[For Layla]

[howmanylives]

They say near-death experiences bring about clarity. I've spent the past year thinking that was a bunch a hokum... I mean, I almost died by my own hand last year, and the only epiphany I had was that drowning was a really lousy way to go. Nothing about my purpose in life, nothing about what I'm meant to do or what decisions I'm supposed to make.

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[butterflyfactor]

Layla had been sitting cross-legged on her bed with an array of items before her, none of which she really had any idea what to do with. The cylinder had been problematic enough, keeping it away from Richards, as it was not a chew toy or a fetching stick. Doom technology that she knew was custom made for her, that had washed up on the beach next to her when she'd dragged herself out of the ocean post-yacht party, was an entirely new level of puzzling. It had given her something to stare at, at least, for the hours she found she couldn't spend walking around looking for signs of Jamie or Moira. Mostly the hours between nightfall and sunrise, the ones where she couldn't sleep. Staring uselessly at a puzzle to solve was better than staring hopelessly into space. She supposed.

When Richards has sprung up and trotted to the front of the tiny house, she had pulled out of her deep reverie and sat up. When Jamie called her name, she felt her stomach turn over and her throat close up, and for a moment wasn't entirely certain she wasn't going to throw up from the dizzying sensation of relief that bordered on vertigo.

He called her name again and she slipped off the bed, not bothering to right one slouching striped stocking, or throw on pants, for that matter, wandering in her underwear and a tank-top to stand in her doorway and look at him.

"There you are," she said.

[howmanylives]

She looked perfect, even in all her imperfection. Jamie's sense of romance was typically hidden even from himself, but in looking at her just then, he couldn't help but catalog her every idiosyncrasy and commit it to memory -- the way she stood, how one sock was lower than the other, the thin sliver of exposed skin between her shirt and underwear, the fall of her hair over her shoulder. Last year he'd had nothing left to lose, but that was, simply put, just no longer the case.

Under any other circumstance, he might've responded with a quip, an all-too-casual here I am, or something of that ilk. But he'd just had a hellish few days, and he was in no mood for their usual banter, their usual games. Instead he strode towards her with heavy steps, leaving a trail of mud and water in his wake as he closed the distance between them. His hands immediately sought out her hips, though only one stayed there, the other sliding up her back, underneath the thin material of her tank top. His fingers pressed into her skin, possessively. She was warm to the touch, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt guilty for being so very cold, but it was a fleeting thought -- one easily dismissed when he ducked his head to press his lips to hers in a kiss best described as desperate, hungry. There was no room for thought or indecision, only the gut instinct he should've gone with months ago, but had been too cowardly to act on until now. Against her mouth, he breathed, "I love you."

[butterflyfactor]

Her breath was caught before he kissed her, from the physical shock of his touch which contrasted so sharply with the flush that was already spreading through her, and then the rush of the kiss was over and he'd told her he loved her.

It made it difficult to catch it back again. Air hitched uselessly in her lungs, and for a truly absurd moment she thought she was going to get the hiccups, which would be a guaranteed mood-killer. Then she gripped the front of his shirt, wrapping her fingers in it tight, and threw her other arm around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder to muffle a harsh, gasping sob.

Cold and wet be damned. Underneath the cold and wet is breath and a heartbeat and Jamie, his bones and muscles and admittedly clammy skin, all the parts that make him up that I wasn't sure I would ever see or touch again on this god damned island. Because I didn't know. It's been days of not knowing. I've only cried a few times in my life, because after a certain point your threshold for 'what the fuck' gets pretty high, and I've been steeped in 'what the fuck' since a very tender age. The last time I broke down, it was because knowing, with Scott trying to console me like he had any damn control over the future, knowing was the worst feeling in the world. Well, not that I thought it was possible, but this topped that. Because he was gone, and I didn't know, and I love him. I'm so relieved my knees might give out.

And he loves me.

[howmanylives]

It's not quite the reaction I was hoping for, but given the stress surrounding this situation, I can't say I blame her. I mean, think about it... I come in here, looking like a drowned rat after days spent incommunicado -- no way to let her know I was even alive, let alone still on this island -- and proclaiming my love like just about every leading man ever in a cheap rom-com without so much as a hello. What else was I to expect?

"Shh," he murmured, lifting his hand from her hip to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through the loose weave of her braid. With one halting step, he pressed his body closer to help support some of her weight, even as Richards insinuated himself between their legs, undoubtedly getting soaked in the process. Jamie paid him no mind, though, his thoughts unusually focused on one thing and one thing alone: Layla Miller. His heart hammered in his chest as held her, the anticipation of her answer almost too much as the full enormity of what he'd just admitted weighed down on him. They were in uncharted territory with this, and while he had a knack for seeing something from every angle, anticipating probable courses of action, none of it helped quell his uncertainty. All he knew was that she was the one person he wanted to see in that moment, the one person who could potentially make everything better, and he selfishly hoped she felt the same in the turn. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he tightly shut his eyes. "It's okay," he added, the words half muffled, which was perhaps for the best -- he'd have sounded too incredulous otherwise. "Everything's gonna be fine."

[butterflyfactor]

Everyone always tells me that without the slightest sense of irony. If anyone knows how okay or fine things are going to be, believe me, it's usually me. This time, though, I'm tempted to believe him, just because it's so much more appealing than the alternative.

She cried quietly into his shoulder for a few moments more, longer than she would have intended to, if she'd intended to cry at all. She hadn't. After a minute she sniffled and swallowed a few breaths, forcing herself to calm down, and she pulled back enough to take his face in her hands so she could look at him. Layla opened her mouth to speak, but her expression broke and she couldn't. She went up onto the balls of her feet to kiss him, the corner of his mouth and then his jaw, his temple, before she caught his mouth fully.

[howmanylives]

A sigh escaped his throat as he instinctively parted his lips to deepen the kiss, but while he was perfectly content to stay like that forever, memorizing what she felt like under his hands, his mouth, he knew it couldn't possibly last. It never did, after all, not that that stopped him from sliding his hands down past her hips, cold fingers curling around her thighs to easily lift her off the ground. Richards tried to follow suit, pressing his paws against Jamie's legs with a piercing bark, but he went ignored. There was very little that could've drawn Jamie's attention elsewhere at that moment, and a dog that weighed all of fifteen pounds wasn't on the shortlist.

[butterflyfactor]

Layla wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, sliding her fingers into his hair and tugging. She kissed him desperately, gasping quietly against his mouth when she broke the clinch for a breath. She pressed her forehead against his and laced her fingers behind his neck. The coil of tension that had been winding tighter and tighter inside of her was dissipating. It was like a poison was seeping out of her system.

"Jamie..."

[howmanylives]

Though he'd begun to shiver, Jamie's grip on her remained secured, his balance stable. His breaths were labored as he stared up at her from underneath his eyebrows, trying to meet her gaze. There was a wild look about him, born, most likely, of exhaustion, but he wasn't thinking about that just then. Hearing his name fall from her lips was enough to stir up his every insecurity, leaving him exposed to whatever answer she had to give, for better or for worse.

"Please say it," he whispered, plaintive in his desperation, his eyes falling shut. "I know... I know it's not fair for me to ask, not when I waited so long to tell you, but I need to hear you say it, please."

[butterflyfactor]

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Layla murmured, throat raw.

"I've loved you for forever."

[howmanylives]

Meg Ryan never swore. Then again, I'm pretty sure Tom Hanks didn't have half my baggage, either, so maybe that was a poor comparison from the get-go. The thing is, they don't make love stories about people like us. We're flawed. Secretive. Damaged. We're both of us liars and manipulators, with a collective sense of morality that skews decidedly gray. By all rights we're a match made in hell... but I love her all the same, because for the first time in my many lives, I've found someone who understands me for who I am, who shows me faith and compassion. We speak the same language, and it's... freeing.

Richards nails were starting to dig into his leg, and Jamie took another step forward to dislodge the dog, though the plan's success was only temporary. It didn't matter. A relieved laugh bubbled up from Jamie's chest, and he kissed Layla with renewed intensity, adjusting his hands to better hold her. The tension he'd been carrying since those three little words first left his mouth lifted, and for a moment he felt almost weightless in his relief.

"Then I guess I better start catching up."

[butterflyfactor]

Layla kissed him back, then ducked her forehead against his neck.

"You're cold," she said, running her hands over his shoulders and down his back. She lifted her head to press her lips against his temple again.

[howmanylives]

"You're not," he replied, which some small part of him thought was quite possibly the biggest understatement he'd ever made. Compared to Jamie, Layla felt like a furnace, which made it especially convenient that she was presently wrapped around him, though alone, she was only so effective in warming him up. His clothes were still drenched, after all. Leaning into her touch, he added somewhat reluctantly, "...I should change."

[butterflyfactor]

"Immediately," she agreed, moving her lips to his neck.

"You could get pneumonia." She reluctantly shifted her weight to slide down him, although her arms remained about his shoulders. She stared up at him.

"...I'm so happy you're here," she told him bluntly, because there wasn't really another way to phrase it.

[howmanylives]

Richards scurried out from under their feet, letting loose another bark that Jamie once again ignored. His gaze dropped momentarily to her mouth, but he quickly switched his focus back to her eyes. Something that wasn't quite a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, and he rested his hands back on her waist.

"That makes two of us."

[butterflyfactor]

Ignoring the fact that her own tank top was essentially soaked through (something she could probably do more easily than Jamie would be able to), she slid her hands under his shirt and started to pull it up.

"C'mon," she said, sniffling again, "off."

[howmanylives]

Per her request, he lifted his arms up over his head, wincing a little as she peeled the wet fabric from his skin. There was a long, shallow cut along the side of his ribcage, and an assortment of bruises just about everywhere else. His old scars looked almost new, the marred flesh a violent red against his otherwise pale chest. Even so, it felt too good to be touched to make some show of modesty or to feel any sort of shame over his appearance. She'd seen him in worse shape than this, which was, in its own strange way, an almost comforting thought.