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Bradley sweeps the hair out of Laura’s face in one sweet caress, her thumb brushing across Laura’s forehead, touching away the frown lines, while Laura, completely boneless, falls into the motions of Bradley's hands against her skin. There was nothing electric about the current running through Laura’s body, it wasn’t violent waves of emotions, but rather, what Woolf would say is to “sink and settle into the waves” . Laura compared Bradley to just that, waves of delight and constant emotions, eyes like blue, reflecting the sky to the sea, giving it colour, its purpose. Bradley was the fresh air in the Montana breeze, the cause of a coffee brew at 8 am, and she was everything Laura loved. Laura sank into Bradley's world in one swoop, dropping onto a couch and allowing the latter to drape her curtains over Laura’s heart.
Laura likes to see herself as a pragmatist, a realist, even, with her critical thinking and hard facts, her sharp wit and honest opinions. She's quick to the gun, observant like all hell, and she knows the way around her own heart. Well. She did, at least. That was until it needed Bradley Jackson to beat a little bit clearer, a little steadier, a reminder of something. She, realistically, would learn to live without Bradley, just as she had before. But the before-bradley time period isn’t something to re-visit, not an ideal future, unwanted, completely and utterly unfathomable. Laura and Bradley had made a home in the name of hell, the devil playing the deck of cards and handing them to each other, with a baker's dozens’ problems to face together. But it was in Bradley's hands that Laura felt untouchable.
There was this ache for Bradleys touch that made Laura hum into Bradley's hand that was against her cheek. “Bradley,” she whispered, breathing out a sigh. She fluttered her eyes open, catching Bradleys smile, the way her lips glistened from remnants of since cleaned off lipgloss for the show, and Laura wondered if she had somehow slept through the morning. Instead of saying anything else, she just closed her eyes, nudged her head a little in Bradley’s direction, and Bradley’s light chuckle was all the indication needed for Laura to know Bradley understood what she needed. They had gotten good at that, the whole speaking without talking. Bradley, without words, could look at Laura, and Laura would know, in her heart, she’s saying I love you, and everything you give me. The joy; the love; the patience. Everything, it's you, forever, a long time, sure, but not enough. There's never enough when it comes to you, Laura.
The bedsheets are rustled as Bradley teasingly climbs over Laura’s body to reach her left, but instead, Laura, with one eye peeped open, wraps her arms around Bradley's waist so that when Bradley falls on her back, Laura gently rolls to the side, her head lolling softly onto Bradley's chest. There’s complete silence as Laura feels Bradley's arms come to envelop her, tugging her closer, and the two breathe quietly together, the sounds of the outside breeze and the patter of raindrops all to be heard.
The hairs on Laura’s arms stand to attention when Bradley's index finger starts to move up and down laura’s forearm slowly, grazing the skin, pausing, drawing patterns, a criss-cross, a heart, a smile, and Laura sighs into Bradley's neck, her own arms pulling her closer, closer, closer. The heat of Bradley so close, under the duvets, is usually too much, but at this moment it's not enough, Laura needs more. She needs to breathe Bradley in forever, the faintest smell of her perfume, remnants from clothes sprayed with it for the morning show that seeped into her skin, something very Bradley. She needs to feel the hands of Bradley on her skin, gentle and soothing, waves and waves of love, the way Bradleys hands heal small aches, Laura needs her closer. Close enough that Laura can barely breathe from the heat, near enough so that their two bodies become one the same, and Laura’s thighs press into Bradleys and it feels so wholly theirs, to be together, in the moment, every breath together, and their bodies shared with the love of fighting for each other despite the odds. The breaking, the fixing, the healing, their bodies, tattered, exhausted from fighting, but together, one, despite it all, in spite of everything, even with the time, and the space between them.
(Somewhere in the back of Laura’s mind she wonders how it’s gotten to the point where she knows Bradley enough to understand innately what it means to be Bradley. How have they melded into a life shared together so much so that Laura knows Bradley down to the spray of perfume against her skin, sense her presence in a room before Laura has looked up from her book, and all the ways Bradley's breathing shifts before she speaks? Let alone the tug at Laura’s sweater, always, before Bradley kisses her? Bradley exists, and Laura is left to bloom in her wake).
Bradleys other hand smoothes its way up to the nape of Laura’s neck, tugging gently at the short pieces of hair, brushing through the black tresses slowly, not methodically, lovingly, with the familiarity of time and learning, because she then, slowly, lets her hand stay to rest, almost cupping Laura's neck, before scratching, really grazing, the skin, and Laura breathes another groan, then sighs, happy for the grounding feel of Bradleys nails on her skin. The movements are familiar, never boring, welcome, and wakening, Laura's heart steadying at Bradleys touch.
Laura feels Bradley's chest rise beneath her, can’t hear the way her heart beats, but is sure its' calm, the same way Laura knows Bradley's eyes are closed because she trusts that Bradley knows the inches of Laura’s skin not easily found, but mapped under the light of day, and night, in every moment, where Bradley would hold Laura like a precious angel, divine in all her beauty; body; mind; heart, all the same, all-important, all Laura. All love.
Laura taps her fingers against Bradley's stomach, a practised action, asking can I? with just a touch. Bradley shifts slightly, and Laura allows her hand to tug Bradley's t-shirt up, (it's Laura’s shirt, actually) and the palm of Laura’s hand smoothes over the skin of Bradley's tummy. The goosebumps rose on Bradley's skin the second Laura moved the t-shirts' fabric, Laura knows this, because Bradley is so responsive to touch, to the feeling against her skin. Pliant under Laura’s actions, the way her fingers dance across Bradleys’ stomach, her hips, settling for a few moments to create roots in the soft ridges, dips and edges of Bradley's body.
Laura has this gentle fascination for the way Bradleys breathing responds to Laura's touch. How it hitches the moment Laura's hands go close to her navel, breathing out slowly. And if Laura’s fingers shift upwards slowly until they reach Bradley's sternum, the centre of her upper body, and her hand splays, touching as much skin as possible, just resting there, Laura can feel Bradley breathing under her hand, and Laura can never get enough of feeling Bradley under her. Bradleys breaths, up and down, up and down, constant, soothing, the reminder, her existence, beautiful, Bradley. Lauras'.
Lauras' hand remains in its place, peacefully settled against Bradley's sternum, feeling the upward and downwards movements of Bradley breathing, and at the same time, Bradley's hand, which had been resting sleepily on Laura’s forearm, moved downwards lazily, reaching under Laura’s shirt, already having mimicked the touch for permission, and slowly moved upwards. Laura knew what Bradley was doing the moment Bradley's hand left her arm. She did this often, let her hand languidly move until it reached just above her heart, left her hand laying there, Bradley's eyes closed, feeling Laura's heartbeat under her touch. It was a reminder, for Bradley, of Laura, breathing, living, existing, safe, far away from it all. Bradleys’.
Sometimes Bradley would count under her breath, the beats of Laura's heart, like it was calming her, bringing Bradley to the moment. Laura remembers, long ago now, in a moment of post-flashback panic, Bradley had pressed into Laura desperately, a reminder of gentle touches on her skin to replace hard grips and pushed patience. Laura remembers how Bradley's ear had pressed against her chest, Laura's hands on Bradley's back, holding her, and she felt the way Bradley shook under her touch. And then Bradley shifted, a hand, above Laura’s t-shirted heart, and how Bradleys breathing slowly steadied under the eight-oh-eight beat. Bradley needed to remember that she was safe, and with Laura under her touch, around her, she could never forget it.
In the now moment (all moments, then, now, tomorrow, three years away, were something to never be forgotten), with Laura resting against Bradley, breathing quiet, while Bradley, fingers above her heart, the sharp ridges of rings on their fingers, metallic coldness soothing them, their love in tandem, Laura recited the words, “Her sweet weight on my heart a night- ” and Bradleys thumb shushes her lips before she can continue. Her thumb remained, before she whispered herself -
“ You’re in love, you’re with me, and till dusk, full of yearning, I’m with you, I’m -” Bradley breaks for a breath, and Laura knows, “I am always with you, Laura.”
“There’s nowhere else you should be,” is all Laura murmurs in response. There's nothing else to say. Bradley's hands are prints on her skin, echoed forever, the touch, not a ghost, but reverent, holy, and Laura will hold Bradley until the day she dies, and leave nothing behind but a divine course of action, two lovers, entwined forever - together, till death do them part.