Title: You for Me, and Me for You

Author: manette

DPB owns them.

AN: Written for Pixie’s challenge—by hand in a car mainly while stuck in construction on I-45 at Corsicana, Texas

I’ve never been immune to Mac’s womanly charms despite the nine years it took us to figure things out. And I’ve always been able to function just fine even in the face of those charms, but from the moment I decided to make Mac my wife, she’s had all the power. I probably shouldn’t let her know that, though. We are two proud, independent people and blending our lives together might have been tricky, but so far it’s been surprisingly easy. She’s it for me. I’ve known that for a while, but my joy at finding out that I’m it for her too has been profound. She can walk into the room, and everything else fades away. I’m thinking this is a temporary condition that will pass, maybe once we’ve been married for fifty years or so.

Or maybe not.

She can be minding her own business, cooking, or reading, or working and then, she’ll look up and catch my eye from across the room—the same way we’ve been doing for years. As partners. As colleagues. We’ve had that silent communication almost from the beginning, but now nothing about it is the same. Those sparks that once just smoldered can ignite in a single glance, and it’s all I can do not to haul her into the bedroom and indulge in a few other forms of communication. Sometimes, I don’t even try to resist the temptation. Sometimes, she pretends to protest. Sometimes, to my surprise, she squeals and giggles. Sometimes, we don’t make it to the bedroom before the fireworks begin. Maybe in fifty years or so I’ll let her read a book all the way through without interrupting her.

“Harm? Harm?”

Her voice interrupts my daydream and I look up to see her struggling through the front door with her arms full of grocery bags. Apparently she’s been trying to get my attention, and I jump to my feet and take the bags and set them on the counter.

“Thanks,” she says and gives me a kiss. “You were a million miles away.”

“Just thinking about you, Sweet Pea,” I say.

She rolls her eyes at the endearment, but her grin gives her away. She likes it. What can I say? I discovered early in this new phase of our relationship that making up corny names for her tickles her fancy, floats her boat, makes her putty in my hands. But of course, she won’t admit it. I wouldn’t expect her to, not my little squared away Marine, but what I know is that she spent too much of her life feeling unloved. I plan to spend the rest of my life changing that.

I start unloading the bags and a goofy smile lands on my face when I find a carton of ice cream. “Vanilla. My favorite.” She prefers the flavors with everything but the kitchen sink in them, but I’m a purist. She bought it just for me, and I’m touched. I wrap my arms around her waist from behind and nuzzle her neck. “Thanks, Mac.”

“Your welcome,” she says as she pats my hand but I can tell she’s determined not to get distracted. She warns me, “Dinner won’t be ready for a couple of hours.”

“I’ll just have a little ice cream to hold me, then.” I wink and grab a bowl from the cabinet.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite,” she scolds half heartedly, but she opens the drawer and hands me the ice cream scoop. I help myself and then get out of her way. We’ve been sharing the cooking duty, but tonight Mac is trying out some new recipe, wanting to impress me. She always gets a little anxious until she’s certain she has the whole production under control. She bustles around the kitchen, and I watch from the kitchen table as she chops, and sautés, and minces, and measures, and studies the recipe with dogged concentration.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” I make the offer knowing she will turn it down.

“No. I’m almost done. It’s got to bake for a while, though.” She sounds grim and harried, and convinced the whole concoction will be a disaster, but she’s gamely determined to see it through to the bitter end. She puts the roasting dish in the oven and blows her bangs away from her face as she sets the timer. I think she looks delicious. Her face is flushed, and she has a smudge of flour on her cheek. I could care less what we have for dinner. She glances in my direction, and our eyes meet. I can tell the moment she relaxes—the moment all impending cooking disasters cease to matter.

She walks toward my chair, and I pull her down into my lap and feed her bites of ice cream. She tolerates it—lets me pretends it’s all about the ice cream, but I know she likes being in my lap. Maybe she doesn’t have all the power, after all. She smiles and snuggles in, content to have me hold her.

And I’ll be content to do just that, maybe for the next fifty years or so.

The End