Homecoming – By Susan_m

Story Notes:

I barely managed to get this posted before Thursday’s John-comes-home-to-Marlena episode, so I’m sure it’ll be AU in less than two days. Oh, well. This is what could have happened.

I expected John to be exhausted when he got home. He’d missed his original flight in a TSA delay at LAX, gotten stuck with a four-hour layover in Denver on the stand-by he’d managed to pick up, then hit rush-hour traffic trying to get out of Chicago and spent another two hours sitting in gridlock.

 

So I gave myself a stern little lecture while I was waiting for him: You can’t just jump him the moment he walks in the door. He’s had a long day. He’s tired. He hasn’t eaten since Denver. He’s going to want to sit down and put his feet up, and you are going to let him.

 

Then I heard his key in the lock, and now we’re wrapped around each other like we haven’t touched in six months. It’s immediately clear that a) he’s missed me every bit as much as I’ve missed him, b) putting his feet up is the last thing on his mind, and c) it’s a good thing that Belle, Claire, and Paul are elsewhere.

 

When the kiss finally breaks I’m pinned back against the door with John’s hands in my hair and his very, very awake body pressed flush against mine. “Where is everybody?” he asks breathlessly.

 

“Gone. Hope invited–”

 

But apparently gone was answer enough. He kisses me again, hard and hot and hungry, and I moan into his mouth and bring my leg up to wrap around his, wanting him to know that I’m on board for whatever he has in mind.

 

We leave a trail of clothing all the way from the front door to our bedroom. It would really be faster and more efficient if we’d just make up our minds about whether we’re stripping or walking here, but we can’t seem to travel more than ten feet without exchanging another of these scorching kisses, and it’s not like I’m complaining. So what if we don’t quite make it to the bed?

 

But we do make it, and once we’re there John surprises me by slowing the pace. He still seems determined to kiss every single inch of me, but now he seems content to take it one inch at a time.

 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, nuzzling my neck.

 

“Really? I’d never have–” My breathing catches as he finds a particularly sensitive spot, and I have to try again. “I’d never have guessed.”

 

He nips me playfully in answer, sending a jolt down my spine.

 

“Was there–” He’s licking the hollow above my collarbone now, and it’s all I can do to hang onto my train of thought. “Was there something in particular you missed?”

 

“All of you,” he says, and raises his head to look at me. His eyes are passion-dark, but he’s completely serious.

 

“I know,” I answer, no longer teasing. “I missed all of you, too.” I run my fingers through his hair, and he presses up into my hand like a cat in need of petting.

 

I craved his touch while he was away, and it seems he felt the same. Not just sex-touch but love-touch, the everyday kind that’s so easy to take for granted until it’s gone. Now that he’s home I just want to feel his skin on mine. I want to make love with him, yes, but I also want to sleep draped over his chest. I want to wake up with his arms around me and his body warm against mine. I want to cuddle under a blanket on the couch for hours on end.

 

John seems to be of like mind, and we indulge ourselves in a veritable orgy of petting, running our hands over every part of one another we can reach, then shifting to reach other parts. It’s still foreplay, but it’s lost that edge of desperate urgency it had at first. We have the house to ourselves. We can take our time.

 

So we do.

 

We lose ourselves in each other, touching and kissing getting all tangled up until I can’t tell anymore where I end and John begins. Until we truly are one flesh, in very much the Biblical sense of the phrase. The pleasure is intense, the sense of connection even more so.

 

In the end we’re face to face, John over me with his elbows under my shoulders and his hands cradling my head. It’s an intimate position, one I’ve always loved. Not that I have a problem with something a little more acrobatic–all that yoga has to be good for something–but sometimes I just want to lie back and look into John’s eyes.

 

Tonight they’re filled with such tenderness that it takes my breath away. He looks almost pained, like he literally loves me so much it hurts, and I reach automatically to soothe him, smoothing my fingers over his face and willing him to see that I feel the same way.

 

When I touch his lips he sucks my fingers into his mouth and swipes his tongue across the sensitive pads, and suddenly I’m in free-fall, crying out helplessly as orgasm overwhelms me. I can’t keep my eyes open, but I can feel John’s body shudder. He tries not to collapse on me, but I pull him down, wanting to feel his weight for a little while.

 

“Stay,” I whisper. “Please stay.”

 

He so rarely lets me hold him like this. I know he’s afraid of crushing me, and I appreciate the consideration, but I’m every bit as protective of John as he is of me. He may be bigger and stronger than I am, but there’s a tender heart under that tough exterior, and tonight he seems particularly vulnerable. I just want to wrap myself around him and keep him safe from the world, and for a few minutes he actually lets me.

 

Even when he finally pulls away he doesn’t go far, just easing himself onto his side next to me. I roll to face him, and our hands find each other in the little space between us. Our eyes lock, and that incredible intensity is still there in his gaze.

 

“Are you alright?” I ask softly. Maybe something happened in California that he didn’t want to tell me about over the phone.

 

He seems to be trying to answer, but every time he starts to speak he stops again. Whatever he’s working himself up to say must be serious.

 

I release his hand and reach to stroke his shoulder instead. “Tell me. You know you can say anything to me.”

 

That seems to settle him a little. “I do know that. Just hear me out, okay? Just let me finish before you…before you say anything.”

 

“All right.”

 

He takes a deep breath, and I get the sense that he’s been rehearsing whatever he’s about to say in his head for a good while.

 

“I know you don’t think it matters that we’re not married,” he begins, and it’s all I can do to keep my promise to let him finish. “I know it’s 2016 and people do all kinds of things and nobody cares. But it matters to me. I care. So if I’m still doing something wrong I need you to tell me. So I can fix it. Because I don’t know how much longer I can handle being your ex-husband.”

 

“Oh, honey…” Tears blur my vision, and I reach out blindly, pulling him to me and hugging him fiercely. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing. I’m so sorry I’ve made you feel that way.”

 

Because I know exactly where this is coming from.

 

If you can walk the talk for one month, then we’ll make it real.

 

Real, as opposed to whatever I’ve left John thinking we are right now.

 

I had no idea when I said those words nine months ago that the universe was about to open up on our heads. From the night I got the call about Will until now it’s just been one terrible shock after another, and John has been my rock through every bit of it. I went back to calling him my husband well before Christmas, and I meant it–it’s been ages since I last thought of him as my ex anything.

 

But John doesn’t live inside my head. John lives in the real world, where we’re divorced. And I’ve left so much unsaid that he actually thinks I don’t care.

 

I draw back enough to look at him properly and force my voice to work. “Ask me.”

 

For a second he looks confused, and then his eyes widen. “Y-you want me to…”

 

I nod, wiping my tears so that I can see him clearly.

 

There are tears in his eyes, too. “I love you, Marlena Evans. Will you marry me?”

 

“Yes.” I’m laughing and crying at once, and then I’m also flying, as John grabs me around the ribcage and lifts me up, pulling me over on top of him. “Yes, yes, yes–”

 

I keep saying it until he kisses me quiet, and the world inverts itself as he rolls us over, pinning me underneath him again. Relief and joy are pouring off him in waves, and it’s like being bathed in a warm ocean of pure happiness.

 

“Is tomorrow too soon?” he asks when he pushes up to look at me again.

 

His giddiness is catching, and I can’t help but laugh. “I think we might need more than a few hours to plan a wedding, yes. But soon. Very soon.”

 

“Will you wear a ring? You can have anything you want.” It’s clear from his expression that he really wants to see a ring on my finger again.

 

“Yes, of course I’ll wear your ring.” I pause, considering, then go with my instincts. “As a matter of fact, I know exactly the one I want.”

 

He seems surprised but pleased. “Yeah? Where’d you see it?”

 

“Well, I haven’t actually seen it lately, but it’s in the safe deposit box.”

 

John freezes, and it takes him a moment to whisper, “You kept it?”

 

“I kept it,” I confirm, and I can see in his eyes what that means to him. “My wedding band, too. I was afraid to hope, but I think…I think somewhere deep down I knew I’d need them again someday.”

 

He hugs me hard, lifting me up against his chest and burying his face in my hair. “I’m the happiest man on earth,” he says, and while that’s a cliche in this situation, I think in John’s case it might actually be true.

 

“I’ll go get them first thing in the morning,” I promise. “I’m sure they could use a good cleaning, but AJ will do that while I wait.” He’d better–we used to be his best customers.

 

John rolls us onto our sides again, settling so we’re practically nose to nose. “You have to let me put it back on your finger,” he says seriously. “That’s not a do-it-yourself operation.”

 

“I promise to bring it home and let you do the honors,” I answer, which seems to satisfy him. “Will you be horrified if I want to keep the same band, too?”

 

“Not at all. Those rings have been through a lot with us. I imagine they’ll be relieved to see each other again.”

 

It’s my turn to freeze. He definitely said rings, plural, but… “You still have yours, too?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Here?” I know some of his things are still in storage.

 

“Here,” he confirms. “Hang on a minute.”

 

He disentangles himself from me, gets up, pulls on his jeans, and disappears down the hall, only to return in a minute with…

 

His boot?

 

It makes sense a moment later when he sits down on the edge of the bed and peels back the upper part of the boot’s fabric lining, revealing a concealed zipper. He opens the hidden compartment and pulls out his wedding band, setting it on the palm of his hand and turning to show it to me. He doesn’t say anything, but then, he doesn’t have to. The symbolism of a divorced man carrying his wedding ring on his person pretty well speaks for itself.

Something else suddenly makes sense, too. “That’s why you wanted your boots when you woke up from the coma.”

 

John just nods.

 

At the time I wrote it off as a side effect of the head injury. People who’ve been comatose for a long time say all sorts of strange things in the first few days after they awaken. For John to be so concerned about what had happened to his boots seemed odd, but not particularly alarming. He calmed down as soon as I told him I had them–the hospital had given me his personal effects the night they admitted him.

“You can take mine to have it cleaned with yours if you want to,” he says, bringing me back to the present, “but once it goes back on my finger this time, I’m never taking it off again.”

 

“I feel the same way.” I touch his ring lightly with my fingertips, then look up to meet his eyes again. “It does matter to me. I’m sorry I ever made you think it didn’t. I love you, and I can’t wait to be Mrs. John Black again.”

 

He smiles at that, but then a look of chagrin passes over his face.

 

“John? What’s wrong?”

 

“I just realized we’re gonna have a little problem with our honeymoon tradition. I don’t own a jet anymore.”

 

I can’t help laughing. “Oh, honey, it was never the jet that made me feel like I was flying.”

 

His eyebrow climbs. “No?”

 

“No.”

 

He lays his ring on the bedside table and comes up on all fours on the bed, looming over me playfully. “What would you say to a test flight to celebrate our engagement, then?”

 

“I’d say conditions are favorable.”

 

“Then I’d better file a flight plan,” he answers, and lowers his head to whisper in my ear.

 

By the time he finishes telling me what he has in mind, I’m already at ten thousand feet and climbing. Who needs a plane?