remedy

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

It doesn’t really matter what they were doing in the moment. It could have been dinner time, the two of them side by side at the sink washing veggies. Or they’re sat on the couch, her legs thrown over Badou’s lap, hands intertwined while he ranted about something for work, other hand working hard with sharp gestures of anger. Maybe they’re trying to catch yet another creepy-crawlie that Ed released in their place, Badou teetering atop the couch, her, gun in hand, on the table, their screams shrill above the sound of the downstairs neighbor screaming at them to shut the hell up.

The moment doesn’t matter. It’s not really a click in her head, an oh, either. It’s been trying to unfurl in her chest for ages, maybe since forever. Creep out of her throat like flowers. What does matter is Badou turns to do something, red hair swishing behind him, but Faye curls her fingers around his wrist gently. He stops for her, like he always does. Single blue eye on her and only her.

“Badou, I—"

Does he understand? Does he know?

She opens her mouth—closes it. A seed of fear curdles in her belly as she looks into that gentle eye, that soft expression. When she doesn’t speak, Badou takes her free hand with his own, cradling it close before resting it upon his chest. His mouth forms a smile.

“You finally gonna tell me, Faye?” Her hand trembles against his warm skin, and it’s only the racing thud of his heart that lets her know he’s just as excited—as scared. It’s a heartbeat she’d recognize anywhere, and follow to the ends of the world. A song she calls home.

He skims his other hand up her arm [callouses rough across her goosebumps in turn], gathers his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head up. His eye flickers between her lips and eyes.

“I watch. I listen. It’s in your actions, in the looks. Trust me, Faye. Don’t be afraid,” his voice softens her, malleable against him.

She does trust him, as much as he trusts her. Trusts he will go after her, will be here. With her body, her job, her bed—and most terrifying of all, with her heart too.

So Faye opens her mouth—and pinches him right in the nipple where her hand once lay—

“OW! FAYE!” Just to see that knowing look fall away. He’s sure irritating, lower lip wobbling, hand clutching his pearls and tit. Faye can’t help but smile at this grown man’s pout.

Now she grabs him by the shirt and pulls that pouty face to hers. “I love you, idiot.”

That blue eye goes wide, mouth parted like he’s just seen something amazing—yeah, her. [Years from now he’ll say his eye was all shiny because of his nip, but Faye knows he wanted to cry because he was so moved] Is this why he did it? Faye can see the appeal.

[and knows they push each other’s boundaries—instead of breaking through walls they build trellises you can climb]

Despite the pain he’s looking at her all soft-eyed, all stupid-grinned, and how’s she supposed to resist lifting herself on tiptoe to drag his mouth to hers? That mouth is pink from her lipstick when they pull apart, that eye is glassy from lust, from taking her all in, when they’re separated by just a string of spit.

“Got any other psychoanalysis shit to say to me, Nails?”

He grins. “No, though…” his mouth pulls into another pout. “Don’t hurt my nips, leave ‘em alone.”

Faye threads her arms around his neck. The hairs at his nape are particularly cute, under that curtain of red.

“No, I think I’ll do what I want, and I think you’ll like it.”

He frowns, but his cheeks are as red as his hair, and as she shoves him back onto the couch, he gets one last word in—

“A white girl’s sure gotta do a lot before she tells her man she loves him.” As if he couldn’t be any more thrilled, as if the smile isn’t as bright as the sun in his voice.