Her Melting Point

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Contrary to their usual proceedings, it didn't immediately escalate into wild shagging. Normally, in a situation like this, she needed more time, mostly stifled by her anxieties and years of brainwashing, to get her engine going; while Alexander could switch in just a few seconds from whatever he was doing. For example, twice before, she'd consent; and he'd put his mug aside; and, figuratively speaking, have Jackie for breakfast right on her kitchen table.

Now, stretched on top of him, kissing his neck enthusiastically, for once, Jackie seemed the more assertive one. She grabbed the hem of his jumper - and he caught her hand, halting her.

"Jackie," he murmured, pressing his face into her neck. "Jackie..."

She stilled, listening to his unusually soft tone. Her outburst, especially after a week of the uncertainty she'd left him in, must have affected him more than she thought. She felt a pang of guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered and snuggled into him.

"For what?"

His palm slid under her shirt, and he stroked her back. His scorching skin seemed rougher than before. She wondered where the new calluses were from.

"For the past week," she said. "You see, I just don't know how to include people, yeah? How to share, and to–" She sighed. "To ask for help."

He hummed in that 'neither confirm, nor deny' way of his. She felt his fingers find the back of her bra, tracing the three little hooks there, exploring the edges - and still, it was surprisingly nonsexual.

"I don't want to dump my problems on you," she continued. "On the other hand, am I pushing you away if I say nothing? Where's the line? And I keep running these different scenarios in my head: what happens if I tell you what's going on– will you be upset– disappointed? Will I make it worse for you if– And how will it affect my work–"

He made a low groan-like noise under her; and she remembered who she was dealing with.

"Sorry, that was an empty palaver, wasn't it?" she muttered apologetically.

She pulled back and sat up next to him on the bed. The duvet slid down, and he pushed it off his lower half.

"I don't know how to work in tandem," she said after a quick grounding exhale. "How to be a part of a duo. And we aren't exactly a typical couple. It's not like we're married–"

She paused because, no matter how impassive his expression was, the little twitch was impossible to miss. She waited but he said nothing.

"And even when I was married, I just– A few times something would happen, and I asked for help or for even just sympathy," she continued, "and I didn't get any. And it really hurts. You start questioning yourself." She shook her head. "And sometimes, out of the blue, he would be supportive and– But it was impossible to predict what reaction I'd get. Whenever he brushed me off, it was always presented as my fault. And it's crushing. When someone kicks you when you're already down, you know? And I would try to sort of predict whether I'd get rejected, or something was a valid concern and I could go to Gabe with it. And then eventually I just started dealing with everything myself."

He was silently watching her, and she fidgeted with the collar of her top.

"Right, well..." She gave out a tense fake chuckle. "That was a lot of blabbering. As usual. Trust me to gabble away at the worst of times."

Her own venomous self-deprecation made her cringe. He stretched his left hand and covered her right fist, clenched around a handful of the duvet.

"I can't help you. Not with this. I don't get it. It's not–" He swallowed hard and grunted. "I want to help. But I'll arse it up, I reckon. If you tell me about emotions– I don't react right."