Work Text:
*****************
Throw out your frown
And just smile at the sound
Sleek as a shriek, spinning 'round and 'round
Always take a big bite
It's such a gorgeous sight
To see you eat in the middle of the night
You can never get enough
Enough of this stuff
It's Friday, I'm in love
- The Cure, Friday I’m Love
*****************
“I know the wedding receptions, or parties, or whatever you’re calling them aren’t for a few weeks, “ Keerthi says after they finish dinner and Jack can hear the quotes around the words wedding receptions.
Samira had said her cousin was not upset that they just went to the courthouse one day and that there wasn't going to be a traditional wedding, or a wedding at all, only two parties for friends and family, but that some people in her family – cough her mother cough – were. It makes him sad and angry.
“But technically you’re already married and I didn’t want you to have to cart this around.” She hands over a medium-sized package, flat and rectangular, wrapped in white and silver paper.
“Oh!” Samira exclaims, “You didn’t have to.” They had told people that they didn’t want gifts in about 30 different ways, but people were still buying them shit. Dana had told Samira to make a registry anyway, or they’d end up with 100 toasters.
“It’s nothing big.” Keerthi tells them as Samira unwraps the present. “I was just remembering about this a few weeks ago and I thought, well. I hope you think it’s sweet.”
It’s something framed, but Jack can’t see what just yet. Samira busts into a true belly laugh when she sees it, though. She hides her face in one hand, but he can still see the effects of vasodilation on her face; the barely noticeable rosy glow on her cheeks and high on her forehead that he’s come to know as her blush response.
“What is it?” He asks.
Samira is still laughing too hard to speak, so Keerthi answers him. “The first time she ever texted me about you.”
“Really?” He gets up then, to stand behind Samira’s chair so he can look. They’ve talked about that time; joked about it — when both of them were pining alone like idiots. But getting to see a little bit of what she was actually thinking, perhaps unguarded is the most delicious idea. He sees it’s a screenshot of a text conversation that’s been enlarged, printed out, matted, and framed.
[9:31 PM] Samira:
Remind me how you and Aditya met
[9:39 PM] Keerthi:
Hi! How are you? At a party in school.
[9:39 PM] Samira:
Did he woo you
[9:41 PM] Keerthi:
Woo me? Aditya?!!
[9:41 PM] Samira:
Yeah like flirt with you or something?
I’m trying to figure out how different
generational cohorts express romantic interest.
[9:41 PM] Keerthi:
Lol. Is this for science?
[9:46 PM] Keerthi:
Samira?
[9:51 PM] Samira:
Not really?
[9:51 PM] Keerthi:
Are you ok?
[9:51 PM] Samira:
Not really?
“Different generational cohorts?” he quotes laughing and leans down to kiss her cheek. “Oh, babe. You could’ve asked.”
“I did ask. I asked her!” She waves her hand towards Keerthi.
“And what did you say?”
Keerthi looks sheepish. “I told her not to get involved with someone from work.”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Haven’t you heard the phrase Don’t shit where you eat?’”
“That’s what I said!” Jack crows; remembering that conversation, how he explained why he tried not to feel what he was feeling for her, and how she’d rolled her eyes at him so hard he’d worried that she might sprain something.
“And thank god I’m not either of you.”
“Thank god,” he says, tipping her head up and kissing her again very gently on the mouth.
“I am grateful, too,” Keerthi says. “If you hadn’t been all tied up in knots about him, you wouldn’t have reached out, and it’s been so good to get closer, to get to know you as an adult. Let’s not lose touch again.”
“Never. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Jack squeezes Samira’s shoulder. She’s been putting in the work on being more comfortable accepting love and realizing she’s worthy of it. She’s told him that getting some physical feedback when he says it, grounds her, helps keep the anxiety at bay. She puts her hand over his and squeezes back.
Later they are in the kitchen cleaning up while Keerthi calls her husband and kids.
“How – what was it? How different generational cohorts… ?” He looks at her as he trails off, prompting her with his eyes to finish the sentence.
“Express romantic interest.”
“Ah-mazing.”
“My ProQest search wasn’t that helpful. JSTOR was worse.” She says, putting dishes in the dishwasher.
“Wait, you did a journal search–”
“--To figure out if you were flirting with me? To figure out the best way to flirt back. Yes.”
He would like to invent new words for how he loves her. The word love is plain and invites adjectives and adverbs he’s uncomfortable with like more, better, now, deeply; even words like first or after confound him.
The Germans could do it maybe, some word that’s 200 characters long and encompasses the exact color temperature of her beautiful eyes, the way the angle of cheekbones are perfect for his thumbs to trace; the taste of her skin; the way she approaches the world like a question, always seeking never satisfied; her endless compassion with some people, her instant annoyance with others; her insight and the electric restlessness of her mind; the sharpness of her wit; her drive; her mouth on his dick like it’s a competition; how her breath catches every single time he enters her; the way that even after all this time, even with all the drugs that flow in his bloodstream, even at his fucking age, he can still get hard thinking about her body, her laugh.
“That may be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” He tells her and he hopes she hears his earnestness. It’s just so her. It knocks him a little sideways like a punch of love to the face.
Samira snorts. “So, academic research over blow jobs?”
He ignores her. Leans against the counter. “What did you learn?”
“Hmm?” She says drying her hands on a towel.
“About how different generational cohorts express romantic interest.”
“Um. Millennials and Gen Z are statistically having less sex.”
“OK then, well, you’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “Stuff about who uses dating sites, but that article was old. Gen Z flirts with memes, and is better about setting boundaries. Millennials are anxious. Gen X values humor.”
“And mixtapes.”
“Ok,” she says, turning away, trying to avoid the onslaught of Gen X nostalgia she thinks is coming, that, or to put away the pan he just dried.
“I can’t believe I never made you one.”
“I listen to enough of your music as it is, thank you.”
“Oh, we’ve barely scratched the surface there.”
“Yippee, so much to look forward to. Till death do us part was such a great idea.”
“Hey,” he says.“I think you’ve got some sarcasm dripping there.” And he rubs at his chin, the side of his mouth with a thumb. He tries to do the same to her, but she ducks away.
“L-O-L.”
“I think I’ll make you one. For our first anniversary. Since I’m worried you won’t let me give you what I really want to.”
She looks at him, frustration clear on her face. “I’m thinking about it.”
He lets it drop. A few weeks ago, when he first suggested he could pay off her loans, or at least make a serious dent in the principle, she balked. Remembering how things went when he first suggested they live together, he backed off. Told her to think about it. That they’d talk about it again after their first anniversary. “First anniversary is what? Plastic?”
“Paper.” she says as if on autopilot.
“Ok, I’ll make a nice cover for it. Liner notes. Do you even know what those are?”
“No, dearest heart. Please tell me all about how you got those big muscles by turning the crank on your Victrola.”
That gets him and he lets out a solid surprised bark of laughter.
“Don’t make me take you across my knee, whippersnapper."
She ignores the innuendo. The wine they had at dinner has made them both punchy. He’s enjoying it and he’s pretty sure she is too. “I’m very much looking forward to my ‘Sounds of the early middle ages’ mixtape. I can’t wait.”
“I could make something you’d like.” He tilts his head and looks her up and down and she laughs. “Don’t you believe me?”
He can see the exact moment she gets the shift in his intentions and decides not to ignore it or be annoyed by it; when she really sees that he’s not talking about mixtapes anymore.
Her answer is softer and more earnest. She’s dropped the sarcasm in favor of a low lush heat in her tone. “Yeah, I believe you.”
He wants her. It’s that quick and that simple. “C’mere.” he says intentions clear. He’s gonna kiss her and then do a whole lot more.
“Jack,” she says, his name a warning. They’ve talked about this. Not while her cousin is in the house. When she doesn’t come to him he starts advancing on her. She picks up a butter knife from the counter and brandishes it at him. “I mean it.”
“Oh honey,” he’s amused, but it’s a specific type of amusement — like she’s made a particularly bad joke or good pun. He could disarm her in no time with no effort and she knows this.
“This is not a game,” she says, the line of her mouth is serious, but the glint in her eye is not.
He gets in a ready stance. More to make her laugh than to move on her. It works. She lets out an adorable yelp at him and he didn’t even have to touch her. “Put it down,” he tells her, pointing at the knife.
She looks at it. Disbelieving that he’s kicking up fuss over a butter knife. “Oh come on,” she laughs at him again, but then tries to swallow it down; gets serious, though she looks like she might erupt in giggles at any moment. “You agreed” she whisper-yells at him “Not while Keerthi is here.”
“Right now I’m more focused on disarming you than getting you into bed, but either way I think Keerthi would understand. She was a newlywed once, too.”
Samira is still fighting against a laughing fit and it gives her face a flushed, rosy glow. He can’t believe his life sometimes; she is too beautiful for words. He could get control of her arm, use a simple wrist lock to get the knife from her before she even knew what was happening; he knows he can do it without hurting her at all. It wouldn’t take much, but where’s the fun in that?
Instead he circles her, forcing her to move to her left so her back is to the wide door of the pantry cabinet – something he can shove her flush against without pushing a handle into her back.
When she’s positioned where he wants her, he moves quickly; grabs her wrist and pushes her against the cabinet with a forearm high across her chest. The hand on her wrist holds her arm up and away from her body, also pinned against the cabinet door. He uses just enough force to make her feel his strength, his training, but not so much to risk hurting her or make her think he’s taking this more seriously than he is.
She cries out and loses it; laughs loudly; forget Keerthi hearing what they are up to, the neighbors probably heard that. “I warned you,” he tells her, smiling, so close that they are breathing the same air. In moments like this he likes that she’s sort of tall and that he’s sort of not because it’s easy to be in her face. Look her straight in the eyes. He tilts his head down just a bit, to suggest that he could be kissing her; doing a lot more than kissing her.
He steps closer, giving up some of his leverage so he can press his body more tightly against her. He smells wine on her breath. Wants to taste it, but he keeps himself still. Looks into her eyes until she has to close them, she bites her lip and makes a soft sound. She’s frustrated. Good.
“Hey guys,” Keerthi, out of sight, calls out from the living room, breaking the tension between them just a little bit. “I think I’m gonna take a walk. Maybe go to that bakery and get some cake. You want anything?”
Without moving out of his grip Samira collects herself and calls out. “No, I think we’re good. Thanks!” He keeps his arm across her chest and a hand on her wrist, but he kisses her neck; finds that place still makes her weak. She tries to swallow her moan, but isn’t entirely successful. He presses his smile into her skin.
“Ok,” Keerthi answers and he’s pretty sure he can hear the laughter in her voice. “I’ll probably be like 40 mins. Or an hour. I’ve got the key you gave me. Don’t wait up.”
“Sounds good. See you in the morning.” Samira calls out. Eyes closed. They are both waiting for the sound of the front door closing. She is vibrating with it, not laughing anymore.
“I told you she’d get it.” He says, after they hear the deadbolt click home. He squeezes her wrist, not hard enough to really engage the pressure point, but enough to make her feel it. “Drop it.”
She does. And it’s all worth it to see her face when he lets go of her and catches the knife before it hits the floor. He puts it in one of the side pockets of his pants.
“Positively cat-like,” she tells him and he knows she liked seeing him do it, but there’s still an edge of sarcasm to voice. He decides to make her pay for it later when she least expects it.
“Thank you.” And he is on her, pushing her back against the cabinet door, kissing her for all he’s worth, for doing research on how to flirt with him, for fighting through her confusion and fear, for marrying him even though he’s too old, too stubborn, too much of a mess himself sometimes.
Her hands migrate to his hair and his ass. She breaks the kiss and takes a deep breath. “Fuck. Yes. Ok,” she says. He loves when he can make her brain stutter and stop and she has to come back to her senses. “Not here.”
He hadn’t really been planning on fucking her against the pantry door in the kitchen, but he appreciates her faith in his creativity and core strength. “That’s fair,” he tells her, grabs an arm, and bends so he can get her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
She yelps again and laughs, swats at his back, his ass as he carries her towards the bedroom.
“Put me down!”
“I will,” he tells her. “When I’ve got you where I want you.”
*****************
She goes to the stationary store to get some thank you notes for all the gifts they got from friends and family. People were overly generous, it makes her uncomfortable. They don’t really need anything and they only made the registry because people kept asking about it and Dana warned people were going to buy them stuff anyway, so might as well.
She discovered too late that they could’ve added some charities to their registry. Jack suggested they could donate some things and that makes her feel better. She searches for the smallest cards she can find so they can get through them quickly and with writing as little as possible.
She finds some cards that will work, but still ends up looking around the store. It’s just so pretty. She’s drawn to the back wall which is covered with notebooks arranged in color order like a rainbow and beyond – with different hues of each color in a pleasing ombre going from dark to light. The order of it is so satisfying; the colors so lovely; she runs her fingers along their spines. She stops at one that’s the same pale cloudy gray color of their sheets.
It gives her an idea.
She stopped recording the details of her sexual encounters in her notes app during med school, yes, but she started again right after they got together. What they did, his reactions, how she felt in her body and what she was thinking. She had never really wanted someone the way she wanted him and it was overwhelming.
But it wasn't about just her or not entirely – it was about him, too. She wanted to record what he liked. In bed. About life in general. About her.
She wanted to collect the data, come up with a plan to be sure she loved him to the limits of her ability and beyond. Try and understand why on earth he loved her, why she loved him too. She thought she could figure it all out. His thoughts. Her thoughts. Find some sense in it all and tattoo the answers on her bones.
She smiles at the thought now. She’s become more comfortable with the idea of love being limitless and its origins as mysterious as what dreams are for or what makes labor start. She’s a curious person, but she hopes there are some things no one ever figures out.
She opens the app to remind herself how many of their times together she wrote about, she thinks she remembers, but wants to be sure. The entries go to 101. A good number. A prime. The first anniversary gift is paper. She will buy the notebook and write all 101 entries down, or maybe just a few choice ones for him.
She scrolls up and randomly stops at one.
Cunnilingus* (+dig, am, bed,|)
Spooning sex*^ (c, -dig, am, bed)
She realizes she’ll need to make him a key for what her notations mean. The thought makes her smile. That will be fun.
J says he doesn’t mind if I’m at his place when he’s not there. Makes it about the better commute. He’s right, but it’s weird. He also said it makes him happy to think that I'll be there sometimes when he comes home if I’m not working. Told him that sounded a little trad wife-y and he made an excellent face.
Decided to surprise him anyway. Watched youtube videos on lock picking and broke into his house so I could sleep in his bed and be there when he got home. Left dirty dishes in the sink, shoes by the bench, bag by the stairs. Turned up the heat. Sprayed perfume in the upstairs hallway. Like a treasure hunt maybe? But really making sure he didn’t mistake me for a sleepy prowler and shoot me.
Woke up to him going down on me. I get it now why he goes nuts when I do it for him. It’s like waking up from the best sex dream to something better. Turns something that is usually frustrating to a nice surprise. He didn’t stop for a second when I woke up; I must have said fuck and god like a million times. I felt his laughter on my clit; that almost did it, but he backed off; edging me for I don’t even know how long.
Trying to decide if he went the extra mile to encourage me to come over without him there again (am I like a dog being trained with really good treats?) or was he just happy to get what he wanted and saying thank you? No matter what, it was really nice.
Sex in the morning always reminds me of that first time when I wanted him so much I thought I’d die. Didn’t think it was possible to want him more, but it keeps getting worse. Or maybe I should say better, I guess. No, I know. It keeps getting better.
She stops reading; can feel the wide smile on her face. He was so open even back then and she was cagey about what she was thinking and feeling. She thinks he knew. He must have. He put up with a lot. She’s better now at telling him things, but it doesn’t come as easily as it seems to for him, but then again, she hasn’t had anywhere near as much therapy.
She is more certain that this is a good present. He will love to peek into her crazy mind, the mind he says he loves – that he does love, she corrects herself. No matter how weird it is, or strange, he’ll love it. It’s nice to know something like that, to be sure of it.