, laughing a little, trying to put her at ease as she turned to leave the room and run straight for the kitchen. "Seriously, where's the fire? It's okay, (Y/N), the dishes can wait. Are you alright?"
At this, she stopped, and wrung her wrists, staring at the floor. Sometimes she glanced up at him, but mostly she didn't—and Axl knew from having lived with her for a few months that she did that when she was really, truly nervous about something. She wanted to look at him, but was scared to do so completely—and so, every so often, she would lift her chin just enough to let their eyes connect; and he'd feel warm all over, like she'd laid a blanket over his shoulders and given him a kiss on the head. And then she'd look down at the floor and wring her wrists again, and Axl would sit, patiently, and wait.
In this case he was on the edge of the bed, halfway perched, halfway slumped; so she could see that he was interested in her, but that he was not threatening her. It took an awful lot of studying to memorize these kinds of things, he thought—it was an awful lot of time dedicated to acting a certain way and watching her reactions, understanding what to never ever do, and what to do more of. But with the way she was so receptive to it—with the way she read his body as well as he read hers—it was like they were two open books, dancing around each other, and carefully brushing pages every once in a while. Axl had hardly known a delicate thing in his life, but he felt sure that was exactly what this was—and it was good. It was small, and dainty, and utterly cherishable; the kind of love you could hold in the palm of your hand and kiss good night. He liked having something so unique to hold onto—he liked having someone quiet and gentle. And most of all, he liked when she looked at him and understood his intent, and began to let down her guard a little. Axl thought maybe this was something to be worried about—wasn't it a little strange, to be so giddy that someone should trust you? Wasn't it a devilish mark of some kind, to be so happy that someone was willing to let you in?—but he didn't worry about it as much as he thought he should, and that in itself was very telling. It was simple this way—she was simple to him. It was just that he loved her; and when she listened to him and began to talk with him and let him in, it was one of the greatest, most heartwarming pleasures in the world.
Today was really no different. After a moment of sitting, relaxed and blinking every so often; Axl cocked his head to the side, and observed her further—and she looked at him again, still nervous; knotting her fists in the hem of her big, baggy white t-shirt and sighing as if she could no longer keep it a secret.
"I'm sorry," she began, her voice scratched with sorrow. "I just—I don't feel good about… I don't like how… I, um…"
"Take your time," he encouraged her, gently, and she began to wiggle her knee in place, as often she did when she felt like running away. Her nose twitched, and she blinked hard, as if that would do something; as if that would put her mind back in the right place. It didn't help much, though. All (Y/N) could do was curl in on herself, even as her words spilled out, and she was tartly honest with him.
"Idon'tlikehowmybodylooksanymore."
"That's gotta be the longest word in the English dictionary," Axl said, and laughed lightly at his own joke. And then, (Y/N) burst into tears.
Immediately, he sprang from the bed and rushed to her side to comfort her, almost paranoiacally aware of the intensity of her strange emotions. Was this what she was supposed to be feeling when they stood in the middle of those black woods in Seattle? Was this all that grief, finally tipping out of the box? Frantically, quietly, he apologized; over and over again like the brother who's hit their younger sibling much too hard to be an act of play. "Hey—hey, hey, hey. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. Why don't you like your body? Come on, (Y/N), why not? You're as pretty as an angel, and you oughta know it. Why'd you wanna say a thing like that?"
"I don't know," (Y/N) wailed from behind her hands; pretty hands, the likes of which were always gentle and always soothing; hands that Axl had become deeply attached to. Today, her hands were not bare as they always seemed to be—she hardly ever wore rings, as it was hard to get the exact right size, and she hated having to wear them too small and too large. But there was one that she could occasionally stand to put on. It was a pale gold band, decorated with little roseleafs and enameled pink and blue flowers; one that she said reminded her of Easter—and that had once reminded her of Baby. Axl looked at it as he took her hands from her—looked at Baby's Easter ring, then at her, then at the ring—and then he looked back up at her as he bent his head and kissed it, right there on her finger, which only made her cry harder.
Gently, he brushed her hair away from her face, thumbed the tears away from her cheeks. "Come on, honey. Why do you wanna go and say a thing like that? I'll take you to the eye doctor if I have to—swear to God. You gotta know right now there isn't a single thing wrong with you, and that's the honest to God truth. You hear me?"
"Oh, you just can't see it," (Y/N) said miserably, though she had since stopped sobbing quite so hard, and was only giving a harsh sniff every few minutes. Axl looked at her as if she might be just a little bit nuts, but tried to make it a kind expression.
"...Alright, maybe, but even so…"
"No, Axl, I mean—you—ugh." She shook her head, almost as if in disgust with herself; and pulled her hands away from him, just for a second—just so she could keep wringing her wrists while she tried, frustrated, to explain. "When you have a… when you carry a baby, your body doesn't… it just doesn't go back to what it used to be. Okay? I guess I'm just mad about that." Again, she sniffed, and balled her fists up in defense of herself, though she still quivered like a leaf in the white, wintry sky. Axl wanted to reach out for her, but then she spoke again, and he thought better of it.
"And it's a stupid thing to be mad about, but here we are." Again, she sniffed loudly. "Here we fucking are. I look hell—I look like I've had a baby, only I haven't got the baby, and I'm still a fucking train wreck—"
Ahh, so there was the grief. It had tipped out of the box after all. Axl shushed her and caught her as she fell into his arms—or caught her as he moved forward; he wasn't sure who had moved in the first place—and he began to sweet-talk her, in that rough, no-nonsense Indiana-twang he'd once so sourly possessed.
"Don't go blaming yourself for things you can't control, (Y/N). Even if you are a train wreck, you can't help it, and I don't blame you. Hell, I'd be torn up too. You think you can just walk away from something like that? To hell if you do, sugar, that's just plain insane. Life takes what it will from you, and afterwards you're meant to stand up and live with it. And it hurts. I know it hurts." He paused for good measure. "But you're still a pretty goddamn beautiful train wreck, if I have anything to say about it. And I do."
Axl murmured the last bit to her with all the surety in the world, feeling the frayed tips of the split ends poking out from behind her ears tickle his lips. He wrapped his arms around her good and tight, intent on comforting her beyond words, on devoting the whole cosmos to her—or at least, devoting himself to making her feel like it—and then he began to hum a slow song, reminiscent of the white, snowy skies from whence she seemed to come. Though she was a strong girl, one who held not nearly as much fear for herself as she did for others; Axl knew she was still quivering on the inside, unhealed from the cold, from the impersonality, from the brutality of fate. And why shouldn't she be? Why shouldn't they all huddle like birds in a snowstorm, stuck to one another on frozen telephone wires? He hummed to her from some place that understood this, all this and more—from some well in his mind of things long past him, graces of memory that no longer existed but for black and white photographs. He hummed to her from the bottom of the stairway in his mother's house, from the passenger seat of a little blue Datsun. He hummed to her from the middle of a cornfield at starbreak—and from a bus stop in Los Angeles. He hummed to her from the side of a hospital bed, from the tubes they'd put in his chest, from the needle they had in his arm to keep him from startling himself awake—and he hummed to her from a place of quiet; from the front walk of the community hospital where they'd met; when the sun was rising, and the world was just one light less.
One could suppose, from all this, that the song he was humming was a sad one—sad and long; drawn out and desperate, like a body plunging forward through the snow, trudging along, losing step after step and yet still having the barest of hopes exposed. But he hummed it kindly to her, too; trying to embody the violin, the cello, the bass; trying to sound like an orchestra all wrapped up in one, for the comfort of one who was so lost in her pain. Maybe she just needed to listen to a bit of circular breathing, he thought—maybe she just needed to listen to another's calm voice. Or maybe he was right after all—maybe she needed something that sounded just like that white sky hanging over that Seattle forest, something like the hem and haw of Fate's strings being played upon. Who knew, really? Who ever knew, in moments like these? Axl could only think that he wished the best for her; that he wanted her pain to stop, and that he wanted her to see herself as he saw her. And all the while, he got the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she was coming around to the idea.
"Thank you," she murmured to him, when he'd finished the song on an awkward, drawn-out note, searching for the refrain in his mind, not really remembering how it ended. "That's pretty. Where'd you learn that?"
"From a movie," he said, rather nonchalantly, and stood with her in arms; rocking back on his heels some before tipping forward again, rocking her with him. "It's called Fargo. I have it somewhere, I bet. We could watch it tonight if you want."
"Mmm."
"There's nothing wrong with you, you know," Axl ventured, and (Y/N) let out a sigh that was so long and so loud, he was surprised she didn't just fall away like a deflating balloon.
"I can assure you you'd think differently if you knew," she mumbled dryly, not angrily; but not happily. Axl held onto her for just a moment longer, basking in the warmth and softness of her person, before he decided to quit being selfish and let go for just a moment. She was staring down again—not at the floor, but at herself. At her stomach, which still had all the round qualities of someone who has just given birth, or who is coping with the loss. And he thought for a moment—for just one solid-yet-fleeting moment—that he would have liked to put his hands on her. Kindly, of course—always kindly. But he would have liked just to hold her, and run his hands along the plain of her belly, soft and giving or as hard and unyielding as it might have been. He didn't, just because it would have been weird for the both of them—but that didn't stop him from thinking that, in some other parallel universe, where she was his wife and he was her husband, he was doing just that. He was comforting her the best way he knew how; with loving touches that neither of them had truly ever been familiar with.
When she looked at him, finally; after doing that darting-glance sort of thing she was so used to, she managed to hold his gaze, and look at him despite the tears that remained on her face. And maybe her nose was running a little bit—maybe her cheeks were still that indignant, saddened red; maybe her forehead was wrinkled with stress, maybe her hair looked like a halo, fluffed out and fuzzy as it was around her head—but Axl would be damned if he didn't think she was still the prettiest thing in the room. There were good-looking women everywhere—there were always stunners no matter where you turned; what street you pulled onto, what club you swung open the door on. There were always Barbie dolls and beautiful brats to speak of, always irenic statues and messy girls and the nymphs and naiads of that old lore Izzy liked so much. But there was never, ever a woman so pretty as her; and this was something Axl understood deeper than anything, at the same time as he didn't really understand it at all. Was he imprinting on her, somehow? Was he attached to her because of her helplessness, or in spite of it? Was it affection out of proximity? Was it assurance out of familiarity? Did he love her for the way she smiled, the way she cried—or did he love her for the way she had learned to come to him, to trust him? And the answer, he supposed, laid in all of these and more. He loved her because she was the real thing—no holds barred. She was a real lady, a real woman, a real mother—no matter how much she insisted she was only a burnt-up body, a vacuous husk of the three.
"What would I have to know to get it?" He mumbled to her, drawing back slightly, almost afraid to touch her. He knew she was plenty strong—she wasn't a waif, or anything; she could hold her own, and he knew it—but he was afraid of how much he felt towards her, how much he wanted to ask of her. Axl had always been appreciative of how slow they were with each other, of how delicate they were with each other's feelings—but sometimes it ached something awful, like when she was crying. Sometimes there was nothing more he wanted to do than to take her by the sides of her face and kiss her until she began to feel whole again—he wanted to put his arms around her waist and guide her into a waltz to music unheard, music simply felt. He wanted to let her rest her head on his shoulder, wanted to trace the outline of every scar, every bruise, every leftover laceration on her; and he wanted to make it clear to her that she was a thing of beauty, even if she had been told she could never believe it.
There was an undeniable passion in him for the sake of her healing—that old familiar fire that lit up night after night, spouting orange and yellow dancing flames as he watched her eat her neat little dinner, heard her singing in the shower, saw her fixing herself up for bed. But no matter how alluring the glow; no matter how warm the flicker; it was a fire that terrified him with the possibilities of its ferocity. And so he drew away, holding her instead with just his very fingertips, pretending to be alright with it anyway.
If only he knew how she felt.
(Y/N) stood in the center of a familiar bedroom, aware that she was safe, aware that she was sound; and still hating herself for how nervous she was, hating herself for the effort it took to breathe. She was still shaking, somewhat—still knocked off her guard from being caught staring in the mirror, still unsure of how to explain it to him, him and his big, green, caring eyes; the way his eyebrows wrinkled in concern—oh, Goddammit all anyway, she thought, and tried to steel her nerves, so she'd look less like a fool and more like a woman in front of him. It was what he deserved, anyway—he deserved to know this was someone worthwhile that he was sharing his home with. She wasn't just a hopeless case with a bad ex-boyfriend and a box buried two states up in a town without a name. She wasn't just a girl who'd made terrible decision after terrible decision. She wasn't just someone who'd stumbled across the only thing in her life she knew she wanted to keep. She was—or tried to be—her very best self for him; every moment that he was awake, every moment he was watching her. He was so kind, after all—so quiet, so thoughtful. She just couldn't believe him when he talked about how awful he could be sometimes—there was nothing in him to suggest to her that that was the sort of person he was; no matter how often he tried to come clean to her, to tell her about all the ways he used to yell and scream and fight and tear rooms apart. Even if it was scary to comprehend, she didn't know that side of him, and hardly thought she would—in any case, when she did; she'd know how to deal with it.
But Axl wasn't like Kenny. He could never be like Kenny. For one thing, he smiled too much—Kenny had never in his life been as happy as Axl, which was saying something; because even on a good day, Axl was not a particularly emotive person. But still, (Y/N) caught more glimpses of his happiness than she ever had for Kenny. She saw his eyes crinkle up at the corners when she put on a 45 for him to listen to; she saw him smile as she offered him a spoonful of the brownie batter she was preparing; she saw him sweet-talk his car into behaving nicely; and she saw him grin at little kids playing hopscotch, the very kind of grin that little kids returned, even if they knew you were a perfect stranger. And for another thing, he was gentler than Kenny. Axl knew what it was like to lose something, he knew what it was like to cry your heart out; and he would never have a harsh word for you when you did—nor would he ever even dream of hitting you. It wasn't as if her tears were an annoyance—just something to be smothered, an impotent inconvenience; like a candle leaking wax onto the floor of some sacred church—to Axl, tears were important; and they told a story that he would listen to, time and time again. Maybe he didn't understand sometimes—maybe it frustrated him that he couldn't understand. But the most he would do was take your shoulders and look at you, really look at you, and beg you to tell him what was wrong.
"Come on, (Y/N)," he whispered as he did just that, and made her look at him again, despite her wiggling knee, her nervous wrist-wringing, her chattering teeth. His voice was soft and soothing, and his eyes were like green honey, drawing her in relentlessly; making her feel so calm and serene it was unnatural. His face was so beautiful in the sunlight, it was almost something to cry about—like a heart carved from ivory, with the faintest red freckles strewn across it as imperfections in the rock; a spray of fiery sand along a silken tidal wash. His hair, warmer than the sweetest red ginger she'd ever seen, fell along his face like a feathered, frayed curtain; and he had to move to push his bangs aside to get a better look at her, to tilt his head and wonder why. Again, his eyebrows crinkled, like arched birds flying on some lone horizon; and she wondered whether the feeling that overcame her was love, or whether she was just so hurt that any kind of attention was like it. If she were thirsty, would she drink anything? If she were starving, would she eat anything? Yes I would, she supposed, and the answer here was much the same. Still, he pestered her, intent on dragging out an answer, intent on treating her with the affection she so painfully, painfully craved. "Come on, honey. What would I have to know to understand?"
It took her a moment to speak, but speak she did—to the oatmeal-colored carpet between them, which was a lot easier to talk to.
"I mean I just don't look like I used to," she said, in her most timid of voices, as a woman so often scorned does when she is trying to be truthful. "I know it's stupid, but I—I mean I look… oh, fuck it, I look like a used tire. I haven't lost any weight at all, but—but—but there's nothing to protect anymore and I just don't understand why it won't go away. I want it to go away. I just want everything to be like it was before. But it can't be. Of course it can't. That would be too much to ask, wouldn't it? To not look like somebody poked a hole in the fucking Michelin Man? To not have all these goddamn stretch marks? To not be reminded that—that—oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." (Y/N) realized she was starting to cry again and stopped herself, holding her hands out as if to brace herself against thin air. Axl seemed to misread this somehow as her reaching out to him, and, though his green-gold eyes were still wide with worry, he took her hands and implored her to stop.
"Look, (Y/N)—look." He said, trying to reassure her and sound firm at the same time. "I know you want to go back. Okay? I get that. I get the concept. But it's not gonna fix anything if you do, alright? The only way you'd feel better is if you just went back in time, and didn't go through any of it. And while it's tempting…" He sighed, and rubbed his thumb across the flowers on her ring again, relishing slightly in the feel of their enameled ridges. "...it's not something you can do. Alright? Time moves on. That's all it ever does."
"I know that," (Y/N) said, sounding rather abhorrently irritated, and admonishing herself for it as she leaned forward and put her forehead on his shoulder with a loud, upset sigh. "I know that. I just—I want to be me again. I don't want to have to walk around with all this."
"You keep talking about it like it's such a bad thing," Axl mumbled to her, wrapping an arm around her once more and playing with her hair, gently flicking it to and fro as she sniffed and got ahold of herself for a bit. "I guess I don't see the marks, or anything, but, you know, it doesn't hurt to have a little extra around your middle. I like you that way. You know, there's nothing else more comforting than when I get home from the studio, or the store, or lunch with somebody, and you're there, and you hug me. I don't know, I guess I don't talk about it a lot. Or at all. But it's true. I like it. It's like laying on a pillow." Was that too much? Maybe that was too much. Axl could swear his ears were on fire with how hot they felt—or if they weren't on fire yet, they were getting there; along with the rest of his face. But he couldn't help but be honest—especially when he knew it could help her see things the way he saw them. Maybe, if she could understand what it was like—maybe, if he could understand how much he yearned to come home to that all the time, how he wanted a woman with a gentle touch, and a soft belly, and a voice that murmured sweet nothings to him—maybe then she could understand how well she fit the bill; how much he would give up just so that she would stay.
(Y/N) seemed to consider this for the moment, quietly leaning on his shoulder, drinking in the solace of his touch. "...you really mean it?"
"Of course I do," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper; as he swept his hand up and down her back, trying to rub all the discomfort out of her. "I like everything about you, (Y/N). Wouldn't've let you stay here so long if I didn't."
"You would too," she whispered back, finding it in herself to very nearly laugh at him; silly as he was. "You would too, you big goof. You're too sweet on me as it is. I don't have half as hard a time believing that you'd do just the same for anybody off the street."
"Okay, so maybe I would," he replied with a shy smile, holding her just the slightest bit tighter as she began to laugh harder, almost rolling off of his shoulder. "But you're the only one I'd ever let into my bed."
At this, (Y/N) snorted and laughed even harder, and he practically had to hold her up for how hard she was giggling, still managing to cling onto him and hide her face in his shoulder. "Boy, that's sure a relief. Don't tell it to George, though, I don't think he'd take it so kindly."
"I won't," Axl said with a good natured grin this time, thinking of their favorite resident vagabond, an old man named George who gave his breadcrumbs to pigeons and sang Gospel songs to people walking past in hopes for a penny or two. "Though you know him, (Y/N), the man hasn't had anywhere decent to sleep in fifteen years no matter how many missions try to scoop him up. You think he's got anywhere he likes more than that tent out in Canyon Park?"
"No, probably not. But all the same." She wiggled around in his grasp, tossing her arms around his shoulders with a little huff, like a child waiting to be picked up and carried around. "...Best not make him jealous."
"Sweet girl," Axl mumbled happily, stealing a glance at them in the full-length mirror, backed by a slight gild of fading afternoon sunlight; and for a moment, he was awash in pure gold. There they were, the perfect couple—two damaged goods riding on the same beat-up boxcar; two mourning doves healing their clipped wings. Were either of them perfect? No, of course not. But then, did either of them have to be?
…
…
"...Can I see them?"
It was only after a moment or two of silence that he asked, and even as he asked it; he wasn't sure how she would respond. Still, though, he had to try. He had to, because he loved her, and because he knew he could make her understand, if he only knew what it was she saw.
"See what?" (Y/N) asked, sounding puzzled.
"Your stretch marks."
"...Oh." It took her a moment, but she thought about it, didn't like the thought, and said, "Axl…"
"Please?" He asked, almost begging her, without really knowing why he was begging. "I won't say a thing if you don't want me to. I swear I won't. I just want to see."
And with that—with whatever tone it was he put in his voice, whatever whining Indiana drawl he left there for her to pick up on and discover she liked—she sighed and agreed, though with a kind of fatality behind it, as if it were unavoidable that he discover how much of an utter ogre she had become.
"Please don't say anything," she said, pleading with him; and Axl nodded vigorously, full of understanding and concern and—well, a little of that curious, boyish excitement. (Y/N) sighed and fought off the shakes again, keeping her knee at a pretty consistent wiggle as she turned toward the mirror and fiddled with the hem on her shirt.
"And please don't say anything." She said again, with more emphasis, and then hurried to clarify. "With your face, I mean. Just—if you have to look away, that's okay. But don't just stare."
"It won't be that bad," Axl said in his most reassuring voice, his most don't-be-silly timbre, his most I'm-here-and-you-can't-scare-me tone. Gently, he snuggled up to her, and watched over her shoulder in the mirror, hugging her from behind, as so often she would let him do—and gently, ever so gently, she began to pull upward on the hem of her shirt; until her belly spilled out from under it, chilled in the air of the room and yet warmed by the light of the sun coming through the window.
"I hate this," she said immediately, sputtering, trying to tug her shirt back down. But the way Axl gasped made her freeze right in place; wondering what had him looking so—so—
—happy?
"Oh my God," he said, with the glee of a thousand little boys, and he squeezed her just a little tighter, as if she were a darling teddy bear left on his bed. "Oh my God! (Y/N)—you can't possibly hate that!"
"Why not? Look at it." (Y/N) threw her hands out in a gesture of disgust at her reflection, the baggy white t-shirt tucked over top of her belly; the sagging skin, the popped-biscuit quality of it; the brown and pink zigs and zags that stretched all over her—that spider-webbed and splayed out like a cat had gone at her belly with razor-sharp claws. Just seeing it all over again made her want to pull her head into her shirt and hide—but then there was that look on his face, the excitement just waiting to spill out of him, so much so that she turned with an irritated glare and asked him outright. "Just what do you think is so delightful?"
"You look just like a cinnamon roll," he exclaimed in delight, and (Y/N) very nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt his warm hands come down over her stomach, giving her a gentle squish before tracing the lines that crossed her skin in so many scathing slashes and swaths. "Dude—seriously, you can not possibly think this is bad. Look at you! There's your dough, and there's the cinnamon, and—"
"Axl," she said, fiercely; at first bewildered, then hurt, then… glad? Oh, who the hell knew what she was feeling—she couldn't have told anyone what it meant to her even if she tried. All she knew was that he was being genuine—there was no falsity in his gaze, only that silly childish delight that occasionally overtakes the adult mind—and he was still touching her, still enthused as ever to play with the cinnamon rolls in the pan someone had left on the counter. She pushed his hands away and tugged her shirt down, whirling around to face him and his stupid, blushing self. "Axl!"
"Sorry," he blurted out. "Sorry—that was—I don't know—I don't know what I did. I'm sorry. It—well. It just—you're so—"
"Oh my God, shut up," (Y/N) said, her voice quavering as she fought off another round of sobs; grabbed him by the sides of his beautiful, carved-ivory face; and kissed him, bright pink and shocked as all hell, on the lips. "Shut up." She kissed him again. "Shut up." Again. "Shut up." And again. "I love you. I love you, goddammit, I love you."
"Um," Axl said, feeling like maybe he was the one who was going to fall over now, still seeing things swirl before his vision; the warmth of the golden sun of the afternoon mixed with the wintry Seattle sky behind them. "Um—I—um. …What?"
(Y/N) stared up at him, still holding him by the sides of his face, still almost-crying, still looking like a woman possessed. She had a way about her, Axl thought—a way not unlike a mother wolf, dangerous when prodded, but fierce and loving as all of nature herself. And she was, in a word, absolutely beautiful.
She calmed down a bit, looked at him, looked down at the floor between them, and looked up again. The fire in her eyes was gone, replaced by a gnawing worry as she bit her lip and became like a mouse once more. "I—I'm sorry. I don't know what… I don't know. I… I think I need to lay down, or something, God… I'm so sorry." Pressing a hand to her temple, she made as if to evade him, as if to ignore the way her lips had tingled so brightly when they met his—as if to ignore the fireworks shooting off inside her subconscious mind, lighting up that black sky with a thousand twirling red and gold flares. But he caught her by the waist again, and made her look at him, made her recognize his stunned stare, the quiet, goofy smile that spread across his lips.
"Don't be sorry," He said, almost laughing with bewildered delight. "Don't be sorry, (Y/N). I love you too. I love you too, goddammit." The last few words he put in his best joking tone, so that she'd know he was teasing, so that she'd know his smile was genuine. And from what it looked like—from the way her face flushed, all bright pink and beautiful—she seemed to understand that he really meant it. Axl leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear, the mother wolf; the woman he wanted to come home to; the lady with softness lingering in every chaste curve of her body—and as he pulled her closer, he whispered, with a barely-stifled laugh,
"I want my cinnamon rolls."
"Oh, God," (Y/N) said, rolling her eyes, but she laughed anyway, and she even managed to dry all her tears, laying on top of the bedspread with him. For all the history he claimed to have, and for all the sins he seemed so ready to lay out on the table for her; he really could be the gentlest man alive. She laid there with him for what seemed like forever, feeling the security of his arms around her; basking in his comforting aura as he buried his face in her neck and held her and her belly close. And even if she did feel somewhat unwhole—even if she did feel ugly, and in disrepair, and as if she were never going to be the same person again—
—well. She supposed it wouldn't be too bad, as long as he was there with her, humming that song that he so long remembered, sighing with contentment as he laid beside her, happy just to be. (Y/N) could learn a lot from a guy like him, she supposed. But rather than throw herself into the study of his existence, she decided it would be best just to take it in stride—to let herself be in his presence, and hope and believe that everything she could give him was everything he could ever want.
"You're the most beautiful woman in the world," Axl murmured against her, and it would have been so wonderfully sweet; if the touch of his lips didn't tickle her to an almost hysterically-pitched high. She snickered wildly and wriggled around in his grasp, quietly trying to tell him to stop, stop, you little devil, stop, that tickles.
"And you're the most beautiful man," she sighed through her giggles, and felt a great heave of her sadness give way as he kissed the crux of her neck with a tenderness she hadn't felt in years.
Axl had caught (Y/N) looking at herself in the mirror again. But this time, it wouldn't be the same—this time, he would stand and look with her.
And this time, she would be loved.