Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Rating: Just barely R for implied sex
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves.
Pairing: Billie Joe/Adrienne
Word count: 892
Summary: A peek into the wee hours of the morning in the Armstrong household.
Notes: This is my first post in this comm. I'm usually a slasher, but this little piece wouldn't leave me alone. :-)
She wakes suddenly, no transition between sleep and state of alertness, and realizes that she is alone. A hand ghosted over the sheets beside her conveys a remnant of warmth, a signal that the leave-taking of the other occupant was recent, and she smiles. He's been home long enough for her body to adjust to his presence in their bed.
Wrapping a robe around her nudity, she pads down the hallway to the small room at the end with faint light leaking out and enters, the door snicking closed behind her.
To an uninformed eye, it would seem a standard enough study, lined with books and featuring a large wooden desk near the window. A desk that she keeps stocked with pads of paper, pens and pencils, Post-It notes and postage stamps, all the things a normal home office would need.
The anomaly lies in the corner of the room. The metal stand boasts a battered acoustic guitar whose lined face belies its sweet resonance. He taught her years ago how to tune it exactly the way he does, and she checks it every day because sometimes, even when he's supposed to be halfway across the world, he comes home instead, and she knows that this is as much a part of why as she is.
He's put the pen down and turned to her now, a smile lighting that beloved face. "Miss me?"
"I did, yes," she admits, moving to stand in front of him now that he's noticed her. His arms come up around her and he nuzzles against her chest, strong thighs trapping her close. She laughs as he nudges the robe open and mouths her breast, as unable to resist the prospect of bare skin as any man. But over the sleep-mussed tangle of black hair she can see ink on the page, and time has made his scrawling handwriting as clear to her as her own.
She reads a line aloud – one from the middle of the page, without any discernable cues for what might come next – and laughs again when the words following it are mumbled through wet kisses. Gently she tilts his head up until he meets her gaze.
"I'm going back to bed, babe."
His legs relax their hold and she crouches, bringing herself down to his eye level, never breaking contact with that green heat as she palms his crotch, delight blooming inside her at the swiftness of his response to her touch, always. As soon as he's fully hard in her grasp she stops, her hand reaching to cup his face and trace a thumb across his rueful, comprehending smile, seeing the familiar mingled disappointment and relief that he doesn't hide from her anymore.
"I'm going back to bed," she reiterates, and adds, "You wake me up when you come in, all right?"
His smile broadens at the invitation, clearly recognizing it for what it is, and she knows that while he will spend the next however long focused on his writing, a corner of his mind will be aware that she is waiting, and when he's ready, he will come back to the bed they share and rouse her with lips and hands and teeth, sending her through the stratosphere in ways that he's long since perfected but that still feel new.
"I love you," he murmurs, his mouth seeking hers and she accepts his kiss, returning it aggressively, her tongue thrusting against his until she's dizzy with the taste of him.
"I love you too," she whispers as she pulls away, giving his tangled curls a swift caress. She curves lips moist from his into a smile. "Write."
He laughs at that, and he's already turning away as she stands and makes her way to the door, glancing back through unbound dreadlocks to see the pen in his hand again, scratching at the paper with a soft hissing sound that disappears when she exits the room.
Music is a harsh mistress. It's a phrase she has heard many, many times, from a varied assortment of people, and yet it's never been one that she could agree with. Difficult, sometimes, yes. There were nights when she thought she might die of loneliness; moments spent seething with jealousy of the time and attention that he lavished on the rest of the world; days that stretched endlessly with his only presence in her daily life a snatched five minutes on the telephone.
But there were also nights like this, when she knew down to her bones that he devoted equal passion to the two great loves in his life, and she knew that when the voices in his head had stopped speaking and their words had bled onto paper, he would come to her and renew his claim on her soul even as he poured his own into her.
It was enough. It was more than enough, for without the music, there would be no man. She would not have had the opportunity to miss him so much it ached like a living thing inside her, or experienced the saturation of joy that having him home brought to her, and he would not be the person who had captured both her imagination and her heart and held them yet, cradled safely inside his melodies.
Because she, too, had fallen in love with his music first.