Four months.  It's been four months since I moved in with him, but I've known him since I was a girl and he was... well, he was a still man then.  There is more than a decade between us.  Somehow, what had seemed a huge gap when I was fourteen seems a pittance now that I'm approaching thirty.  I've known him half my life.  But it's only in the last year that I've really come to know him, to know the things that only his heart's keeper could know.

This place.... his apartment.... our apartment now.  He's always been particular about his private space.  That I'd always felt comfortable in it said a lot.  That he asked me to share it with him said more.  We're not married yet.  Not even engaged.  He moves in his own time and in his own way.  He always has, like some force of nature that has a rhythm all his own.  He is, and always will be, an individual.  But I know it will happen someday, perhaps even someday soon.  We don't speak about it much, but it is there in his every word.  Not mentioned specifically, it is more in how he speaks about the future.  Our future.  He uses words like Home and Family and Forever.  They are words he mentions far more than he mentions Love. 

It is his way.  In the working world, he is a man of words.  In his private life, he is a man of actions.  He has said he loves me, as I have said it to him, but I feel it most when he shows me.  When he makes a place for me in his life.  When he wants me to be there to greet him when he comes home, travel-weary and worn from the rudeness of life.  When he does things like selling the car that he loves to drive to buy us one that is more functional for two.  Or how he is always there when I need him.  When I really need him.  Like how he came and dug a hole for me in my back yard the night my dog died.  It was dark.  Raining.  He was tired from a long day at work, and yet he simply looked at me, water dripping down his lined face and said, I think the hole needs to be deeper, honey.... I'd hate for anything to disturb his rest.   

That is love.

So, here I am.  Alone in our apartment.  He's been gone on business for five weeks, negotiating near Beslan.  There is a Sicilian family there whose son and daughter were taken by purported terrorists.  I hope they're okay.  I hope he's okay.  He takes it personally when he is unable to negotiate a release.  I still don't know how he lives with that burden.  How he's always so willing to take responsibility for a stranger's life.  It's one of the reasons I love him like I do.  He is a good man.  A hard man too.  And as difficult as he is generous.  He makes me crazy.  I couldn't live without him.

He sounded exhausted the last time we spoke.  Ready for the comfort of his own home.  His bed.  His woman.  Slow sleepy mornings and nights filled with intense passion.  Afternoons cuddling in front of the television and meals shared together in our tiny, homey kitchen.  All the good things he needs to knit the ragged edges of his soul back together.

The apartment seemed too quiet without his presence there, filling it with light and life and laughter.  I missed our evenings together, sharing a bottle of fine Bordeaux as we as we shared our secrets and our bodies.  He is so uninhibited.  It makes me smile to think of it, of the pleasure he takes in seeing just how red he can make me blush.  Sometimes it's just a look, or a phrase whispered into my hair at a party. 

I loved how you looked this morning when I was licking your pussy. 

Then he waits.  Watching for my reaction, looking damnably innocent- as if he's only bent in to ask me the time.  If I don't blush enough, he adds to it, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I'm going to do it again tonight, you know.....

Waiting again.  Watching.  

Maybe even before we get home.

See?  He's shameless.  And I absolutely adore it.  Especially when he whispers to me in Italian.  His father is Irish, but his mother?  She's straight out of the Old Country and you always grow up speaking your mother's language at home.  And I have to say; he's as shameless - and as smooth- in Italian as he is in English.

Other times, it's actions not words.  He took a pair of my panties with him this time when he left.  Told me with a dirty wink just how he planned on using them to get himself off while we were apart.  How he can say such things without blushing is beyond me.  That's never that sort of stuff that makes him blush, though.  Oh, no.... But I definitely have his number.  And I just adore razzing him in that way that I know will make that color creep up his neck.  For example- he knows all the words to Mary Poppins' 'Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'.  When he's really giving me a hard time... all I have to do is hum a few bars and he turns this most delicious shade of pink.  And then he gives me this look that says he's gonna get me back so good for making him go all red in public.   

God, I miss him.  

The days are long, but it's the nights he's away that are the hardest for me.  We don't have kids or pets and I've long since learned how to leave my work at work.  I don't allow anything non-critical to intrude on our private time together.  But it does make for a lot of lonely hours when he's gone.  This time, I decided to do something more worthwhile with my time than catching up on old correspondence or reorganizing the pantry. 

This time I decided to tackle the Graveyard.  That's what we call the spare room.  Where old furniture goes to die, you know?  It's kind of a joke really.  I mean, his style... it is so minimalist.  He has an affinity for Asian décor.  Lots of natural elements.  Monochromatic colors.  That sort of thing.  The Graveyard is like the catchall room for the things he's outgrown but simply can't give up.  Every other room in our apartment is crisp and neat.  Warm, but uncluttered.... all but that one. 

Picking through it is like this scrapbook of his life.  He is a professional, urbane man and our apartment reflects that.  It's been feminized slightly by the addition of some of my things, though I'm hardly given to the frilly foo-foo feminine décor that intrigues him in other people's homes, but makes him cringe to contemplate living with on a permanent basis.  The Graveyard, in comparison, is like this peek not only into his past, but into who he really is under the surface when you scratch away all the sophisticated polish he's acquired over the years.

There are boxes of dusty trophies and ribbons he's won for track and soccer.  Old, beat-up furniture that could have only come from his first college apartment is layered under other pieces; glass and chrome monstrosities that I'd bet came from his first real bachelor pad.  At one point, he'd had hopes of the room being used for guests, but the bed was buried under tons of electrical gadgets I couldn't begin to name, though I think I might have seen an old Atari tangled with a PlayStation- that has since been replaced by an Xbox.  (You know that TV commercial where the Black Ops men are kicking ass in the jungle warfare game?  I am sad to say that does indeed have a basis in reality.)  In the other corner sat a monolithic stereo and fugly speakers (with a matching record player!) that he insists on keeping as well.  He says they just don't make them like that anymore.  Is it any wonder?  I always say.  He just laughs, but I know he's too attached to ever part with it.  The little sheepish sparkle in his eyes tells me so when I really razz him about it.

The closet is jammed with more mementos and old clothes.  His high school letterman's jacket.  A horribly outdated blue tux.  With ruffles.  T-shirts that are old and grungy, emblazoned with the most rude slogans imaginable.  'I only support gay marriage if both chicks are hot!' and 'If it swells, ride it.'  And this one god-awful shirt with holes burned into it that says 'Who farted?' on the back.  Only a man would ever wear that in public.  Occasionally, he wears one of them around the house on the weekend, as if he's daring me to say something.  I never do.  Just as he never says anything when I buy him new t-shirts and hide his favorite old ratty ones away in there, hoping he'll forget he owns them.  Mission Impossible, he always says. 

The Graveyard always makes me laugh, even when it's frustrating me.  Sometimes I wonder if I got buried under the onslaught, if anyone would find me before he returned home.  He says it's a good thing we don't have a cat.  The only animal he wants nibbling at my incapacitated, delectable body is him.  How can you not adore a man who says things like that?

So, back to my other Mission Impossible.  I wanted to do something really nice for him.  Showing him, in the way he shows me, that he's loved and cherished.  I had decided to take on the Graveyard and turn it into a study for him.  He's been so good about sharing his space with me, but I thought he'd really like a private place all his own.  A place somewhere between a study and a lounge.  A place where he could go to listen to music and unwind, to meditate or zone out as the spirit moved him. 

And I think somewhere, some unconscious part of me was also remembering what he said once about that room in that offhand way he has.  How he thought it would make a good nursery someday.  My heart had melted.  He ruined it, of course, asking me in the next breath if I thought a foosball table would fit in there amongst all his other junk.  I stuck my tongue out at him and told him if he didn't shut up, I'd tell all his merc buddies that he never missed an old Star Trek marathon on TV if he could help it.  (After which, he would torment me for days..... talking....in annoying.... bursts.... just like Captain..... Kirk.  And saying things like: "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor.... not a trash man!" when I asked him to take out the garbage.  Or in the middle of sex, he'd bust out with a pathetic Scottish accent, al la Scotty and shout: "I'm givin' 'er all I got, Sir... If I give 'er any more, she's sure to break apart...") 

He is such a doofus.  

And he deserves a really nice surprise.  

So, I waded in.  I'm smart enough to know he doesn't mind me digging through his 'treasures' but that for all his worldly poise, he's like a little kid with his stuff.  He just can't get rid of some things, no matter how junky and pathetic they are.  I know just how he feels.  I have a small storage unit downtown that houses my own 'Graveyard'. 

The day after he flew out, I went down and got him a unit too.  I spent the next few evenings sorting and packing.  A few days later, I bribed some of his buddies with free pizza and beer to help me haul everything but the stereo, the bed, and a few mementos to his new storage unit.  After much pleading and the promise of a bottle of good scotch, one of them stayed late and hooked the stereo up for me. 

And what do you know?  Dino was right about that old thing.  The speakers looked like crap, but when that needle passed the scratchy vinyl and old Frank started crooning.... I have to say, I was impressed.  It sounded cherry.  That night, Sinatra serenaded me while I painted the walls a soft muted green.  It's one of Dino's favorite colors.  Perfect for a relaxing escape. 

Or a nursery.

Every night he was gone, I would spend hours reclaiming the Graveyard.  Painting and decorating, fussing and refussing as only a woman can.  I think I tried the furniture in every possible arrangement.  At least twice.  I had his diplomas mounted and I hung them along side his discharge papers from the Corps.  I had a display box made for the medals and citations he'd earned over the years and bought a second box to display the flag I found folded up and carefully wrapped in an old pillowcase.  (Men!) 

Down in storage, I dug through his old pictures and took a few favorites to a photo shop downtown where I had them blown up and redone in black and white.  One of him, age 8, in a Superman cape, running around in his back yard.  Another of him in his early twenties, whipcord thin, with that distinctive Marine tan (neck and forearms), muscles bulging, shirtless and drinking lemonade while he built a deck for his parents.  One of him, age 41, sleeping on the beach during our last vacation, scruffy and windblown.

I mounted them on the wall next to the cabinet that housed his collection of old records, everything from Bobby Darrin to the Scorpions.  I fingered the records.  His taste in music always made me smile.  It was one of the few things that definitively showed the gap in our ages.  He had Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and Van the Man growing up.  I had Pearl Jam, Jewel and about twelve incarnations of Madonna.  (Who strangely enough these days wants to be called Esther.)  Guess we all grow up sooner or later....

I hung a painting we'd chosen together, but never had framed, on the far wall and dressed the bed with new, masculine linens.  Bought some plants and throw pillows.  Gave it that subtle woman's touch he liked so much.  That thing that we do that makes a place feel homey and welcoming and warm.  Little touches.  His favorite incense sat in a small metal dish.  I stocked a humidor with a few of the cigars he likes.  I spent time sorting through his favorite books and artfully arranged them on the bookcase, well aware that would never last.  When he gets it into his head to read a certain book, he simply paws through the stack with a single-mindedness akin to a dog with a bone. 

Every last thing in that room reminded me of him.  Maybe I gave him this room for myself as much as for him.  Touching all those memories of his life made me feel closer to him while he was away.  Made me remember those things about him that took me time to discover.  Little patterns that I only learned over time. 

How for all his 'a place for everything and everything in its place' mentality, he still squeezes the tube of toothpaste from the middle and leaves the cap on the counter every morning.  How he prefers candlelight to regular lights in the evenings.  More intimate things as well.  How (after some impressively mind blowing sessions to break the place in) we now rarely make love any place but the bedroom and the shower, apart from a few notable exceptions.  He likes me to go down on him in his favorite chair rather than in bed in the days following his return from an extended trip. 

I used to think it was because he liked to see me on my knees.  He likes to watch and it's easier in a chair than in a bed.  But over the months, I've come to learn it's less about the sex and more about what happens after.  He likes to rest.  Rest, not sleep.  And he likes it best when I'm around.  I always cover him with a throw when we're done and he sort of drifts... but not all the way asleep.  He likes to know I'm nearby.  To hear me moving around, either fussing in the kitchen or reading on the couch.  He likes to be able to reach out and touch my leg or grab for my fingers as I pass by.  My presence comforts him.  And I think it's the sweetest thing in the world that he finds that more restful than falling asleep in the solitary quiet of our bedroom.

There are other things too.  He prefers to make love in our room, but when he's in the mood, what he really likes is to come at me in the kitchen.  He always waits until I'm in the middle of something, hands busy chopping onions or kneading bread or slicing fruit, my fingers covered with sticky juice.....  That's when he attacks.  Pins me against the island or the cabinets and has his wicked way with me.  Pulls down my panties or pushes up my skirt with a sinful leer and makes me come on his mouth. 

He doesn't stop there, though.  Oh no.  He always hangs around afterwards.  Perches on a stool at the breakfast bar, grinning at me while he eats an apple, or throws himself down into one of the kitchen chairs and watches me with glittering eyes, totally unconcerned that his nose and chin are glistening with the proof of my pleasure.  He just sits there, flaunting it, smug as the very devil.  My red-haired devil.  So very pleased with himself as I stand there on shaky legs, trying to remember just what the hell I was doing.  And just when I begin to regain some semblance of composure, he will sit back, some fork or napkin ring twirling absently in his fingers, and say something specifically designed to make me blush.

I can still smell you on my lips.

Flat out.  No embellishment of any kind.  I blush.  But I always sass him back.

Bet if I was flexible enough, I could smell you on mine too, you perve! 

Oh, how I love his soft laughter.  How it makes his eyes crinkle up at the corners.  How it makes him seem like the strongest, most unshakable, honorable man I've ever met.  And yet somehow, also like that boy running around his yard in his Superman cape.  He would die if he knew that's how I saw him sometimes.  It makes me dream about little red-haired boys with dirty knees and sweet blue-eyed girls with cute turned up noses.  Babies.  Our babies....  I hope they look like him.  My Superman. 

I wonder what old Clark Kent's going to think of the Graveyard's rebirth?  He's going to have to give it a new name now, I think.  Or maybe not.  Maybe it will become the room where old soldiers go to crash.  The thought made me laugh even though it was late and I was tired.

These last few nights of waiting for him were hard.  He never has a set schedule.  Hostage negotiation isn't exactly nine-to-five.  I'd spent the last few evenings in the newly redone room, cozied up in the recliner reading and listening to his old records, lost in memories of him, hoping the exchange could be resolved and the cargo collected without him needing to gear up and hit the ground, locked and loaded. 

I sighed.  I always worry about him, even when he's not directly in the field.  I sat for a long time and just watched candles I'd lit burn lower and lower.  I lay down on the bed, intending to rest my head for just a moment before I went back to our room, but the pace of the last few weeks caught up with me.  I felt so heavy and slow. 

My body was exhausted, but some part of my mind seemed to still be active.  It registered the oddest things.  How different this room felt now.  Strange.  New.  The bedding didn't smell the same as ours did.  The scent of the detergent was the same, but it carried none of his scents.  Not the tang of his cologne or the softer notes of my perfume, nor the woodsy scents of our bodies or the more musky scent of our lovemaking.  The sheets were crisp and new.  A bit stiff.  Not like the ones in our bedroom, perfectly broken in with that soft cozy feel.

It felt.... lonely.  Made me think of all those nights before I was the one sleeping at his side.  I wrapped my arms around a pillow that didn't smell like my Dean and I sighed deeply as I hugged the pillow tighter, lost in dreams of his strong arms.  My body grew heavier and before long, sleep took me.

It was the scent that woke me first.  Fresh.  Crisp and cold.  Like a window left open too late on a cool autumn night.  I realized there was a weight over me, pressing me deeper into the soft mattress.  For a moment I struggled, and then I heard it.

"Shhhh....."

Heard the rough purr of his soft voice.  Felt the warmth of his breath on my cheek.  Smelled the familiar scent of his body under the crisp sent of the night that clung to his heavy overcoat.  I buried my face in his neck, under the scratchy stubble of his chin, and wrapped my arms around him.  We were both silent for long moments. 

"You weren't in our bed."

I realized then just how fast his heart was beating against mine.  How it must have given him a start to find our bed cold and empty in the middle of the night, with no idea where I was.  I whispered to him, aware it was critical that the ever-changing instability of his working world be balanced with a few solid concretes at home.  He couldn't do his job if he was worried about me.  "I'm sorry.... I'm here...." 

He nodded and pressed his face into my long dark hair and I felt him breathe me in and then he sighed contentedly against me.

"I missed your smell," he finally said, sinking deeper into me.  I felt him tuck something silky into my hand.  It came to me in a flash.  It was the pair of panties he'd taken from me when he left.  "They're nice.... but there ain't nothin' like the real thing, baby...." he gave his words the same melodic inflection the commercial jingle had.  How does he remember that stuff?  He is such a nut. 

I laughed and held him tighter and then we sat up and I pushed the damp coat from his broad shoulders.  It slipped to the floor with a quiet rasp, looking out of place there in the neat room.  He sunk back to the bed, pulling me tight against him as he took in the changes I'd made.  It was dark, but there was enough moonlight shining through the window to illuminate most of the room.

"You did this for me?" he asked softly, holding me tighter.  I nodded.  He smiled, opening and closing his mouth a few times, clearly at a loss for words.  That almost never happens with him.  He is always so eloquent.  I was pleased that I managed to touch him so.  Finally, he spoke.  "What did you do with the rest of my things?"

So like a man for that to be the first question.  So like a boy, too; worried about his treasures.  I couldn't help but tease him.  "Lit them on fire and tossed them out the window."

He chuckled.  "So, they're in storage with your stuff, huh?"  

"Something like that."  Everything but those t-shirts.  Those I sent to his mother.  She's going to make them into a quilt.  I felt him hold me tighter.  He was deeply moved.  But he was also a man.  I knew he would want to reconnect with his woman before he turned on the lights and really looked at the place.  I understood.  It was another of our little rituals.  Another of the patterns we'd made together as we moved from friends to lovers to partners in life.  I was his home.  Everything else came second. 

He rolled me under him and kissed me deeply.  It was a gesture that said 'thank you' in a way that was soul deep and exquisitely private.  His body language said one thing.  His mouth said another: "It's perfect.... but I still think it would make a good nursery someday."

Warmth curled through my entire body and I smiled.  I could taste the hint of cigars and fine scotch on his breath.  A successful negotiation then.  He always has a drink and a smoke with the boys to celebrate.  And then he calls Terry.  I can just imagine how that conversation went.

"Scored another one, man.... I know, I know... you still have that same bullshit excuse as always.......... That's five for me already this year, sunshine..... and the news around town says you're still busting your hump on number four....."

We don't see Terry nearly as often as Dino would like, but I know how close they are.  And I could just imagine what Terry would say back to him.  Nobody winds Dino up like Terry. 

"You gonna cry like a big girl when the bet comes due, mate, and you owe me that sweet little bottle for resolving more than you again this year?"

I took his face in my hands and kissed him, savoring the taste of victory on his lips and tongue.  He groaned into my mouth and ran his hands over me, somewhat less than gently in his haste to feel his woman against him once more.  I broke away long enough to whisper: "I'm so glad you're home."

He said nothing.  Just hummed his agreement as he urged me to stand up, already beginning to undress before we'd even gained our feet.  While he hurriedly stripped, I tugged off my skirt and top but when I reached for my panties, he batted my hands away and growled, "That's my job."

I smiled into the dark as he reached between my legs and pulled me to him, possessively palming the rise of my pubic bone before he dropped his mouth to my neck and sucked hard.  I drew in a sharp breath, but we were already falling back to the bed.  He gave me no quarter and no mercy.  His hands and mouth roamed widely, sucking and biting, hardly giving me time to catch my breath before he assaulted me again. 

I felt light-headed.  Dizzy.  Overwhelmed by him.... and also somehow shy.  He smelled different.  The scent of soap clinging to his skin was different.  He buried his face in my neck and I realized his hair smelled different too.  Some hotel shampoo, no doubt.  Coupled with the sensation of the new bedding under me and the strange newness of the room, it almost felt like I'd shifted realities to some other plane where my Dean was familiar... but also somehow... not. 

It made it feel like it was the first time again, when he was hesitant about making love to someone he once knew as a girl and I was still in awe of him as this man I'd always admired.... before our lovemaking had burned out the schoolgirl crush I once had on him and replaced it with a more mature, adult love. 

That strange newness seemed to heighten every sensation, amplifying all the differences and reinforcing the similarities.  The way he touched me was the same.  A proprietary hand between my legs.  That soft little sound he makes in his throat when he's really aroused.  How the flutter of his heart gives away just how excited he is.

He rubbed his face between my legs, smoothing his stubbly cheek over my panties before pulling back to catch my eyes.  He peeled the scrap of satin and lace off slowly, wetting his lips as he did so, flooded with the unconscious desire to taste me.  I saw the flash of his teeth in the dark as he smiled a predatory smile and then the world tilted wildly on its axis as he covered me with his warm, hungry mouth.  He feasted on me.  It was erotic.  And crude.  Smacking and slurping as he sucked at me and pushed his tongue wherever he pleased, following some secret ribbon of taste known only to him.

I squirmed.  He held me down.  Sucked a stinging bite on the back of my thigh as he manipulated me at his whim.  He is so strong.  He pulled his mouth from me, panting and wild.  I smiled as I reached for him..... and he smiled back, even with the wild light burning in his eyes.  We kissed.  Deeply.  I reached between his legs, but he was making it difficult for me.  Not scooting his hips within easy grasp as he usually does.  He was too focused on his own desire to touch and taste in the manner of his choosing.  It made me smile against his lips.

Without any preamble whatsoever, he slipped his hands under my hips and grasped each cheek in one large palm, lifting me to him as he rubbed his weeping tip against me, face still buried in my neck as if he couldn't get enough sensory input.  Scent.  Touch.  Taste.  Smell.  Sound.  Feel. 

There was blunt pressure and then a burning stretch.  God, it had been so long....  An unwelcome flash of reality skittered through my brain.  I pushed at his chest and whispered.  "Condom."  He lifted his head and our eyes met in the dark.  He didn't push in any deeper, but he didn't withdraw either.  "Dean....."  It wasn't a safe time.  I'd know.  Some part of me had been keeping closer track ever since he'd made that nursery comment.  He didn't like to use condoms.  And we often didn't, but I always told him when it wasn't safe and every other time he'd always stopped and put one on.  This time, he didn't.  "I could get pregnant," I whispered.  He didn't move but I felt him flex inside me.  His body's unconscious reaction to my words. 

"Would that be so bad?" he said as he sunk a bit deeper inside me.  I felt a hundred conflicting things in that moment.  He didn't wait for an answer.  I think that said it all.  He was ready to accept what came, regardless whether it fit into our plans at the moment.  I wondered about what had really happened in the field.  Two children had been involved.  He'd probably risked his life.  He wasn't getting any younger.  I wasn't either.  He'd come home to find our bed empty.  He was aroused.  And in love.  Maybe that was all the reason either of us needed. 

Maybe we were just two people who needed to reclaim each other without barriers of any kind between us.  Maybe we were as ready as two people ever could be for those three little words that kept popping up in our late night conversations.

Home.

Family.

Forever.

Raw and wet and crude became and desperate and intense, and in the last moments, frantic.  Two bodies giving themselves all of each other.  Straining and shaking as they exchanged fluid and love and maybe even life.  We touched the stars and then fell like burning cinders to earth once again, collapsing into each other's intimate embrace, sweaty and content.  Seamlessly melded into one by what we'd just shared.   

He nuzzled me, holding me to him even in sleep.  I smoothed his hair back from his moist face and twined our fingers together as I felt the warm trickle of starlight he'd given to me begin to leave my body.  I smiled into the darkness.  My Superman was home, at rest once more in his Fortress of Solitude.  He shifted against me and I smiled wider.  The bed smelled right now.  Like him.  And me. 

And love.