fic: The Omen (2/2)
Title: The Omen (2/2)
Rating: T, implicit sexual situations
Ship: Tripp/Maureen
Summary: This is how they recover.
PART 1
She sleeps for an entire day and wakes up groggy and warm, tucked in her bathrobe and concealed underneath a mountain of blankets. It only takes a moment to recall what has happened, to remember Tripp's calloused and soapy hands on her back, her legs, her stomach and every place in between.
Maureen sighs, burying her face in her hands and shudders at the intimacy before convincing herself to get out of bed.
Tripp is downstairs, eating that disgusting takeout he has gotten used to as a result of his late nights at the office. He sends her a look bordering somewhere between concern and curiosity when she sets the kettle on the stove, rummaging around for a teabag.
He doesn't ask her if she is alright and for that she is grateful.
"Grandfather called. He said he wanted us to come up and visit for Thanksgiving," he informs, voice as smooth as satin, "I told him we had other plans."
"Oh?" Maureen replies, pouring the boiling water into her mug. She is grateful for him declining the invitation, too.
"Yes."
"Alright."
In her dreams the baby is always a girl.
Once in a while she thinks of Serena. She wonders if Tripp had wooed the blonde with his smile and his charm, the same way he did with her. Maureen ponders the thought of Serena's insides feeling like they could just explode any minute around him.
She wonders if Tripp ever told Serena he loved her, and meant it.
She wonders if he still does.
The idea leaves a bitter taste in her mouth so Maureen never asks him, like all the other things she doesn't inquire about, and tucks it away somewhere in her heart until she draws it forward and mulls it around in her head.
Tonight is different though. Maureen can feel him awake on the other side of the bed, a warm lonely body itching for an ounce of sleep. Tonight she isn't occupied by her mourning or thinking about what could have been and all the other damned things she usually considers at this hour in the night.
Tonight, she asks:
"Do you think about her?"
Tripp answers with a scratchy sound in his voice, enough to convince Maureen that he is being honest, "I haven't for a really long time. No."
And she leaves it at that.
Maureen takes a week off from work and goes to visit her parents. The entire car ride she practises what she will say, what lies she will have to conjure up on the spot if the ones she delivers don't withstand her mother's grilling.
In the end she tells the truth.
She starts with admitting her role in the Hudson scandal, then Tripp's affair, their move from New York, and ends with the miscarriage.
Maureen's mother is silent, hesitant to share her thoughts but Maureen isn't surprised at her lack of words because her parents kind of had the ideal marriage, as far as she knows. It is what she had looked up to when she first accepted Tripp's proposal.
Her mother asks her what she will do. Maureen sighs, straightens her skirt and takes a sweeping glance around her childhood home. She doesn't know what she is going to do. Things between her and Tripp... they aren't wholly uneasy, but there is a tension solidified by her uncertainty regarding a lot of things.
That night, her confusion leads Maureen to her father's wine cellar. When she finishes consuming an entire bottle of the finest chardonnay she can find, it's only then that the constant buzzing in her head stops. It is then that her frazzled thoughts are replaced solely by her sense of touch, her body reeling from the warmth of the wine.
She can't help but think of Tripp, his lean frame and his soft voice above her, under her, everywhere. His hands caressing her in the bath. Her limbs wrapped around him, lips on his shoulder. She remembers the marble cool against her bum.
Her visions are vivid enough to elicit a sultry noise from her mouth, and before she knows it, Maureen has her cell in her hand, the screen displaying Tripp's office number.
The phone rings, once, twice, and then the answering machine comes on and Maureen is absolutely floored with emotion, not to mention totally hot and bothered.
"Everything I did," she starts, and this is the worst possible time to bring up their history but Maureen does it anyway because she is a wreck and because she misses him (but she won't admit that), "I did it to protect you and I would do it all over again if I had to."
Then she hangs up, falling asleep on the large armchair in the drawing room.
On the drive back, Maureen replays Tripp's message on her phone over and over again until his voice becomes a mantra refusing to leave her head.
I know. See you at home.
When the car finally pulls up, he is waiting for her near the foot of the drive way. Maureen swallows the lump in her throat that comes with a strange sense of déjà-vu.
"Welcome home," he greets, eyes shining as he steps closer to her.
"Thank you, I -"
But she doesn't finish because Tripp is suddenly pressing his lips against her forehead and then sidestepping her to get her luggage. Maureen watches silently, nearly rips off her sunglasses to take that much closer of a look at him, forehead tingling as he carries her bags to the front door and slips inside.
"I kept the baby so you wouldn't leave me," she nearly screams (the confession surprises them both). She stands up so abruptly that the kitchen chair falls over behind her. "And after the...I told myself if you left me I'd understand, but you're still here! Just tell me what you want from me!"
Tripp's blue eyes are hard as steel, showing a level of barely suppressed rage.
"I don't understand how you could possible not know, as smart as you are. I don't understand how you can be the most infuriating woman to talk to sometimes."
They're fighting.
The really weird thing is Maureen doesn't know who or what started it. Maybe it's the split milk she discovers in the fridge, or the lowered thermostat that Tripp yells is freezing his ass off, but it's not really relevant because in the end they're fighting about what really matters.
"Well then," she huffs, hands at her hips, "If I'm so infuriating then go. Don't stay here and do this to be noble. I've had enough of your brooding to last a lifetime."
Because the thing is, she knows Tripp. Knows him better than she knows herself at times. Knows his fears, his aspirations, and his (wavering) moral standards. It won't shock her to find out that he stays only to make up for what he has done. (To her. To them both.)
Tripp runs a hand through his hair and looks like he's pondering if he should punch a hole through the wall. "I'm trying to show you all this, I'm trying so hard because you're the most important person to me, but you just don't want to get it."
"How can you-"
"Listen to yourself," he interrupts, and he's only a few feet away but it feels like miles so he has to yell at for her to hear him. "You're so busy trying to make me leave that you can't see all the ways I'm trying to show you I want to stay!"
For a split second Maureen remembers the look on Tripp's face, the one he had given her in front of their lawyers when they shred the divorce papers, the one that had accused her of giving up on him. Of not believing in him. It's forever ingrained in her mind, along with her memory of meeting him for the first time, because it's a game changer. It puts her in a situation where she feels as awful as she hopes Tripp does about his infidelity.
"I..." Maureen's voice dies down before salvaging volume, gears starting up and grinding like clockwork. "I don't want - I will not- be made a fool twice."
"I know that you don't trust me, and I know that I haven't given you a sufficient reason to trust me now," and then Tripp's voice and expression shifts completely, both becoming more tender and losing their sharp edges, "But I love you, and if that means working my whole life to regain your trust then I'll do it. You just have to give me the opportunity, Maureen."
When they were dating Tripp had admitted that all he wanted in life was a home of his own, a career as an archaeologist, and a family. Growing up, his parents had fought constantly and the strain his grandfather put on that marriage didn't help ease things at all, so Tripp really just wants a family that he can be in with the least amount of drama as possible.
Maureen takes a deep breath, willing her nerves to settle. They feel like they're on fire underneath her skin and if there's any chance at recovering her composure, at them getting around this fork in the road, she just needs to calm down.
But there's still something.
"How did you know?"
She is alluding to the message she left at Tripp's office, and by the look of things, the way Tripp's mouth forms into a thin line in acknowledgement, he understands.
"You talk in your sleep."
"I do not -"
"Yeah, you do," he declares, then immediately puts his hands up in defence, "it's really no bother, honestly."
Maureen pauses and reaches down to lift the fallen chair, perplexed at the idea of how everything she can't say when she is sober manages to come out when she's asleep. It doesn't shock her though, that Tripp actually listens and deciphers what she says; she can't imagine her jumbled thoughts spilling out like a beautiful soliloquy when asleep.
"What else do I say?"
Tripp doesn't hesitate to answer, nor does he even try to hide the smirk on his face, "You quote Letterman, a lot."
For an entire week Maureen's movements are jerky and erratic, purse slamming (unbeknownst to her) on her work desk, lost in her own thoughts. Sensibility seems to evade her waking moments. If her coworkers notice, they don't say anything.
And to make matters worse, even sleep avoids her, and Maureen ends up tossing and turning all night, regretting her decision to even try getting comfortable in the first place. Sometimes she will look over to Tripp's side of the bed and remember that he's attending to business in New York. Every recurring thought of his absence makes her gut jump back, muddling her senses and making her dizzy.
She can't help but bear in mind the last time Tripp had been at home; that day in the kitchen when everything had been really loud and then gotten quiet, when Maureen had been certain that they would fall apart indefinitely, only to end with a joke poking at how much time she spends watching late night talk shows. And even before all that, Maureen spends her nights looking back now and attempting to interpret all of Tripp's actions she never paid much attention to but has clearly not forgotten.
Maureen stands at the end of the foyer, her hands wringing as the front door opens and Tripp steps through the entryway, drops his briefcase and luggage, and brushes the snow off the shoulders of his coat.
"Hey," she calls, stepping towards him, "I'm glad you're finally home."
"Me too," replies Tripp, folding his scarf over the back of the chair by the door. When he turns to look at her fully, he freezes momentarily, eyeing the wine-coloured dress she has chosen to wear for the evening. "You look really nice."
"Thanks."
Maureen runs one hand over her straight hair, then the side of the dress, the way she used to do when she would dress up especially for him. Tripp seems to recognize the gesture, his gaze settling on her face as he approaches her.
"So, how was New York?" she asks when his hands reach out and close around hers. They're a little clammy from the cold, but they warm up almost instantly.
Tripp sighs, his breath moving across her cheek. "It was okay. Tuesday was a bit strange. Had a bunch of onlookers come in to the office and not really say anything. Other than that it was crazy busy."
"And your flight?" Maureen presses, nudging him away from the foyer, loving the way his voice appears to fill up the entire house.
"I actually called in to get an earlier one. They had a flight leaving at three so I booked it. When I got to JFK it was delayed and we ended up taking off right around the same time I would have..."
Tripp's voice trails off as he studies the dining room, taking in all the sights and smells of the food, of the champagne he favours cooling in ice, of the soft glow from the candlelight. A rumble erupts from somewhere within him and she can't stop the knowing smile from shaping her face.
Maureen tilts her head up and squeezes Tripp's hand, just once. "Surprised?"
There's a sparkle in his eye that she hasn't seen since they moved to D.C., a hint of the old Tripp that now makes him look ages older. It's nice. "Yes. I'm starving like you wouldn't believe."
This is it, Maureen thinks, and the air around them seems to thicken inexplicably, this is the moment. She's been waiting for it ever since he phoned after landing, but it is the confirmation they have both needed for what seems like decades.
This is their moment of clarity, so severe and real, that Maureen has slight difficulty breathing. She imagines this is how every artist feels when they complete their masterpiece, every researcher after discovering a medical breakthrough, of the full weight of their actions just hitting so suddenly it's impossible to miss it.
"I made a vow to you," she gulps, voice catching for a second, "To spend the rest of my life with you, and I can do it now without needing to hear the apologies again."
A tear drips slowly down her cheek until it disappears into the corner of her mouth. Before, Maureen did not have the ability to let Tripp see her cry over everything that happened in New York. Had to gather all her strength to put up an unaffected face instead. But now, seeing him watch her wipe her cheeks, head fixed solely in Tripp's direction drives the whole situation home in a way so entirely different than anything else ever could have.
Because the thing is, Maureen has cried over this, their relationship before, of course she has, and now Tripp has seen it. There is pain involved in whatever it is that has taken the two of them to this point; so much of it that it has never truly began to heal until now.
"I missed you so much," Tripp whispers, her hot tears rolling over his fingers when his hands come up to cup her face.
Her heart flutters in a way it hasn't for what feels like seasons. Maureen's reaction is natural, almost instantaneous; her eyes slip shut and her mouth is firm when Tripp's lips lean down and begin to roll over hers.
Tripp feels exactly the same way she remembers, like a living room, worn and comfy and lived in, with books in heaps on the shelves, coffee table with magazines and DVDs stacked on top of it, photos and souvenirs arranged on the mantle in an order that makes sense to her and her only.
Maureen smiles against his lips as she takes it all in; she feels like she's kissing Tripp for the first time.
It's a comforting feeling.
They lie on their bed later that night, wide awake despite the inevitable lull of sleep and the lateness of the hour. Not that Maureen really expects to sleep soon, not really, not with Tripp so close and the smell of him invading her every breath. She lies down against his side and Tripp tosses the blanket over her, his shirt crinkling deliciously against the bed sheets, and Maureen can't help but twine her legs through his when her feet get cold, head in the crook of his shoulder.
Tripp's kisses are heated, almost frantic, as he pushes her against the mahogany paint, moving Maureen back with his body. This has been a long time in coming-the culmination of secret glances, longing sighs, and three frustrating days of patience and she plans on enjoying every moment of it.
Maureen bites her lip but can't restrain the moan that escapes from the back of her throat when Tripp nips at a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. He cradles the back of her head and while fingering the hem of her blouse, skimming across the skin he finds there with an almost tentative lightness. Blinding heat scorches through her, spreading quickly up Maureen's chest and stretching all the way down to her toes, zig-zagging around before coming to rest heavily in the pit of her stomach.
Dawn in D.C. is slow. It climbs over the buildings downtown, sweeps over the Capitol and the Georgetown campus nestled on the side. By the time it creeps past the gauzy curtains, Tripp is already waking up.
Maureen feigns sleep, taking a moment to lay still and rest her eyes for another minute. Midterms have been a little hellish for her first semester back at college. She has been stressed constantly, working hard to regain her once impeccable study habits and willing her thoughts to focus on every minute detail. Still, it doesn't surprise her how simple it had been to close her books for the night and indulge in Tripp instead.
She feels his fingers on her, sliding down her spine; his lips on the base of her neck. Maureen sighs and rolls over and Tripp's there, grinning down at her with that smile that still makes her weak at the knees sometimes. The smile reaches all the way to his eyes and it assures Maureen that things are going to be okay.
Tripp gets up from the bed and she can't help but let her sleepy eyes follow him, reaching to sit up on her elbows to get a better look. Tripp gathers their clothes from the floor and puts them in the hamper because he knows she hates the mess.
"Just give me a minute," Maureen yawns, falling back under the covers, "and I'll help with breakfast."
"Don't worry about it," he replies, pulling on his morning robe and running a hand through his mussed hair, "Just rest. I'll be back soon to wake you up."
Tripp drops a quick kiss on her head, and Maureen is already falling asleep, the smell of him still all over her.
Rating: T, implicit sexual situations
Ship: Tripp/Maureen
Summary: This is how they recover.
PART 1
She sleeps for an entire day and wakes up groggy and warm, tucked in her bathrobe and concealed underneath a mountain of blankets. It only takes a moment to recall what has happened, to remember Tripp's calloused and soapy hands on her back, her legs, her stomach and every place in between.
Maureen sighs, burying her face in her hands and shudders at the intimacy before convincing herself to get out of bed.
Tripp is downstairs, eating that disgusting takeout he has gotten used to as a result of his late nights at the office. He sends her a look bordering somewhere between concern and curiosity when she sets the kettle on the stove, rummaging around for a teabag.
He doesn't ask her if she is alright and for that she is grateful.
"Grandfather called. He said he wanted us to come up and visit for Thanksgiving," he informs, voice as smooth as satin, "I told him we had other plans."
"Oh?" Maureen replies, pouring the boiling water into her mug. She is grateful for him declining the invitation, too.
"Yes."
"Alright."
In her dreams the baby is always a girl.
Once in a while she thinks of Serena. She wonders if Tripp had wooed the blonde with his smile and his charm, the same way he did with her. Maureen ponders the thought of Serena's insides feeling like they could just explode any minute around him.
She wonders if Tripp ever told Serena he loved her, and meant it.
She wonders if he still does.
The idea leaves a bitter taste in her mouth so Maureen never asks him, like all the other things she doesn't inquire about, and tucks it away somewhere in her heart until she draws it forward and mulls it around in her head.
Tonight is different though. Maureen can feel him awake on the other side of the bed, a warm lonely body itching for an ounce of sleep. Tonight she isn't occupied by her mourning or thinking about what could have been and all the other damned things she usually considers at this hour in the night.
Tonight, she asks:
"Do you think about her?"
Tripp answers with a scratchy sound in his voice, enough to convince Maureen that he is being honest, "I haven't for a really long time. No."
And she leaves it at that.
Maureen takes a week off from work and goes to visit her parents. The entire car ride she practises what she will say, what lies she will have to conjure up on the spot if the ones she delivers don't withstand her mother's grilling.
In the end she tells the truth.
She starts with admitting her role in the Hudson scandal, then Tripp's affair, their move from New York, and ends with the miscarriage.
Maureen's mother is silent, hesitant to share her thoughts but Maureen isn't surprised at her lack of words because her parents kind of had the ideal marriage, as far as she knows. It is what she had looked up to when she first accepted Tripp's proposal.
Her mother asks her what she will do. Maureen sighs, straightens her skirt and takes a sweeping glance around her childhood home. She doesn't know what she is going to do. Things between her and Tripp... they aren't wholly uneasy, but there is a tension solidified by her uncertainty regarding a lot of things.
That night, her confusion leads Maureen to her father's wine cellar. When she finishes consuming an entire bottle of the finest chardonnay she can find, it's only then that the constant buzzing in her head stops. It is then that her frazzled thoughts are replaced solely by her sense of touch, her body reeling from the warmth of the wine.
She can't help but think of Tripp, his lean frame and his soft voice above her, under her, everywhere. His hands caressing her in the bath. Her limbs wrapped around him, lips on his shoulder. She remembers the marble cool against her bum.
Her visions are vivid enough to elicit a sultry noise from her mouth, and before she knows it, Maureen has her cell in her hand, the screen displaying Tripp's office number.
The phone rings, once, twice, and then the answering machine comes on and Maureen is absolutely floored with emotion, not to mention totally hot and bothered.
"Everything I did," she starts, and this is the worst possible time to bring up their history but Maureen does it anyway because she is a wreck and because she misses him (but she won't admit that), "I did it to protect you and I would do it all over again if I had to."
Then she hangs up, falling asleep on the large armchair in the drawing room.
On the drive back, Maureen replays Tripp's message on her phone over and over again until his voice becomes a mantra refusing to leave her head.
I know. See you at home.
When the car finally pulls up, he is waiting for her near the foot of the drive way. Maureen swallows the lump in her throat that comes with a strange sense of déjà-vu.
"Welcome home," he greets, eyes shining as he steps closer to her.
"Thank you, I -"
But she doesn't finish because Tripp is suddenly pressing his lips against her forehead and then sidestepping her to get her luggage. Maureen watches silently, nearly rips off her sunglasses to take that much closer of a look at him, forehead tingling as he carries her bags to the front door and slips inside.
"I kept the baby so you wouldn't leave me," she nearly screams (the confession surprises them both). She stands up so abruptly that the kitchen chair falls over behind her. "And after the...I told myself if you left me I'd understand, but you're still here! Just tell me what you want from me!"
Tripp's blue eyes are hard as steel, showing a level of barely suppressed rage.
"I don't understand how you could possible not know, as smart as you are. I don't understand how you can be the most infuriating woman to talk to sometimes."
They're fighting.
The really weird thing is Maureen doesn't know who or what started it. Maybe it's the split milk she discovers in the fridge, or the lowered thermostat that Tripp yells is freezing his ass off, but it's not really relevant because in the end they're fighting about what really matters.
"Well then," she huffs, hands at her hips, "If I'm so infuriating then go. Don't stay here and do this to be noble. I've had enough of your brooding to last a lifetime."
Because the thing is, she knows Tripp. Knows him better than she knows herself at times. Knows his fears, his aspirations, and his (wavering) moral standards. It won't shock her to find out that he stays only to make up for what he has done. (To her. To them both.)
Tripp runs a hand through his hair and looks like he's pondering if he should punch a hole through the wall. "I'm trying to show you all this, I'm trying so hard because you're the most important person to me, but you just don't want to get it."
"How can you-"
"Listen to yourself," he interrupts, and he's only a few feet away but it feels like miles so he has to yell at for her to hear him. "You're so busy trying to make me leave that you can't see all the ways I'm trying to show you I want to stay!"
For a split second Maureen remembers the look on Tripp's face, the one he had given her in front of their lawyers when they shred the divorce papers, the one that had accused her of giving up on him. Of not believing in him. It's forever ingrained in her mind, along with her memory of meeting him for the first time, because it's a game changer. It puts her in a situation where she feels as awful as she hopes Tripp does about his infidelity.
"I..." Maureen's voice dies down before salvaging volume, gears starting up and grinding like clockwork. "I don't want - I will not- be made a fool twice."
"I know that you don't trust me, and I know that I haven't given you a sufficient reason to trust me now," and then Tripp's voice and expression shifts completely, both becoming more tender and losing their sharp edges, "But I love you, and if that means working my whole life to regain your trust then I'll do it. You just have to give me the opportunity, Maureen."
When they were dating Tripp had admitted that all he wanted in life was a home of his own, a career as an archaeologist, and a family. Growing up, his parents had fought constantly and the strain his grandfather put on that marriage didn't help ease things at all, so Tripp really just wants a family that he can be in with the least amount of drama as possible.
Maureen takes a deep breath, willing her nerves to settle. They feel like they're on fire underneath her skin and if there's any chance at recovering her composure, at them getting around this fork in the road, she just needs to calm down.
But there's still something.
"How did you know?"
She is alluding to the message she left at Tripp's office, and by the look of things, the way Tripp's mouth forms into a thin line in acknowledgement, he understands.
"You talk in your sleep."
"I do not -"
"Yeah, you do," he declares, then immediately puts his hands up in defence, "it's really no bother, honestly."
Maureen pauses and reaches down to lift the fallen chair, perplexed at the idea of how everything she can't say when she is sober manages to come out when she's asleep. It doesn't shock her though, that Tripp actually listens and deciphers what she says; she can't imagine her jumbled thoughts spilling out like a beautiful soliloquy when asleep.
"What else do I say?"
Tripp doesn't hesitate to answer, nor does he even try to hide the smirk on his face, "You quote Letterman, a lot."
For an entire week Maureen's movements are jerky and erratic, purse slamming (unbeknownst to her) on her work desk, lost in her own thoughts. Sensibility seems to evade her waking moments. If her coworkers notice, they don't say anything.
And to make matters worse, even sleep avoids her, and Maureen ends up tossing and turning all night, regretting her decision to even try getting comfortable in the first place. Sometimes she will look over to Tripp's side of the bed and remember that he's attending to business in New York. Every recurring thought of his absence makes her gut jump back, muddling her senses and making her dizzy.
She can't help but bear in mind the last time Tripp had been at home; that day in the kitchen when everything had been really loud and then gotten quiet, when Maureen had been certain that they would fall apart indefinitely, only to end with a joke poking at how much time she spends watching late night talk shows. And even before all that, Maureen spends her nights looking back now and attempting to interpret all of Tripp's actions she never paid much attention to but has clearly not forgotten.
Maureen stands at the end of the foyer, her hands wringing as the front door opens and Tripp steps through the entryway, drops his briefcase and luggage, and brushes the snow off the shoulders of his coat.
"Hey," she calls, stepping towards him, "I'm glad you're finally home."
"Me too," replies Tripp, folding his scarf over the back of the chair by the door. When he turns to look at her fully, he freezes momentarily, eyeing the wine-coloured dress she has chosen to wear for the evening. "You look really nice."
"Thanks."
Maureen runs one hand over her straight hair, then the side of the dress, the way she used to do when she would dress up especially for him. Tripp seems to recognize the gesture, his gaze settling on her face as he approaches her.
"So, how was New York?" she asks when his hands reach out and close around hers. They're a little clammy from the cold, but they warm up almost instantly.
Tripp sighs, his breath moving across her cheek. "It was okay. Tuesday was a bit strange. Had a bunch of onlookers come in to the office and not really say anything. Other than that it was crazy busy."
"And your flight?" Maureen presses, nudging him away from the foyer, loving the way his voice appears to fill up the entire house.
"I actually called in to get an earlier one. They had a flight leaving at three so I booked it. When I got to JFK it was delayed and we ended up taking off right around the same time I would have..."
Tripp's voice trails off as he studies the dining room, taking in all the sights and smells of the food, of the champagne he favours cooling in ice, of the soft glow from the candlelight. A rumble erupts from somewhere within him and she can't stop the knowing smile from shaping her face.
Maureen tilts her head up and squeezes Tripp's hand, just once. "Surprised?"
There's a sparkle in his eye that she hasn't seen since they moved to D.C., a hint of the old Tripp that now makes him look ages older. It's nice. "Yes. I'm starving like you wouldn't believe."
This is it, Maureen thinks, and the air around them seems to thicken inexplicably, this is the moment. She's been waiting for it ever since he phoned after landing, but it is the confirmation they have both needed for what seems like decades.
This is their moment of clarity, so severe and real, that Maureen has slight difficulty breathing. She imagines this is how every artist feels when they complete their masterpiece, every researcher after discovering a medical breakthrough, of the full weight of their actions just hitting so suddenly it's impossible to miss it.
"I made a vow to you," she gulps, voice catching for a second, "To spend the rest of my life with you, and I can do it now without needing to hear the apologies again."
A tear drips slowly down her cheek until it disappears into the corner of her mouth. Before, Maureen did not have the ability to let Tripp see her cry over everything that happened in New York. Had to gather all her strength to put up an unaffected face instead. But now, seeing him watch her wipe her cheeks, head fixed solely in Tripp's direction drives the whole situation home in a way so entirely different than anything else ever could have.
Because the thing is, Maureen has cried over this, their relationship before, of course she has, and now Tripp has seen it. There is pain involved in whatever it is that has taken the two of them to this point; so much of it that it has never truly began to heal until now.
"I missed you so much," Tripp whispers, her hot tears rolling over his fingers when his hands come up to cup her face.
Her heart flutters in a way it hasn't for what feels like seasons. Maureen's reaction is natural, almost instantaneous; her eyes slip shut and her mouth is firm when Tripp's lips lean down and begin to roll over hers.
Tripp feels exactly the same way she remembers, like a living room, worn and comfy and lived in, with books in heaps on the shelves, coffee table with magazines and DVDs stacked on top of it, photos and souvenirs arranged on the mantle in an order that makes sense to her and her only.
Maureen smiles against his lips as she takes it all in; she feels like she's kissing Tripp for the first time.
It's a comforting feeling.
They lie on their bed later that night, wide awake despite the inevitable lull of sleep and the lateness of the hour. Not that Maureen really expects to sleep soon, not really, not with Tripp so close and the smell of him invading her every breath. She lies down against his side and Tripp tosses the blanket over her, his shirt crinkling deliciously against the bed sheets, and Maureen can't help but twine her legs through his when her feet get cold, head in the crook of his shoulder.
Tripp's kisses are heated, almost frantic, as he pushes her against the mahogany paint, moving Maureen back with his body. This has been a long time in coming-the culmination of secret glances, longing sighs, and three frustrating days of patience and she plans on enjoying every moment of it.
Maureen bites her lip but can't restrain the moan that escapes from the back of her throat when Tripp nips at a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. He cradles the back of her head and while fingering the hem of her blouse, skimming across the skin he finds there with an almost tentative lightness. Blinding heat scorches through her, spreading quickly up Maureen's chest and stretching all the way down to her toes, zig-zagging around before coming to rest heavily in the pit of her stomach.
Dawn in D.C. is slow. It climbs over the buildings downtown, sweeps over the Capitol and the Georgetown campus nestled on the side. By the time it creeps past the gauzy curtains, Tripp is already waking up.
Maureen feigns sleep, taking a moment to lay still and rest her eyes for another minute. Midterms have been a little hellish for her first semester back at college. She has been stressed constantly, working hard to regain her once impeccable study habits and willing her thoughts to focus on every minute detail. Still, it doesn't surprise her how simple it had been to close her books for the night and indulge in Tripp instead.
She feels his fingers on her, sliding down her spine; his lips on the base of her neck. Maureen sighs and rolls over and Tripp's there, grinning down at her with that smile that still makes her weak at the knees sometimes. The smile reaches all the way to his eyes and it assures Maureen that things are going to be okay.
Tripp gets up from the bed and she can't help but let her sleepy eyes follow him, reaching to sit up on her elbows to get a better look. Tripp gathers their clothes from the floor and puts them in the hamper because he knows she hates the mess.
"Just give me a minute," Maureen yawns, falling back under the covers, "and I'll help with breakfast."
"Don't worry about it," he replies, pulling on his morning robe and running a hand through his mussed hair, "Just rest. I'll be back soon to wake you up."
Tripp drops a quick kiss on her head, and Maureen is already falling asleep, the smell of him still all over her.