PLEASE READ THIS! This story is the direct result of a challenge from a friend who requested “something like the caveman scene, but the other way around.” As such, it contains a brief element of somewhat dubious consent. If the caveman scene in the show didn’t bother you, this isn’t going to, either, but I still feel compelled to issue the warning.
Also, this is not set in the same timeframe as the original caveman scene. This is present day (2016) because that’s where I’m most comfortable writing.
John and I had a fight this morning.
It was one of those ridiculous blow-ups that starts over nothing, then goes on to being about something, then snowballs until it’s about everything.
We do know how to fight fair, but somehow this morning we still managed to go from a tiff about the coffee maker to all-out war in the space of ten minutes. I don’t even know how it happened. I’m a therapist, for God’s sake–I can recite the what-not-to-do checklist of marital arguments. I know better than to dredge up past wrongs, let it escalate into a shouting match, resort to name-calling, or refuse to let John walk away. But what did I do this morning? All of the above and then some.
Truthfully, by the end of it I was so angry I didn’t even really know what I was saying. I have a pretty clear memory of the look on John’s face, though, so I know it was bad. He looked at me like I’d stabbed him.
And then he left.
He didn’t even wait for the elevator. I could hear him pounding down the fire escape stairs like the hounds of hell were chasing him. By the time it occurred to me that I should have gone after him, he was long gone.
That was nine hours ago, and I haven’t heard from him since.
I’ve texted, and I’ve called, and he’s not answering anything. I even tried calling the office, but Steve hasn’t seen him all day, either.
That probably shouldn’t scare me as much as it does. But this was more than just a fight. It was the first real fight we’ve had since John moved back into the house. We’ve had little spats, even a couple of serious disagreements, but nothing like this morning’s meltdown. And it’s not as if I thought we’d go the rest of our lives without fighting–that would be unrealistic and unhealthy, honestly, for two people as strong-willed as John and me–but I wasn’t prepared for the way his anger made me feel.
Which was terrified. Instantly, irrationally, shaking-all-over terrified.
The moment he raised his voice it was the bad old days all over again, and I just… Well, I’m not proud of the way I responded. I couldn’t deal with the fear, so I let it flash over into rage, and that never ends well. Because one of the downsides of being a psychiatrist is that I know exactly how to push people’s buttons. And since I know John better than anyone else in the world, I really know how to twist the knife where he’s concerned.
I don’t remember exactly what I finally said that literally made him run away from me, but I’m pretty sure I invoked Kristen’s name somewhere in that final tirade, and now I just feel sick.
Sick and ashamed of myself and increasingly worried about John. That look in his eyes… God, what was wrong with me this morning? How could I not have realized that he was probably just as scared as I was? Neither of us came down to breakfast expecting to step on a landmine in our own kitchen.
Now all I want to do is hold him and tell him how sorry I am…and I have no idea where he is. I really thought he’d come home once he calmed down. If he’s not back by dark I’m going to look for him. Not that I have any idea where to look–I’ve already called the pub and the coffee shop and TBD, and if anybody’s seen him they’re not talking–but I can’t just keep sitting here wondering where he is and whether he’s all right.
The unanswered messages are really starting to get to me. The last text I sent him was Please just answer me if you’re okay. Some men might ignore that message to punish their wives in a situation like this, but John is not that guy. If he’d seen it, he would have answered me.
Very belatedly, it occurs to me to wonder whether he even has his phone. He blew out of here so fast…
I cross to open John’s drawer of the desk beside the door, and sure enough, there’s his phone. The battery is dead.
More alarmingly, there too are his wallet and his keys.
That explains why he hasn’t answered me, but it opens up a whole new world of worries. He’s been gone for nine hours with no phone, no money, and no vehicle. Where could he possibly be? I can’t take this anymore. I’m going to look for him.
My phone rings just as I get my jacket on, and I almost don’t answer. Whatever Julie wants can wait. But it’s Julie, so…
“Hi, Julie. If it’s not an emergency, could I call you back tomorrow? Now really isn’t a good time.”
“I know,” she answers. “I have something here that belongs to you, and I thought you might like to come and retrieve it.” A pause. “Unless of course he’s actually right about you not wanting him back.”
Relief nearly takes me out at the knees. “John’s with you?”
“Mm-hmm. I found him in the park a couple of hours ago and dragged him back to the B&B with me.”
“Is he okay?” I’m already out the door.
There’s a brief silence from Julie’s end before she carefully says, “Well, he’s not injured, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s what I meant, yes. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Please try to keep him there. And Julie? Thank you.”
I don’t actually violate any traffic laws in the next ten minutes, but it’s a near thing. The car is barely in park before I’m out the door and up the walk. Julie is standing on the porch.
“He doesn’t know I called you,” she says without preamble. “And I don’t imagine he’s going to be all that happy about it. But it’s obvious that you two need to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” I agree, and give her a quick but heartfelt hug. “Thank you for taking him in.”
“He said you threw him out of the house,” she answers, and gives me a look that invites me to explain myself.
“We had a fight, and I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.” That’s all she’s getting for now. “Where is he, please?”
“Room eleven. It’s the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.”
I knock without even deciding what I’m going to say first. I’m sorry would certainly be a good starting point, but that’s hardly–
Then the door opens, and I get a good look at John, and every coherent thought flies right out of my head.
It only takes him a second to wrestle his spy face into place–blank expression, shuttered eyes, not even the slightest hint of emotion–but that second is enough. He may not be injured, but he’s definitely not okay.
Not that you’d ever know it from his tone. “Julie called you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I did ask her not to.” No inflection at all.
“John–”
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he says in that same flat tone.
“I didn’t come to fight. I came to apologize.”
He doesn’t respond, just stands there and looks at me. Or through me, more like.
“May I come in?” I finally ask.
I’m honestly surprised when he stands aside to let me pass, closing the door and flipping the bolt before stepping past me to stand in the center of the broad rectangle of floor space between the bed and the dresser, facing me with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I wish I’d thought to call here,” I blurt. “I called everywhere else I could think of.”
“Looking for me?” He doesn’t sound surprised or hopeful or…anything, really. It’s just a request for information.
I nod. “I called your phone, too, and sent you a bunch of messages. I just realized a little while ago that you didn’t have it with you.”
“I left in a hurry.” No sarcasm, no humor, nothing.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally say, because it’s the truth and I can’t come up with anything better.
“So am I,” he answers, but it’s still Agent Black talking. That momentary glimpse when the door opened was all I’ve seen of my John.
And that single, precious, unguarded instant is all that’s keeping the terror that overwhelmed me this morning from taking me under again. John is here. He’s hiding behind this emotionless mask, but he’s here. It’s not three years ago anymore. Yesterday we were strong, and tomorrow we’re going to be even stronger, because we are going to fix this. Right here, right now. Neither of us is leaving this room alone.
I take a deep breath and just start talking, saying the first true thing that comes to mind.
“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. I was a royal bitch to you this morning, and you hadn’t done anything to deserve that. I was scared, and I couldn’t handle it, and it felt easier to be angry. It was wrong, and I’m ashamed of it now, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to fix this. But you’re going to have to talk to me.”
His jaw tightens, and he moves to brush past me, headed for the door.
My body moves without my conscious permission. Shoulder down, arms out, wrapping and locking, my leg behind his, dropping all my weight forward–
John taught me this move, once upon a time, and the only reason it works on him tonight is that he’s so completely not expecting it. Which is hardly surprising, given that I’m not actually expecting it, either. It’s hard to say which of us is more shocked when we’re suddenly on the floor. Or rather, when John is suddenly on the floor with me on top of him.
He gapes up at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
No more spy mask. I’ve never been so glad to see genuine anger in his eyes.
I wrap my arm under the back of his neck, grabbing a fistful of his shirt on his opposite shoulder, and drop down to kiss him. My body is still pretty much in the driver’s seat here, and it’s not a nice kiss. It’s a You’re mine, and you’re not leaving until I say you can kiss.
John shoves at my shoulder, but I’ve got my legs wrapped under his and a death grip on his shirt, and he’s going to have to try a lot harder than that. Not that he couldn’t throw me off–John could throw me across the room, and we both know it–but if he wants me off he’s going to have to hurt me, and he won’t do that.
He snaps his head to the side, breaking the kiss, and shoves at me again. “Get off me!”
“No,” I answer, and kiss him again, this time sinking my other hand into his hair.
He snarls and bucks his hips, trying to throw me off that way. But he taught me well, and I’m not going anywhere unless he’s willing to break my ankle, which would be a cold day in hell.
Finally he stops struggling altogether, not fighting me anymore but not responding to the kiss, either. Like he’s taking a nap and none of this is affecting him at all.
I know better than to loosen my grip–he’d take advantage of that in a heartbeat–but I do gentle the kiss, licking at his mouth, inviting his tongue to chase mine. John did something very much like this to me once years ago, and I accused him of behaving like a caveman. Maybe the cavemen were onto something.
John’s arms come up again, and I brace myself for another shove, but this time his hands bury themselves in my hair, and suddenly the kiss is savage again, neither of us willing to relinquish control. Our teeth clash, and the sound he’s making now is less snarl and more growl.
Bring it on, I think, and grind myself down against him, noting that his body, at least, is coming around. His grip on my hair tightens enough to hurt a little, but even that is welcome. Anything real is welcome.
We go at each other like that for quite a while, and I can’t quite pinpoint the moment it goes from fight to foreplay. It’s a gradual process–fingers unclenching, muscles relaxing, guards dropping, fury reshaping itself into passion. Until finally we’re kissing like the lovers we are, enemy combatants no longer.
When he pushes at my shoulders again I sit up and give him a little space. John is present in his eyes again, and I can see his confusion. But I can also see that he wants me, and I know I’ve won this round. Where we go from here is up to me.
First, I think a literal change of venue is in order.
“Let’s not do this on the floor,” I suggest softly, and tip my head toward the bed.
John glances from me to it and back again, then slowly nods. “Alright.”
I stand up, hiding a wince as something in my right knee protests its recent treatment, and step back enough to allow John to stand as well. I don’t really think he’s going to run again, but it’s still scary when he suddenly leans past me. He’s only reaching for the light switch, though, and then he takes my hand and tugs me toward the bed.
We undress as fast as humanly possible and fall together in an ungraceful tangle of arms and legs. John tries to be gentle, but I can feel the desperation in his touch, in his kiss, in the insistent press of his body against mine. He needs me now, not ten minutes from now, and tonight it’s what he needs that matters. I’m not quite ready, and I know this is probably going to hurt–John’s not a small man–but I don’t care.
“I want you,” I say clearly, giving him permission.
The first thrust is…intense. My body can’t quite seem to decide whether being so full so fast is a good thing or a bad thing, but there’s no question that I’ll feel this in the morning. I make a small sound without meaning to, and John freezes.
“It’s alright,” I murmur, laying my open hands on his back. “I’m okay. Just give me a second.”
He drops to his forearms to kiss me again, keeping still otherwise, and I can feel my body begin to relax, softening and opening in response to the sweet heat of his mouth. Almost-pain gradually gives way to the beginnings of pleasure.
I rock my hips to let John know it’s alright to move, and he does, slowly at first and then with greater urgency. He’s a lot closer to the edge than I am, but I don’t want him holding back on my account, not this time. I bring my knees up high along his ribs and drag my nails up his back. He groans and drops his head forward to bury his face in my neck, and the muscles under my hands cord with tension.
“That’s it, baby,” I whisper, turning my head to nuzzle his sweat-damp hair. “I love you. I want you. Come inside me.”
He cries out, the sound muffled against my skin, and his hips buck sharply once, twice, again. There is a suspended moment of perfect stillness, and then he drops to lie trembling in my arms, actually allowing me to take his weight for once.
I hold him, rubbing his shoulders and running my fingers through his hair, until a convulsive shudder runs through him and the first sob breaks free. It’s quickly followed by another and another and another until he’s crying uncontrollably, hot tears bathing my neck.
I expected this, but it’s still heart-rending. He’s crying like his bones are breaking, and the knowledge that I did this to him feels like a handful of razor blades in my chest. By the time he cries himself out my arms actually ache from holding him, but it’s a good pain.
Eventually he raises his head, pushing up on his elbows a little, and the raw look in his eyes is a perfect match for the raw feeling in my soul. He’s a mess, all sweat and snot and tears, but I don’t care. I take his face in my hands and draw him down to kiss him, pouring every ounce of love and tenderness I feel for him into it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper when we break, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he answers, and rests his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry I ran, and I’m…I’m glad you came after me.” There’s a staggering wealth of emotion in those quiet words.
“I would follow you to the ends of the earth.” Because I let him get away from me once, and it was the worst mistake I ever made.
“You tackled me,” he says, and raises up to look at me again like he can’t quite believe that really happened.
“Yes, well, I couldn’t exactly throw you over my shoulder and carry you home.”
It takes a second, but he gets it, and his expression softens. “Back to basics?”
I nod, desperately hoping he understands.
He shifts to one side and sits up, looking around as if he’s only just now become truly aware of where we are. “Julie said I could stay,” he offers quietly. “Can we just…?”
We. He said we. Thank you, God. “Yes, we can.”
John drags the covers up over both of us, and we wrap ourselves around each other and just lie quietly, coming down from our day-long fight-or-flight reactions. There’s still a lot that needs to be said, both between the two of us and to Julie, God bless her, but morning will be soon enough for that. I’m emotionally exhausted, and I can’t imagine that John is any better off, and all we need right now is exactly what we have–each other and a safe place to recover.
I card my fingertips through John’s hair, keeping it gentle and rhythmic, and his breathing gradually slows and deepens. His body relaxes against mine, and I can feel the moment he crosses over into sleep. Only then, when I’m certain he’s at peace, do I close my eyes and allow myself to follow him.
I wake to quiet voices, John’s and another it takes my sleepy brain a moment to identify as Julie’s. I have a moment of total confusion–Why would Julie be in our bedroom?–and then it all comes back to me at once, and I sit up with a start just as the door closes.
“Good morning,” John says softly.
He’s setting a heavy-laden breakfast tray down on the dresser, and I’m relieved to see that he’s barefoot and shirtless–definitely not dressed to be going anywhere.
“Good morning,” I answer, and move to swing my legs off the bed.
Which proves to be more difficult than I anticipated. My right knee is not at all happy with me this morning, and I let out an involuntary hiss of pain as it makes its displeasure known.
John’s eyes widen. “Did I hurt you last night?”
“No,” I say quickly, and am forced to add, “but I think I may have hurt myself when I tackled you. My knee is really stiff.”
When I finally get myself disentangled from the covers there’s no need for him to ask which knee. The bruise is fairly spectacular. John goes instantly into field medic mode, coming to kneel in front of my perch on the edge of the bed, his touch very gentle as he examines my knee, pressing lightly on either side of my kneecap.
“This hurt?”
“Not any worse than it already did.”
He wraps one hand around my ankle and rests the other just above my knee. “Let me do all the work, okay?”
“Okay.” I relax as much as I can and allow him to slowly bend my knee through its entire range of motion. He does it twice, watching me intently the entire time.
“Anything?”
“No. It’s just sore. I think it’ll work itself out.”
“We’re still going to ice it when we get home,” he says firmly.
I nod, still so happy to hear the words we and home that I’d agree to most anything he suggested.
He drops back to sit on his heels. “Julie brought us breakfast.”
“So I saw.”
“I know we need to talk, but can the serious conversation wait until we’re home?”
“It can.”
The next little while is remarkably normal, all things considered. Breakfast is mostly silent, but it’s a companionable silence–neither of us ate anything yesterday, so we’re too hungry to talk much anyway. John insists on getting into the shower with me in case my knee gives out, which is fine by me since I’m not wildly keen on letting him out of my sight quite yet. Finally we’re as presentable as we’re going to get, considering, and we go downstairs to thank Julie and settle our bill. The former is accepted graciously, but the latter proves impossible, as Julie insists we don’t owe her anything.
“You’re family,” she says in an implacable tone that even I know better than to argue with. “Go home.”
We do as we’re told. John drives even though my knee has loosened up considerably just from moving around, and when we get home it’s all I can do to convince him that I do not, in fact, need to be carried into the house.
Installing me on the couch with an ice pack is still the very first thing he does, though, and I don’t argue. It’ll be quite a while before I want to argue with him about anything, I think.
We spend a few minutes on separate phone calls, me letting the hospital know I won’t be in again today and John having a shorter version of the same conversation with Steve. John has to plug his phone in to use it, of course, but when he ends his call with Steve I can see him scrolling through yesterday’s texts.
“I’m sorry I worried you,” he says when I hang up, and comes to join me on the couch, carefully lifting my legs across his lap so that he can hold the ice pack in place on my sore knee. “If I’d had my phone I would have answered you.”
“I know. That’s why I was worried.” I lay my hand on his forearm, stroking gently with my thumb. “Can you tell me where you were?”
“The pier, mostly. It wasn’t really a conscious thing, but when I stopped, that’s where I was. Nobody bothered me, so I just sat there for a while. Most of the day, I guess. Until finally I realized I was going to have to come back here sooner or later. But once I got to the park I couldn’t make myself go any further. So I sat down on a bench, and that’s where Julie found me. She didn’t really give me much choice about going with her. She just kinda…gathered me up.”
It says a lot about the state John was in that he allowed himself to be gathered up.
“I told her about the fight,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I know it was between us. But she was there, and she was worried, and I was just so–”
“Oh, honey, I’m not upset with you for talking to Julie. I’m so glad she found you.”
He nods, apparently accepting that, then suddenly asks, “What do we need to do here, Doc? Because I don’t even really understand what happened, but I do not want it to happen again.”
Physician, heal thyself, I think, and do my best to keep it simple and honest. “What happened was that I panicked and went crazy. You did not in any way deserve the things I said to you. I don’t even remember parts of it, but I do know I didn’t mean any of it. Ten minutes after you left I would have given anything to take it all back.”
“What did I do that scared you so badly?” He sounds bewildered.
“It wasn’t anything you did,” I answer, reaching for his hand and lacing our fingers together. “It was just the fact that you were angry. You hadn’t yelled at me since that last big, awful blow-up we had three years ago, and I just…freaked out.” Freaked out isn’t exactly the proper technical term, but I trust John to understand what I mean.
“I know the feeling,” he answers, looking down at our joined hands.
“What was it that I said that made you run?” It’s a painful question, but it needs to be asked.
“You…” He hesitates. “I’d rather not repeat it.”
“I understand that. But I really need you to tell me what it was, because I don’t remember, and I don’t ever want to say it again.”
“You called me a bastard.” His voice is almost inaudible.
There has to be more to it than that. Not that bastard isn’t a pretty terrible thing to call someone you love, but I remember enough to know that’s far from the worst thing I said to John yesterday.
“Can you tell me why that bothered you so much?”
“It’s…that’s what you called me the day…” He stops and takes a deep breath. “The day you told me I was worse than Kristen.”
I should’ve seen that coming, but I didn’t, and it’s like being kicked in the stomach. Of all the horrible things I said to John when we were falling apart–and I said plenty of horrible things–that was by far the worst. I knew it wasn’t true even when I said it, but I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to be in as much pain as I was, so I deliberately said the cruelest, most hateful thing I could come up with.
I told him he was worse than Kristen DiMera. Worse than the woman who took me prisoner and tortured me and nearly killed me. Worse than the woman who pretended to be pregnant with his child to entrap him into marrying her. Worse than the woman who seduced his son to punish him. And I said it with such conviction that he believed me.
Sometimes I think there must be a reserved seat in hell with my name on it.
I’ve already apologized. That was one of the hardest conversations we had while we were rebuilding our relationship. But we got through it, and John forgave me, and I know he meant it.
I’m reminded now, though, that forgiven doesn’t mean forgotten. That memory still has terrible power. It probably always will.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and squeeze his hand. “I won’t call you that again. Thank you for explaining.”
He nods, then finally looks up at me again. “I won’t yell at you anymore.”
“John–”
“No. I know you’re gonna say that’s unrealistic, but it’s not. I’m a grown man. I can be angry and not yell. I don’t ever want to scare you like that again.”
Can he really do that? The conviction in his eyes says that yes, he probably can.
“But you gotta let me walk away,” he continues. “I promise not to disappear for another entire day, but sometimes I really do just need to walk it off.”
“I know. Maybe we could have a one-hour rule? After an hour you’ll call or text or come home or…something?”
“Okay. I can do that.”
That’s settled, then, and I feel a whole lot better. But John still looks troubled.
“Is there anything else we need to talk about?” I prompt gently.
“Last night… You’re sure I didn’t hurt you?”
“Honey, I’m the one who tackled you to the floor. I should be asking you that question.”
John shakes his head. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know. And no, you didn’t hurt me while we were making love.”
He looks dubious about my choice of words. “You can’t possibly have felt very loved.”
“I did.” I lift his hand in both of mine and bring it up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “You trusted me. Even after I hurt you, even though you were scared, you still reached for me instead of pushing me away. I felt incredibly loved.”
“I was still too rough with you,” he says, the shadow still present in his eyes.
“Not any rougher than I was with you. How does your back feel this morning?”
He looks puzzled. “My back?”
“You have a fairly impressive set of scratches back there.” I got a good look at them in the shower earlier, and while they’re certainly not the most serious marks I’ve ever left on John, they’re nothing to sneeze at, either.
His eyes widen, and he shifts experimentally, taking care not to jostle my knee as he flexes his back. “Oh. Is that what that is?”
“Mm-hmm. Does it hurt?”
“No. Stings a little if I move a certain way, but I don’t mind it.”
“It’s the same for me. I’m a little sore if I move a certain way, but I don’t mind it.” I pause, then decide to just go for broke. “The two of us used to play some pretty rough games. A lot rougher than last night. You know I’m not fragile. So why is this bothering you so much?”
“Because we weren’t playing,” he answers starkly.
I have to think about that for a minute, but it makes sense. We always drew a very clear line, and John thinks he’s crossed it.
I sit up to look him directly in the eye. “You didn’t do anything that I wasn’t one hundred percent okay with. You didn’t scare me, and you didn’t hurt me. You slowed down when I asked you to slow down, and you would have stopped if I’d asked you to stop. What happened between us last night wasn’t something you did to me. It was something we did together. It was what we needed, and I wouldn’t change it.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again the shadow is gone, replaced by the love I’m used to seeing. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“I love you,” I answer, and try to sit forward enough to wrap my arms around him properly.
It doesn’t quite work at first, but then John picks me up and lifts me into his lap, managing to do it so smoothly that the ice pack doesn’t even slide off my knee.
“Show-off,” I chide.
He laughs. “Sometimes, yeah. You mind?”
“Not at all. This is the best seat in the house.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, because I don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon.”
“Good.” I lean in to kiss him softly. “I’m thinking that you, me, and this couch should just spend the day together.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, I really should stay off this knee, right?”
John plays along, nodding gravely. “Absolutely.”
“And I certainly shouldn’t be left alone. I might fall or something.”
“You need to be very closely supervised,” he agrees.
“How closely?”
“How does not-out-of-kissing-distance sound?”
I pretend to consider that. “Does kissing help sore knees?”
“Kissing helps everything,” John answers, and proceeds to prove it.
The Jarlena Journal 