So….felt like writing some Spixie…um, this is supposed to be a three parter but, you know, most of the time I never get past part one. Un-betaed, please point out any mistakes you see.
Signs of Life on Planet Spinelli
Part One: The Sea Has No Rest
Love is like water; We can fall in it. We can drown in it. And we can't live with out it.
He could give her tonight, if that's what she wanted. But if she's looking for forever all she had to do was say the word.
She's made for him. Or him for her. His hands on her hips and his mouth against her collar are like puzzle pieces, and not the kind you lick and force into place. Their shapes are corresponding or complimentary or whatever geometric term his mind was too preoccupied to think about. The point is, they fit.
She curls her leg over the back of his thighs. The palm of his hand slides against her spine. He holds her up while she arches and she's the only thing keeping him on earth. She is so monumentally beautiful, sweaty and panting and messy, that it almost hurts to look. But he can't take his eyes from her form, and he knows he will never, never, never see anything quite like her beneath him.
Spinelli catches the breath from her mouth like it's the only thing he can breathe. She cries Spinelli in a way that overheats him and he can't imagine calling her anything other than Maxie. Not now, like this, when he's lucky to even find the coherency to utter those two syllables. And utter them he does, as half-formed sounds against her neck, noiseless mouthing against her cheek. Maxie's nails scratch his midriff in a way he can only hope leaves marks, physical reminders to match the memory he knows he'll never forget.
The veins on her arms are a map to everything he didn't know was missing from his life. Her eyes flutter and he thinks, forget butterflies, she's just caused a tsunami somewhere across the world. The strands of blonde locks he touches with his fingertips are magical, oh Maxie, let down your golden hair.
In the dark of the penthouse, his heart threatens to explode. He wants to tell her all the words he knows but cannot articulate, but she pulls away with a sigh and his lips are good for nothing more than another kiss. In the heavy night of Port Charles, Maxie dreams in his bed and all the exhaustion of his body is not enough to force his eyes closed when he has such a beautiful thing to look at.
Fifty years from now he wants to be able to pause and think and remember exactly what he'd seen that first made him feel like this. Her face in the shadow of his room, her skin against his comforter. Her eyelashes and the curve of her nose and the steady rise and fall of her chest. He marvels at the glorious being within his grasp and wonders how he could have waited his entire life for something without even knowing how much he yearned for it. Or maybe he's only just started, now that he's realized such a thing exists.
When the barest tips of morning touch the horizon, he drifts away into sleep.
And when he opens his eyes, every muscle in his body seems to be screaming. The bed beside him is cold and empty and Maxie-less and the back of his eyes prickle. Maxie, Maxie, Maxie he thinks, that's all he thinks. He will never get enough. His tongue against the roof of his mouth tastes like her. The pillows bunch against his neck like the curl of her knuckles, the sheets against his calves like the arch of her foot. Maxie, Maxie, Maxie.
This, he knows, is the first day he's in love with Maxie Jones. Before, that was something, but not this. The other side of the bed has gotten cold and the imprint of her is gone, but he closes his eyes and sees her clearly—Maxie, beside him, with him. She's left him nothing of that night but pink lines on his flesh and a crystal clear image in his head and want, but he knows beggars can't be choosers.
There's no glass slipper left behind or a lock of hair for posterity's sake. He drags himself out of bed when the sun is blazing over Port Charles and debates putting on his old clothes just because she touched them. The place her hands have been burn like prints on his skin. The places her lips have brushed are like fire inside him. Every piece of him feels like it thrums only for her touch. Only because of her touch. What was his life before her?
"What's the matter with you?" Jason asks him shortly, intense eyes peering over paperwork. How can Spinelli explain to him that nothing and everything is wrong and perfect and the world is such a different place today that he's found himself a new purpose and god he doesn't even know what to do? Jason's known love and lost it and gained it again. But, Spinelli knows, nothing in Jason's life could have made him feel like this. What word of advice could the master have for his grasshopper on the subject of loving the perfect, wounded Maxie Jones?
So Spinelli tells him "Today is the first day of the rest of my life" which is true and cliché and not at all the answer to Jason's question. But the enforcer lets it go, just like Spinelli knew he would.
He sees her blue eyes while he sips his first orange soda of the day. The flowers in Kelly's today are bright and pink and very much the same shade as her nails those few hours ago. He stares at the screen of his laptop, cursing the fact that there was ever a time he purposefully pushed her away. There's a ghostly feeling of her hand on his shoulder, her gaze intent on his face. But the chair across from him is obviously, tellingly empty.
He dials the number of her cell twice and sits alone until Mike tells him it's time to leave. This, he knows, is not a good beginning, but it's too late for him to stop.