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smallfandomflshTitle: Poppa's Home
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Saved by the Bell
Character/Pairing: Slater/Jessi with cameos by Zack/Kelly, Screech, Lisa, and General and Mrs. Slater
Rating: PG-13/T
Challenge/Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
smallfandomflsh #173: Ersatz (Thank you, mod, for this surprising and delightful inspiration! I NEVER would've thought of this idea on my own!!)
Warning(s): War Violence, Crimes, and Death are all referenced rather strongly
Word Count: 2,885
Date Written: 30 April, 2016
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
He's surrounded by people, but he doesn't want to see any of them. Men he both knows and doesn't know are calling his name, shouting it in praise, but they don't know what he's seen. They don't know what he's done. Women are swooning; they remind him of the giggling cheerleaders, minus Kelly and Lisa of course, from back in high school, so eager to do anything and so free with themselves just to get him to look at them. Everybody here wants him, but he doesn't want any of them.
He doesn't raise his head even when his father tells him to do so. They're not on a base, and they're no longer at war. He may be his dad and his commanding officer, but he doesn't have to jump because he says to. He keeps his head tucked down. He doesn't want to see them. He doesn't want to see the smiling faces of full of gloat and glory for him. He isn't the real hero. The real heroes are dead.
They're dead, and they were his friends. He lost every one of them. He's the only one who survived in his entire platoon, and the only reason he did was because his General father pulled strings to get him out, against his will, just in time. He should've been there. He should have died with them.
But instead, he's alive. He's alive, but he doesn't feel alive. He feels cold inside, cold and hurting, almost dead, like when he first woke up after that bomb hit him. He was able to do that for them, at least. It should have killed him. By all rights, he shouldn't be here standing here today, and yet, he is.
He hears a familiar voice and finally looks up. Cameras are snapping like mad, even faster and frenzier now than when he first walked out of the plane. It takes him a moment to realize they're not just looking at him, and then a moment longer to finally be able to focus successfully on the sound of the familiar voice and the other location where pictures are snapping almost like bright, rapid gunfire.
Slater's hands curl by his side. He hates that sound. He wants to yell at them to stop. He wants to lash out, to hurt, to kill, but the reporters aren't why he's angry, not really. They come with the territory of being a hero, or so his father says, but again, for a moment more, all Slater can think is that he isn't a hero.
It's the familiar voice of his old high school friend that pulls him out of his reverie again. "P-Preppie?" he calls, voice almost shaking. He can't believe his eyes, but there he is, leading a small group of people through the crowd and literally pushing his way through the throngs of reporters and other media hounds, all thirsty for a story that isn't his to give.
One of the reporters leers back when Zack shoves him a little harder than the rest, but Preppie's already ahead of him now and so are the two women behind him. The reporter leers at Screech. Slater expects his little buddy to shrink back, but he doesn't. He leers right back at him, and Lisa, by his side, says something swift that leaves the reporter puzzled, looking like he's not sure if he should run or laugh.
Slater almost laughs. A bark of a beginning chuckle does leave his throat. He can feel his father's eyes boring into him. "What are these people doing here?" he demands.
"They're my friends, Dad," Slater answers immediately, his voice almost choking now. He hasn't laughed in so long; he feels like he'll never laugh again, especially while his controlling father's still at his side. "Something," he adds quietly where the reporters can't hear, because he'll be damned if he'll give them one syllable of a story, "you wouldn't understand."
His father's eyes are almost glowing now. Slater knows they are even though he still hasn't met his thundering, burning gaze. They only look like that when he's at his most furious, and Slater knows the fire of that look far too well. "Say anything about them," he quickly makes his own quiet demand, "and I'll tell your story."
It's bolder than he usually is with his father, but he owes this man no respect, not any more, not after what he allowed to be done, not after he saved him but left the rest of his troop -- his friends! -- to die. He doesn't owe him a damn thing.
Zack reaches him at last. He's out of breath, and the cameras are still snapping like mad, adding fuel to Slater's already burning anger and hatred. He's surprised when Zack is the one to address the media, not because he's volunteering to be his spokesman but rather because of what he's saying. He's waving the cameras down, the smile he usually flashes across global trades mags now being for the very opposite effect, in a way, and still the same effect in another. His smiles have always helped him to get people to do what he wants, but right now, what he wants isn't attention. He wants them to do the very thing Slater is nearly ready to cry or kill for them to do; he's asking them, politely, to back down.
"Please? Can't you see my friend's exhausted? He's come a long way and suffered a lot. Can't you at least give him a little of the respect he's deserved and let him have a private homecoming?" Slater knows, from what he's not saying but the tone he's using to hide his true intentions, what Zack really wants to ask the hounds is the same thing he does: Don't they have any respect for their common man, let alone one's who suffered as much as he has -- and yet, still, that's not nearly enough --, to just leave him the Hell alone?
One of the especially pushy reporters calls out, "But his own father called us!"
"Yes!" another reporter adds.
"Yeah!"
Slater turns swiftly on his father, his arm pulling back, his hand balling into a fist -- But, suddenly, Zack is in his way, grinning at him as wide and jovial as he ever grinned back in their high school days together. "Hey, buddy, it's been a while, hasn't it?" And he throws his arms around him, blocking him from striking his own father.
Slater's body is stiff and rigid. He's barely controlling his urge. If Zack was any other man, he'd be on the ground now, and Slater would be plowing into his grinning father with every justification to pummel him senseless. But his best friend since childhood holds him strong. He won't back down, and Slater won't hurt him.
"I'll give anybody who leaves right now a hundred dollar gift certificate to Lisa's Fashions."
A murmur races through the crowd. Slater hears cameras actually being turned off and bags being zipped. Then he hears people walking away. Actually walking away from him without hounding him any further.
There are actual tears in his eyes when he turns his head toward Lisa. She's smiling at him through her own tears. "You owe me big," she tells him, but the shaky smile tells him it's a debt on which she has no intentions of ever collecting. He smiles back. His fingers grip Zack's shoulders harder as he fights to swallow his tears, and then he catches her eyes.
He swallows hard. She's been here this whole time, and he hadn't realized it until this very second. She was the tall woman being led through the crowd right behind Kelly, who had held steadfastly to her husband's hand as they'd made their way through the press to reach him. He won't know it until much later, but all five of them held hands -- Zack, Kelly, Jessi, Screech, and finally Lisa -- to reach him.
His heart is thundering in his chest so loudly that Slater barely hears Zack ask his wife, "Are they gone?"
"Yes," Kelly answers with relief sounding in her voice. "All of them."
It's only when he's assured the hounds are gone that Zack releases Slater and, still standing directly in his friend's pathway, turns to address the last dog amongst them, Slater's own father. "Leave," he directs him without hesitation but with an actual growl sounding in his second word. "Now."
Slater is surprised at the way his friend talks to his father, who, by every released account, is a big hero from the war now, but with a small smile that brings back to life a dimple which Jessi's eyes instantly catch, Slater realizes he should know now by now that his friends are his friends. It's true, also, he knows, what they say. His enemies are, by association, the enemies of his friends.
"Boy, don't you talk to me like -- "
Slater almost jumps pass Zack, but again Preppie's hands are there, shoving against him just hard enough to stop him. No other man could stop him, but even now, he won't hurt Zack. The others aren't too sure, though, as Jessi springs up right behind Zack. "Slater, no," she starts to say, but another voice, another he hasn't heard except over the telephone line in years, speaks over her.
"General Slater, to the car now."
Every head, including those of both Slater men, turns to look at the petite woman. A.C. Slater's mouth actually drops open. "Mom??" he asks in surprise for he's never heard her speak that way, in all their years together, to his father!
Her eyes look soulfully into his over the short distance that still separates them. "I'm sorry, son," she says, and for the first time, again in years, Slater hears the truth of the apology being given to him in person. He nods slowly as she continues, "We'll have time to catch up later, I promise, but right now, I think you need your friends and I need a word with your father. General," she again targets his father with daggers shooting from her eyes, "march. Now. To the car."
Even more to Slater's surprise is the fact that his father doesn't try to argue with his wife. Evidently, and surprisingly, the old man knows when he's beat after all. Zack and Jessi stand their ground, just in case, between Slater and his father, neither looking back until they hear two car doors slam shut. Only then does Zack grasp Slater's shoulders in a truly gentle and loving gesture of friendship.
"Man . . . " He shakes his head, and Slater realizes the guy who got them out of so much trouble, and into said trouble most of the time, when they were kids is at an actual loss for words. His blue eyes look up into his, and Slater sees the tears shining therein. "I'm sorry." He hugs him so tightly it almost crunches the breath out of Slater's lungs.
He could hold to Zack forever, but Preppie lets go in a time that feels far too short, although Slater won't say that -- and doesn't think it, either, any more when Zack steps out of the way and Slater finds Jessi waiting. She fumbles with her hands, unsure what to do with them, and she's actually crying. He wants nothing more than to wipe the tears from her cheeks, but he seems to destroy everything he touches.
"J-Jess," he whispers hoarsely. "M-Momma."
Screech wails. Lisa sobs, and her sobs grow even louder when Screech turns into her arms. She's surprised at first, but for a change, she doesn't push him away. They hold each other as they cry, Lisa watching two of her dearest friends in the whole, wide world.
Kelly's crying, too. Zack steps up behind her and hugs his wife from behind. He won't turn to look at him, though. Almost all she's talked about for the last week has been Jessi and Slater meeting again after all these years, and Zack knows why. The love their two friends felt back in high school has never really gone away, just as he knows what he feels for his beautiful, darling Kelly will also never fade.
Finally, it's Jessi who moves forward, and through a voice every bit as hoarse as Slater's, she tells him, "You can touch me, you know." She takes his hand -- his hand that isn't really his hand at all -- and raises it to his cheek. For the first time since the doctors attached the damn thing to his body, Slater actually feels it. He feels it, and he feels his fingers that aren't his fingers spread out and caress Jessi's face. She's older now, much older since last he saw her, but still every bit as beautiful and soft. He loves the feel of her skin; he always has.
"Momma."
"Poppa," she returns, smiling through her tears. "You are still my Poppa. Every bit of you." She sniffles and lifts his hand from his cheek. She's dreamed of this moment for months, ever since she heard the news of what happened to him for shielding his friends from the bomb. She can't see his left leg yet, but she'll cover it with kisses if he ever lets her.
She'll cover it with kisses and do much more to the rest of him. She always used to think the women who welcomed the soldiers home back in their old days were exactly that -- wanton, easy trollops just in search of an excuse to screw the next soldier like most of the cheerleaders she's known -- Lisa and Kelly being the exceptions -- were always open for any excuse to screw a football player. But now, she knows she was wrong. There's nothing easy about any of this, and she does love Slater. True to the promise they made the night before their graduation from high school, she never stopped loving him. She couldn't, and she most certainly can't now, not that she'd ever want to.
She takes his ersatz hand and brings it to her lips. She kisses it gently, reverently, just as she's imagined doing in all the dreams she's had of welcoming him home since the incident. He isn't less of a man than he was when he left them. He's more, so much more! She never thought their lives would take the routes they have, but she's ready completely to give herself to him now. "I still love you."
He sniffs, then breaks into an actual, toothy grin, the first big, genuine smile he's worn since he lost his friends back in the war. He didn't realize these friends would be waiting here for him. He never dreamed she'd be waiting, let alone still loving him after all this time apart. It doesn't make the pain go away -- nothing will, he knows --, but it helps more than he'd thought anything ever could.
He actually does chuckle this time. He turns his fake hand so that his fake fingers can touch her lips, and yet, they feel so real even through all the metal, flesh taken from other parts of him (he wonders now where), and bolts. She feels so real, because she is, and even if his hand isn't real, even if his arm and his leg aren't real, he still is. His heart still is, and after all the time, just as she tells him hers does for him, his heart still beats with love for her.
"Jess -- " He has to do something to lighten the moment. He can't stand this tension any longer! He flashes her a wider grin, his teeth shining white in the lights of the airport. "You always were the man in this relationship."
To his surprise, she shakes her head. "No," she says and kisses his hand again, bolts and all, "you are." She steps forward, pass his hand, wraps her arms around him, and then hesitates at the very last moment before her lips can touch his. She gazes up into his and asks breathily a question that makes all their friends stand still and three hold their breath while one -- Preppie -- nods already in the affirmative. "If you'll have me?"
"Yes, Jessi! Oh, yes, Momma! Always!" Suddenly, he forgets his hand. He forgets his leg. He wraps around her, picks her up, and lays his lips on hers. He swings her around jovially while kissing her deeper and deeper, and with each deepening of their passionate, sweet, and hot kiss, more pain of the past falls away. It'll always be there, but now, at last, Slater is happy.
Now, at last, he's home, and now, with his Momma in his arms loving him just as much as she ever did in high school if not more, he's whole. And if his tears slip into their kiss like drops of salt from the long sea over which he's traveled, no one, least of all Jessi, ever once calls him on it. Their friends are far too busy, in the moment, breaking out into applause and exclamations of delight, but even after, his tears are never once spoken about.
The End
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Saved by the Bell
Character/Pairing: Slater/Jessi with cameos by Zack/Kelly, Screech, Lisa, and General and Mrs. Slater
Rating: PG-13/T
Challenge/Prompt:
smallfandomflsh #173: Ersatz (Thank you, mod, for this surprising and delightful inspiration! I NEVER would've thought of this idea on my own!!)Warning(s): War Violence, Crimes, and Death are all referenced rather strongly
Word Count: 2,885
Date Written: 30 April, 2016
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
He's surrounded by people, but he doesn't want to see any of them. Men he both knows and doesn't know are calling his name, shouting it in praise, but they don't know what he's seen. They don't know what he's done. Women are swooning; they remind him of the giggling cheerleaders, minus Kelly and Lisa of course, from back in high school, so eager to do anything and so free with themselves just to get him to look at them. Everybody here wants him, but he doesn't want any of them.
He doesn't raise his head even when his father tells him to do so. They're not on a base, and they're no longer at war. He may be his dad and his commanding officer, but he doesn't have to jump because he says to. He keeps his head tucked down. He doesn't want to see them. He doesn't want to see the smiling faces of full of gloat and glory for him. He isn't the real hero. The real heroes are dead.
They're dead, and they were his friends. He lost every one of them. He's the only one who survived in his entire platoon, and the only reason he did was because his General father pulled strings to get him out, against his will, just in time. He should've been there. He should have died with them.
But instead, he's alive. He's alive, but he doesn't feel alive. He feels cold inside, cold and hurting, almost dead, like when he first woke up after that bomb hit him. He was able to do that for them, at least. It should have killed him. By all rights, he shouldn't be here standing here today, and yet, he is.
He hears a familiar voice and finally looks up. Cameras are snapping like mad, even faster and frenzier now than when he first walked out of the plane. It takes him a moment to realize they're not just looking at him, and then a moment longer to finally be able to focus successfully on the sound of the familiar voice and the other location where pictures are snapping almost like bright, rapid gunfire.
Slater's hands curl by his side. He hates that sound. He wants to yell at them to stop. He wants to lash out, to hurt, to kill, but the reporters aren't why he's angry, not really. They come with the territory of being a hero, or so his father says, but again, for a moment more, all Slater can think is that he isn't a hero.
It's the familiar voice of his old high school friend that pulls him out of his reverie again. "P-Preppie?" he calls, voice almost shaking. He can't believe his eyes, but there he is, leading a small group of people through the crowd and literally pushing his way through the throngs of reporters and other media hounds, all thirsty for a story that isn't his to give.
One of the reporters leers back when Zack shoves him a little harder than the rest, but Preppie's already ahead of him now and so are the two women behind him. The reporter leers at Screech. Slater expects his little buddy to shrink back, but he doesn't. He leers right back at him, and Lisa, by his side, says something swift that leaves the reporter puzzled, looking like he's not sure if he should run or laugh.
Slater almost laughs. A bark of a beginning chuckle does leave his throat. He can feel his father's eyes boring into him. "What are these people doing here?" he demands.
"They're my friends, Dad," Slater answers immediately, his voice almost choking now. He hasn't laughed in so long; he feels like he'll never laugh again, especially while his controlling father's still at his side. "Something," he adds quietly where the reporters can't hear, because he'll be damned if he'll give them one syllable of a story, "you wouldn't understand."
His father's eyes are almost glowing now. Slater knows they are even though he still hasn't met his thundering, burning gaze. They only look like that when he's at his most furious, and Slater knows the fire of that look far too well. "Say anything about them," he quickly makes his own quiet demand, "and I'll tell your story."
It's bolder than he usually is with his father, but he owes this man no respect, not any more, not after what he allowed to be done, not after he saved him but left the rest of his troop -- his friends! -- to die. He doesn't owe him a damn thing.
Zack reaches him at last. He's out of breath, and the cameras are still snapping like mad, adding fuel to Slater's already burning anger and hatred. He's surprised when Zack is the one to address the media, not because he's volunteering to be his spokesman but rather because of what he's saying. He's waving the cameras down, the smile he usually flashes across global trades mags now being for the very opposite effect, in a way, and still the same effect in another. His smiles have always helped him to get people to do what he wants, but right now, what he wants isn't attention. He wants them to do the very thing Slater is nearly ready to cry or kill for them to do; he's asking them, politely, to back down.
"Please? Can't you see my friend's exhausted? He's come a long way and suffered a lot. Can't you at least give him a little of the respect he's deserved and let him have a private homecoming?" Slater knows, from what he's not saying but the tone he's using to hide his true intentions, what Zack really wants to ask the hounds is the same thing he does: Don't they have any respect for their common man, let alone one's who suffered as much as he has -- and yet, still, that's not nearly enough --, to just leave him the Hell alone?
One of the especially pushy reporters calls out, "But his own father called us!"
"Yes!" another reporter adds.
"Yeah!"
Slater turns swiftly on his father, his arm pulling back, his hand balling into a fist -- But, suddenly, Zack is in his way, grinning at him as wide and jovial as he ever grinned back in their high school days together. "Hey, buddy, it's been a while, hasn't it?" And he throws his arms around him, blocking him from striking his own father.
Slater's body is stiff and rigid. He's barely controlling his urge. If Zack was any other man, he'd be on the ground now, and Slater would be plowing into his grinning father with every justification to pummel him senseless. But his best friend since childhood holds him strong. He won't back down, and Slater won't hurt him.
"I'll give anybody who leaves right now a hundred dollar gift certificate to Lisa's Fashions."
A murmur races through the crowd. Slater hears cameras actually being turned off and bags being zipped. Then he hears people walking away. Actually walking away from him without hounding him any further.
There are actual tears in his eyes when he turns his head toward Lisa. She's smiling at him through her own tears. "You owe me big," she tells him, but the shaky smile tells him it's a debt on which she has no intentions of ever collecting. He smiles back. His fingers grip Zack's shoulders harder as he fights to swallow his tears, and then he catches her eyes.
He swallows hard. She's been here this whole time, and he hadn't realized it until this very second. She was the tall woman being led through the crowd right behind Kelly, who had held steadfastly to her husband's hand as they'd made their way through the press to reach him. He won't know it until much later, but all five of them held hands -- Zack, Kelly, Jessi, Screech, and finally Lisa -- to reach him.
His heart is thundering in his chest so loudly that Slater barely hears Zack ask his wife, "Are they gone?"
"Yes," Kelly answers with relief sounding in her voice. "All of them."
It's only when he's assured the hounds are gone that Zack releases Slater and, still standing directly in his friend's pathway, turns to address the last dog amongst them, Slater's own father. "Leave," he directs him without hesitation but with an actual growl sounding in his second word. "Now."
Slater is surprised at the way his friend talks to his father, who, by every released account, is a big hero from the war now, but with a small smile that brings back to life a dimple which Jessi's eyes instantly catch, Slater realizes he should know now by now that his friends are his friends. It's true, also, he knows, what they say. His enemies are, by association, the enemies of his friends.
"Boy, don't you talk to me like -- "
Slater almost jumps pass Zack, but again Preppie's hands are there, shoving against him just hard enough to stop him. No other man could stop him, but even now, he won't hurt Zack. The others aren't too sure, though, as Jessi springs up right behind Zack. "Slater, no," she starts to say, but another voice, another he hasn't heard except over the telephone line in years, speaks over her.
"General Slater, to the car now."
Every head, including those of both Slater men, turns to look at the petite woman. A.C. Slater's mouth actually drops open. "Mom??" he asks in surprise for he's never heard her speak that way, in all their years together, to his father!
Her eyes look soulfully into his over the short distance that still separates them. "I'm sorry, son," she says, and for the first time, again in years, Slater hears the truth of the apology being given to him in person. He nods slowly as she continues, "We'll have time to catch up later, I promise, but right now, I think you need your friends and I need a word with your father. General," she again targets his father with daggers shooting from her eyes, "march. Now. To the car."
Even more to Slater's surprise is the fact that his father doesn't try to argue with his wife. Evidently, and surprisingly, the old man knows when he's beat after all. Zack and Jessi stand their ground, just in case, between Slater and his father, neither looking back until they hear two car doors slam shut. Only then does Zack grasp Slater's shoulders in a truly gentle and loving gesture of friendship.
"Man . . . " He shakes his head, and Slater realizes the guy who got them out of so much trouble, and into said trouble most of the time, when they were kids is at an actual loss for words. His blue eyes look up into his, and Slater sees the tears shining therein. "I'm sorry." He hugs him so tightly it almost crunches the breath out of Slater's lungs.
He could hold to Zack forever, but Preppie lets go in a time that feels far too short, although Slater won't say that -- and doesn't think it, either, any more when Zack steps out of the way and Slater finds Jessi waiting. She fumbles with her hands, unsure what to do with them, and she's actually crying. He wants nothing more than to wipe the tears from her cheeks, but he seems to destroy everything he touches.
"J-Jess," he whispers hoarsely. "M-Momma."
Screech wails. Lisa sobs, and her sobs grow even louder when Screech turns into her arms. She's surprised at first, but for a change, she doesn't push him away. They hold each other as they cry, Lisa watching two of her dearest friends in the whole, wide world.
Kelly's crying, too. Zack steps up behind her and hugs his wife from behind. He won't turn to look at him, though. Almost all she's talked about for the last week has been Jessi and Slater meeting again after all these years, and Zack knows why. The love their two friends felt back in high school has never really gone away, just as he knows what he feels for his beautiful, darling Kelly will also never fade.
Finally, it's Jessi who moves forward, and through a voice every bit as hoarse as Slater's, she tells him, "You can touch me, you know." She takes his hand -- his hand that isn't really his hand at all -- and raises it to his cheek. For the first time since the doctors attached the damn thing to his body, Slater actually feels it. He feels it, and he feels his fingers that aren't his fingers spread out and caress Jessi's face. She's older now, much older since last he saw her, but still every bit as beautiful and soft. He loves the feel of her skin; he always has.
"Momma."
"Poppa," she returns, smiling through her tears. "You are still my Poppa. Every bit of you." She sniffles and lifts his hand from his cheek. She's dreamed of this moment for months, ever since she heard the news of what happened to him for shielding his friends from the bomb. She can't see his left leg yet, but she'll cover it with kisses if he ever lets her.
She'll cover it with kisses and do much more to the rest of him. She always used to think the women who welcomed the soldiers home back in their old days were exactly that -- wanton, easy trollops just in search of an excuse to screw the next soldier like most of the cheerleaders she's known -- Lisa and Kelly being the exceptions -- were always open for any excuse to screw a football player. But now, she knows she was wrong. There's nothing easy about any of this, and she does love Slater. True to the promise they made the night before their graduation from high school, she never stopped loving him. She couldn't, and she most certainly can't now, not that she'd ever want to.
She takes his ersatz hand and brings it to her lips. She kisses it gently, reverently, just as she's imagined doing in all the dreams she's had of welcoming him home since the incident. He isn't less of a man than he was when he left them. He's more, so much more! She never thought their lives would take the routes they have, but she's ready completely to give herself to him now. "I still love you."
He sniffs, then breaks into an actual, toothy grin, the first big, genuine smile he's worn since he lost his friends back in the war. He didn't realize these friends would be waiting here for him. He never dreamed she'd be waiting, let alone still loving him after all this time apart. It doesn't make the pain go away -- nothing will, he knows --, but it helps more than he'd thought anything ever could.
He actually does chuckle this time. He turns his fake hand so that his fake fingers can touch her lips, and yet, they feel so real even through all the metal, flesh taken from other parts of him (he wonders now where), and bolts. She feels so real, because she is, and even if his hand isn't real, even if his arm and his leg aren't real, he still is. His heart still is, and after all the time, just as she tells him hers does for him, his heart still beats with love for her.
"Jess -- " He has to do something to lighten the moment. He can't stand this tension any longer! He flashes her a wider grin, his teeth shining white in the lights of the airport. "You always were the man in this relationship."
To his surprise, she shakes her head. "No," she says and kisses his hand again, bolts and all, "you are." She steps forward, pass his hand, wraps her arms around him, and then hesitates at the very last moment before her lips can touch his. She gazes up into his and asks breathily a question that makes all their friends stand still and three hold their breath while one -- Preppie -- nods already in the affirmative. "If you'll have me?"
"Yes, Jessi! Oh, yes, Momma! Always!" Suddenly, he forgets his hand. He forgets his leg. He wraps around her, picks her up, and lays his lips on hers. He swings her around jovially while kissing her deeper and deeper, and with each deepening of their passionate, sweet, and hot kiss, more pain of the past falls away. It'll always be there, but now, at last, Slater is happy.
Now, at last, he's home, and now, with his Momma in his arms loving him just as much as she ever did in high school if not more, he's whole. And if his tears slip into their kiss like drops of salt from the long sea over which he's traveled, no one, least of all Jessi, ever once calls him on it. Their friends are far too busy, in the moment, breaking out into applause and exclamations of delight, but even after, his tears are never once spoken about.
The End
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