Shut Up
by Siarade
Used for entertainment purposes only. All characters herein belong to Marvel. No profit is being made.
This story, in a big stand of narcissism, is actually for me. Ever have one of those Horrible, Awful, No Good Very Bad Days?
The thing about it was, I didn't wake up. The doorknob turned, and the door opened, she came through and then closed the door behind her, and I didn't blink. That's no small feat for an old soldier like me, with instincts and nightmares enough to make a breeze against glass open your eyes.
But she did, she walked from the door to the bed, took off her shoes and her jeans, and slid under the comforter. Maybe I knew it was Domino. Maybe I was just that tired. But I didn't wake up until she made me.
"Nate. Wake up."
I slogged through the mud of sleep, surfacing to the blurriness of her face above mine. Tired, maybe even more than me, and angry somehow, which just made me shut my eyes again.
"Nate. Wake up. Now."
The temptation to throw the pillow over my face and suffocate myself was incredibly seductive right then, but I was too tired to do much more than obey, and open my eyes.
Yup. She was angry. Mad, like burn down the Eiffel Tower kind of mad. Could you imagine how hot the fire would have to be to take down all that iron and steel? That was Dom. That angry. And tempered only by the fact that she was too tired to light a match.
And yet, as tired as she was, tired as I was, she still woke me up at -- according to the glaring red clock to my left -- 4:48 a.m.
It'd been three weeks since I'd seen her last. She'd gone without a goodbye, and that had put me at ease, because goodbye from Dom is almost like she's apologizing in case she doesn't come back this time.
"What, Dom?" That's a good hello for you.
She forcibly -- and none too gently -- shoved my right arm up out of the way, and proceeded to curl into my side until her cheek was pressed to my collarbone and her socked feet touching my calves. It was instinct, really, to wrap my arm around her back.
"Dom?" The questions were leaving my tongue when she said,
"Shut up, Nate." Even, almost calm.
"But-"
"Shut up, Nate." Even, but tired.
"I-"
"Shut UP, Nate."
"I just-"
"SHUT UP, Nate."
She closed her eyes and threw her arm over my chest, making a little fist and settling it on the cotton of my t-shirt, holding on gently.
I put my chin on her crown and air-kissed her hair. She resettled, wriggling down into me deeper, so the top of her shoulder was pressed into my armpit and her head tipped away from me.
"Bad week?"
"Rmph."
"That bad?"
"Shut up." That one I heard _through_ my chest.
She cuddled closer again -- and the great thing about lying in bed is how clothing moves. I could _feel_ the absence of underwear.
She made a muffled murmur as she tightened her arm around my chest again. Somehow, that little squeak of a sound set my mind to worrying.
"Dom?"
Sigh. "Jesus Christ. How fucking old are you? Are you _that_ deaf?"
"Dom-" Stern, warning.
Her head lifted from my chest and turned towards me, so in the shadows of my bedroom she laser pinned me with a glare. Then, just as abruptly, the glare died and she lowered her cheek to my collarbone again.
"Do you know what I've always liked about you, Nate? You have an enormous chest. Really == broad, muscular, strong. It's very powerful. Very masculine. Another thing? Your arms. You've got great arms. Muscle-bound. Hell, one's made out of metal -- how do you get stronger than that? It's extremely masculine.
"Now, the reason all that masculine arm-and-chest shit is important is the quality they provide in grip. The ability to hold something or someone. Which is probably my favorite thing about you -- which makes it the only thing I actually _like_ about you. The ability to curl into your arms, lay my head on your chest and let you hold on to me.
"So, Nate, just shut up."
I squeezed her tight -- so tight water couldn't have passed between us -- kissed her crown, and shut up.