(no subject)
Who: Jess Winters (Sleeping Beauty) and Jasper Reynard (Mr. Fox).
What: O hai icon.
When: Right after the Wonderland wedding.
Status/Rating: Complete log/We'll go with a hard PG-13 for some language and implied ~situations~. SORRY, NOTHING ACTUALLY HAPPENS ON SCREEN.
JESS: Weddings were surprisingly less painful for Jess than they really ought to have been. Considering how prickly she was with anything and everything that could remind her of her own widowing, a wedding should have been yet another excuse in a long line of them to send her into a drunken fit of tears. But she'd found that invitation, scrounged up a dress (on Napoleon's Visa, to be sure; how she was going to pay him back for it or any of the other things he'd insisted on buying her, she had no idea) and a date, and was now sitting on one of the little decorated lawn chairs set up in the impromptu chapel. Granted, one of the chairs in the far back, which was quite far back considering just how many chairs had been provided, but she was there, and even occasionally looking at the bride and groom. When May hadn't shown up that first hour, she'd convinced Reynard to duck out for coffee; they'd come back just in time for Kilroy and May to start in on their self-written vows. Which, all right, were kind of boring.
So she let her mind wander. She and Danny couldn't be bothered to do their own vows; Danny called it Lifetime movie crap, and Jess had been inclined to agree. But Jess hadn't been to a wedding since the summer before Danny died, when a new slew of debutantes acquainted with his family were hitched, and she could appreciate a couple of romantic saps in love. She hadn't quite given up completely on that notion yet, even if she had abandoned ever feeling it for anyone else. One of those loving when all hope was lost things. Women. This princess shit was always so goddamn complicated.
She listened quietly, attempted to pay attention. A few seats in front of her, a woman in a pink straw hat was sobbing into her handkerchief while her neighbor patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. A few rows in front of them, an elderly gentleman was snoring quietly, the girl at the end of his row texting into her sidekick.
Yep. Time to go.
"Hey," she said under breath, eyes as nonchalantly forward as possible. "Let's clear out before they start throwing rice and shit." Ever the romantic.
REYNARD: "I hear pigeons choke on that rice," Reynard answered in a dry mumble, his own gaze locked on the back of the seat in front of him.
For a confirmed bachelor with no particular attachment to weddings, it had struck him harder than he had expected. Until he found himself in the suit and trying the hors d'ouevres and seeing the streaming lines of well-wishers milling around the groom, Reynard hadn't realised how very long it had been since matrimony had last crossed his mind. About a decade now. Ten years since med school, since his almost-proposal, and since the first stirrings of Mr. Fox started kicking up an unwanted cacophony of blood and knives in his mind. His tale realisation had not been a simple slip of timing; it had come because of the looming potential of marriage, and it made him remember suitors and rings and Lady Mary.
Truth be told, he didn't want any of that today. This was Wonderland. This was different. When he saw white dresses, he closed his eyes and saw blood -- so he looked away, and glanced at Jess more. Without noticing it himself, the man wrung his hands, touching the place where a ring had been but never was.
"Alright. Let's go. I never was a fan of large parties."
He caught at Jess' hand as he stood up. Reynard didn't link their fingers, but it was enough to pull her up with him, and to gently tug her along before he smoothly linked their arms instead. It wasn't ownership, but it signified a joint departure: a coordinated effort to slip out as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.
JESS: Jess let herself be led. Independence was all well and good, but every now and again, it was nice to simply be shown where to go. They slipped out the end of their row, making brief apologies, out over the grass and to the line of cars. The vague sounds of congratulations started up behind them; they'd left just in time.
Her left hand twitched awkwardly for a moment, thumb rubbing at fingers, at things that weren't there. She shook it hastily, slipped it ino the pocket of her coat. "I guess weddings are doing Manhattan a service, then, huh," she said after a minute; and then, with a vague gesture at a few fat grey birds nearby, "With the pigeons." Jess, apparently, was an expert at sticking her foot in her mouth. She slipped out of his arm uncomfortably, suddenly all angles and pursed lips and red ears. Her elbows bent, doubled, hugged her arms to herself for warmth, perhaps, and without him pulling her along, her short legs lost stride. Coordinated efforts were still too much.
"So," she said after a few seconds, trotting to keep up with him, "where to?"
REYNARD: He shrugged afterwards, hands diving into the pockets of his black coat instead. The fresh air was good. A chilly breeze, footsteps on concrete and the distant sound of traffic dragged him unceremoniously back into real life, and the open space and Jess by his side put him more at ease. No dinner-guests, no anonymous mob of elegantly-dressed individuals.
"We've already done coffee for the day," he said. "And I believe the pre-ceremony snacks wore off more than an hour ago. Some dinner?" A pause. "Takeout?"
His tastes were rich and his habits richer, but in the past few months since he'd met her, Reynard had let some of those habits crumble away. He had settled into another type of living. It involved staying up late for DVDs and Chinese takeout; it meant not buying bouquets of flowers and delicate paintings. Mr. Fox was always there in some form or other, but the further Reynard went from lavish living, well, the easier it was to forget.
JESS: "Sure eat a lot of take-out for a top surgeon," she said, arching an eyebrow blithely up at him. Sure, she hadn't known him long enough to know all his habits, but you didn't have to spend long in the man's apartment to realize crappy Chinese from Mrs. Kwan's was probably not part of his regular dinner menu. They reached the street and she stuck out an arm to flag down a cab, flipping open her clutch with the other hand to scan for cash. "There's a noodle shop below my apartment. It's not the best in Chinatown, but I get a discount." And there was the cab. "The owner likes Matty," she added, and then, after a beat, "I mean. Unless you want something else. We had Chinese last time."
REYNARD: He almost gave another noncommittal shrug -- but Reynard had never been reknowned for indecision, and he was determined to avoid picking up that particular trait anytime soon. So after clambering into the back of the cab alongside her, limbs scrambling at awkward angles to settle onto the slippery seats, he made his choice. Food wasn't very epic or important in the long-term scale, but it was a choice nonetheless.
"I noticed some Thai down the block from your place. Let's stop there."
JESS: The cabdriver got his directions and Jess settled into her seat with significantly more ease than her companion. Which, naturally, lead to her barely concealed snickering as she propped herself between seat-back and door, watching him situate with every intention of letting him know she was hideously amused. "You're seriously too tall for damn near anything, Reynard," she said after he had found some sort of seat on the slick leather. The cab rounded another corner at typically terrifying speed, and she was forced to relinquish her perch or be hurled into the passenger seat, probably through the cab driver himself. Adjust dress (it had gotten, what? an hour of use? How did people manage like this?), relocate seat--there. Slightly less embarrassing.
REYNARD: His tone was surly, but not genuinely so: there was a familiar edge of playfulness there. "Yes, and I'd much rather be a midget," Reynard answered, with a pointed glance in her direction.
JESS: And up went the eyebrows. Jess had a distinct way of meshing faux annoyance and plain amusement, her lips thinning into a line and curving up at one side. "You're gonna pay for that," she said--and then, just as pointedly as he'd glanced her way, met every one of his rebuttals with a vague, holier-than-thou sort of arrogance. She had every intention of paying him back, dammit. And there was a bottle of Stolichnaya up in her apartment just waiting to help.
Nothing said fun like getting your date piss-drunk and chuckling about it later.
They picked up the Thai (Jess protested; Reynard paid), walked the remaining block to her apartment, greeted Mrs. Kosinski in 4B on their way up--Happy Easter, Matty was doing fine--
and Jess immediately set about getting plates and disposable chopsticks and little paper napkins. It was a far cry from what he was used to, but it was what she had.
REYNARD: And he had, god forbid, gotten used to it. Reynard knew the apartment and remembered where the glasses were kept, and knew which brand of juice of hers was his favourite. He shed his coat like a second skin and left it draped over the usual chair, then collapsed into the couch at whatever sprawled position he found most comfortable, armed with chopsticks and Thai. The easy banter was, well, easy, and the drinks loosened his tongue even further. Vodka wasn't his liquor of choice, so he threw down each mixed drink with considerable speed, and didn't bat an eye when she started refilling his glass more than usual.
After all, Reynard couldn't remember the last time he was properly drunk. It just didn't happen. Inconceivable. Petite women with cute smiles got drunk; he got politely buzzed. Nevermind the fact that he found himself more talkative than usual, until there was a long, ponderous pause. Then--
"Godfucking weddings," he finally said, rolling his eyes, and with the heavy tone of someone proclaiming a universal truth. He felt it spoke for itself, really.
JESS: Contrary to popular belief, Reynard, it was not a truth universally acknowledged that random spasms of irritation were particularly illuminating. Jess poked at the shrimp and sauce on the plate on her knees, free hand resting on a tumbler of screwdriver on the back of the couch. She was contentedly warm all over, but not nearly blitzed enough not to take in any little parcel of information from Reynard that might leave her laughing later. It was an old habit of hers: drunken friends were perfect schadenfreude fodder. Sure, it felt a little weird doing it to a guy who was clearly pursuing her--in some circles, this could have been termed taking advantage of him--but the woman needed to get a laugh where she could. Setting the plate down on the table, she refolded her legs, ankles crossed and knees to her chest, and brought the glass down for a drink.
"Not a fan?"
Understatement of the year, clearly--which she apparently knew, all coy smirks behind the lip of her tumbler. Do tell.
REYNARD: Reynard still had more than enough sobriety left for a dry chuckle, accompanied by a sardonic jab. Yes, ladies, he's a bit of a cynical drunk.
"Not quite. Haven't been to many. Most men I know were utter jackasses when they married. I don't know Mr. Benson, however, so perhaps he doesn't quite fit the formula." He nursed the drink for a moment, his own legs up on the rickety coffee table. "Interesting speeches, too. Bit too weepy for my liking."
He'd taken on the tone of some sort of connoisseur, rating the ceremony like a newspaper social critic. Part of him felt like one. He'd seen far too many weddings over the past few centuries to retain any sense of wonder at the thing called holy nuptials.
JESS: "Wasn't really paying attention, to be honest," Jess said, with a half-guilty, half-nonchalant sort of shrug. She faltered for a moment, took a sip, and let her legs relax. Well, as much as it was possibly to let them relax in a several-hundred-dollar dress. She was afraid to check the receipt. Her knees shifted and she bent to tug off her heels; working in them every night made her pretty oblivioius to foot pain, and it generally wasn't until they became a sitting hindrance she felt the urge to remove them. Plunk-plunk, and there they went, right with the coyness and the smirk. "Used to go to them every so often. I mean--not like I was... a serial wedding guest, or anything, but, uh." How did one bring up one's dead husband, again? Ah, yes. With excessive discomfort. "The Winters knew a lot of girls who hit that age and tied the knot with the first eligible bachelor they could find. I kind of learned to tune out the speeches."
Time for more alcohol. She brushed her shoes to the side with her foot and, standing, took his glass off to the kitchen a few steps away. Orange juice in hers, cranberry in his, generous helpings of vodka in both. "Benson guy seems ok, I guess. Long as nobody, you know, falls down a manhole or runs off with the secretary." A brief pause. She glanced over her shoulder, all genuine curiosity. So genuine. "That happen in Grey's yet? I've lost track."
REYNARD: 'The first eligible bachelor they could find' made him bite back another laugh, and Reynard shook his head a little. He did not explain why.
But thankfully, he was carefree enough to brush the ensuing awkwardness aside. He truly, honestly, didn't give a damn -- he'd made his peace with her past, and the startling realisation that this woman had been crushed before he ever appeared on the scene. So if she could shoulder through with as minimal discomfort as possible, well, Reynard was content to continue blithely on his current compelling train of thought.
"It's been terribly hard on the Seattle Grace Hospital staff. They've dealt with bizarre modelling drama, Meredith and Derek are having an affair, there's that whole Alzheimer's issue," he counted each travesty off on his fingers, "and doctors have been drinking on the job. Presumably there's more perennial tragedy to come."
Yes, he'd actually been watching Grey's Anatomy. Jess had her son and her compendium-wide distractions -- Reynard had his books and Edwina's DVDs.
JESS: Wow. That was, for a very long moment, all Jess could conceive of thinking. Her hands had faltered over the glasses, dropping fresh ice in, and she turned to stare at the back of Reynard's head with as much confusion as could feasibly be mustered while slightly buzzed. Which was, naturally, quite a lot.
"I can't believe you've actually been watching," she said, grabbing up the glasses and making her way back over. "Shit, Reynard. Sure you're not going gay on me?" Kidding, of course. She propped her elbows on the back of the couch and handed him back his drink, taking a sip of her own as she spoke. The fact that Reynard knew more about a soap opera than she did was really only something that could be solved with more liquor, after all.
REYNARD: "No, yes, I'm as disturbed by it as you are," he answered, with a helpless roll of his shoulders. "But I've admitted defeat. The one with all the italics. Dickering. She insisted. So in order to sleep better at night, I... choose to experience it as an exercise in what popular media thinks of hospitals. At our own, we suspect Halls and Weintz might have something going on, but the trysts are never quite as glamorous as--"
Oh, look. More drink. Reynard accepted the glass and, with a grateful nod, bumped it against Jess' with a crystalline clink. Cheers. And with a wrinkle of displeasure, he pondered the implications of her quip before taking another generous sip of the vodka cranberry. The temporary slander, joking as it was, left a fouler taste than the clear liquor.
"Can't be gay, I've had--"
He stopped himself.
"--far too many drinks." His eyes narrowed briefly with suspicion. Had he really been about to start counting the ghosts of relationships past? Jesus. "And far too many nights hovering on your beck and call, too, I suppose. Too easy to let you knock me over. Don't think I'd let anyone else make a joke like that," Reynard mused.
JESS: Jess was laughing before he was even finished, though she made a good show of trying really hard to stifle it. Perhaps she'd put a little too much vodka in her glass, too. "At least you get cult followings for shit based on your job. I don't think seedy bars and strippers who bang the boss get much cable-wise." Which was true, Jess knew. Good and bad in a way: it certainly wasn't the most respectable of professions, but at least it afforded a fair level of anonymity. Still. Not quite so sleek as--who was it? Halls and Weintz? being patently sappy and ridiculous in empty surgical rooms.
She assumed her seat on the couch again, shoulder and head against the back cushions, legs folded up under her. She took up even less space sitting than she did standing, and that was not very much space to begin with. "Sorry about the jab," she said with a half-hearted shrug. She wasn't really. "Couldn't resist." And then, giving him a conspiratorial little grin (although she wasn't really sure what she was conspiring about), "I don't think you're gay, beck and call or not." Down went half the screwdriver. Oh, vodka, how you opened people up.
REYNARD: "I don't know about that. Perhaps you and Rose are the forerunners of the next Sex and the City."
Vodka: Connecting People.
It was curious. The wedding had stirred up some unpleasant and unpleasantly familiar memories, so perhaps this was why he was more liberal with the drinking than usual, and why he was perfectly willing to let Jess ply him with Stolichnaya. He'd been far too aware before. But there was a thing to be said for knocking out the tale sense, and alcohol did it quite marvellously. Mr Fox overlapped with Reynard in an incredibly particular mindset: lavish tastes, rich living, expensive gifts, brandy, ice-cold courtesy and politeness.
But here, surrounded by warm jokes and the leftovers of Thai takeout, drinking on her dilapidated couch in a shoddy apartment -- here, he was just Jasper. Shirtsleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned, and a smirk in the corner of his mouth.
JESS: "Ha! Right. She's the sex and I...provide the alcohol?" Wit, wherefore art thou? Jess felt her face scrunching up in embarrassment before the words were even out of her mouth, and 'alcohol' came out more of a self-deprecating laugh than an actual word. The glass was up at her lips again, covering for her, ears reddening as she made a pointed glance at--well, at anything. Table, wall, stack of videos--how interesting you suddenly were!
But she saw the smirk, and mortification gave way to something else. An awkward lump of disconcerting stiffness welled up in the pit of her stomach as her thumb traced that empty spot on her ring finger again; and it hit her in one fell swoop.
She wasn't married anymore.
Well then. Everything was fuzzy for a long moment and she smiled again, softer, wavering, indirect. Somewhere between refilling her vodka and three seconds ago, Jess Winters, widow, had simply become Jess Winters, and she had little idea what to do with that. Her gaze fell, her fingernails drummed against the edge of her glass. "I, um," she said, chewing the words over carefully--and found she couldn't think of anything else to say.
REYNARD: Beyond the vague and jovial mood induced by being not-entirely-sober, he still noticed the change. It was like a sudden atmospheric turnover, and it was the type of change he'd become well-versed in recognising in women: the pause turning into something more than just a comfortable silence. It wasn't simply a lull in the conversation, and it was, perhaps, what he'd been anticipating for the past three months. Normally it went faster than this, but Reynard had mastered the art of patience long ago.
The two of them still chewed over the silence, but at last, he drew his legs in and sat up straight, dropping his now-empty glass onto the coffee table -- his hand moving perhaps a bit too quickly for its own good. The glass clattered before settling. She may not know what to do with it, but he did: initiative was one realm where the men still held the reins, and hopefully that damned princess complex of hers would let him have it.
Because Reynard had never been reknowned for indecision, and yes, he knew what he wanted.
He slipped from his safe position on the couch and moved closer in one fell swoop, and then pulled her even closer into a kiss.
JESS: It had been far too long since she'd been kissed, let alone kissed on a couch after copious amounts of alcohol. Jess' hands came up immediately as if burned, not entirely sure what to do with themselves--where did they even go? What was she supposed to do with the rest of her body? Her glass? Oh, God, did she just keep herself bunched up till he was done? And to think this had been easy once! Rose, apparently, was very right about her legs being sewn together. She was tempted to push him away, take the glasses up to wash them and gain some sort of semblance of thoughts, some control of herself--but, well. It had been far too long.
It was amazing how quickly one fell into these things after being so long out of practice.
There was Danny to consider. There was always Danny, and more than once she pulled away, uncertain; there was Matty, up at his grandmother's to get ready for Easter Sunday; there was Napoleon and, God, Leo--she didn't even know what there wasn't to consider. But then they were off the couch, and the bedroom door was closing, and--this could be a one-night sort of thing, right? In the morning she'd call it off. She'd be satisfied and that would be that. In the morning. That'd be that.
REYNARD: By contrast, there was hardly anything for Reynard to consider. Not only was he male, not only had he waited for this -- and played nice and slogged through verbal abuse for it, and skimmed past the rules and gotten physical abuse for it -- but he only ever had one objective at a time. If there was one inalterable quality about Reynard, it was his single-mindedness: there would be no dilemma, no choice, and no wavering between women, because he had already made his choice long ago. Ever since he'd pulled strings to get her a dress for New Years, all the way until he pulled strings to get her newest dress off her shoulders.
And judging by his unprecedented success tonight, he was completely certain that, no, she would not be able to brush this off as easily as she did everything else. There was a time for change, and that moment may have finally come for Jessica Winters.
Happy Easter, kids.