(no subject)
she liked subtle, she was good at subtle, but he helped her perfect it. it's a friday night, just like the one the week before in the way every day of the week can be the same but it's brimming with newness that makes her cheeks flush, changes the way she hides her smile (bottom lip between her teeth, look up and away versus a hand over her mouth, polite and demure). it's not she's changed, she thinks, walking home from the market, swinging her basket idly, that's not quite it at all. he melds out of absolute nothingness and it's only because she's started paying attention that she realizes it and smells his still burning cigarette, watches the crowd thin around them and nervous looks be thrown past her.
"you should get a real bag," he murmurs around his cigarette, and she recognizes the restless flick flick of his thumb on the sparkwheel of his lighter, "so easy for someone -"
"to pick pocket me," she finishes, not glancing back over her shoulder at him because it's this game and if she does he might disappear, "i know, but they won't. don't you have faith in anybody?"
he doesn't say anything and she keeps walking. part of her falters, whispers at her to turn around, go back, but it's a silly part. it still smells like smoke.
sighing, tucking a curl behind her ear, she shifts her basket to her other hand. "aren't you going to walk me home?"
"don't be thick just to be thick."
"well, aren't you going to ask? i haven't said you could."
"didn't realize i needed your permission."
"ask."
out of the corner of her eye, she watches him drop his cigarette, watches him grind it out with the toe of his left boot. his jaw is clenched, shoulders squared and stubborn in his suit jacket, heavier coat over his arm. old habits, she sighs. his off-duty clothes aren't different enough from his on-duty uniform to warrant a mention. he inhales, exhales, groans out a sigh.
"can i walk you home?"
"i don't know," she chirps, all innocence as she slows her steps to let him catch up, "can yo-" he interrupts her ("may i?") and she laughs and reaches back for him with her free hand. "of course. don't sulk."
he takes her hand and walks her home, and she tells him about her day and watches the tension leave his shoulders.
__
he's made to wait outside her bedroom door as she changes and he pokes around the quiet corners of her apartment, lips quirked in amusement as he touches little knick-knacks and runs his fingers over the corners of old wooden picture frames. it's not his first time here, but he still finds odd things that only make sense in the context of belonging to her. she interrupts him while he's snooping in her fridge and rolls her eyes when he grins at her over the top of the door.
"you're so weird." it doesn't count because she can't stop smiling as she says it.
"i know," he shrugs, gives her a very blatant one-over and laughs at her boots with her skirt and she sticks her tongue out at him, "you look nice."
"i know." she huffs. "you act like i don't know how to dress for a date."
"oh, now you know what a date is, do you?"
she tries to close the refrigerator door on him as he laughs and whines about cold glass bottles on his skin.
__
they go out to eat - somewhere quiet and dark where they both know the owner and staff for very different reasons but people leave them alone and they share a half-bottle of wine. they talk low and slow and she giggles for so long she gets the hiccups.
when they leave the restaurant it's cold and dark and the streets of their small city are packed with strangers in coats and ugly jackets and he turns the collar of his up against the wind, gives her his scarf and she leans heavily against his arm. they buy paper cups of coffee at a small outdoor cafe near an alley that they stand huddled together in. she rests her head against his chest while she sips from her cup as he quietly mocks the people that walk by and she snorts and flicks at him and tells him to be nice. he agrees to, for a price, and she leans up to brush her lips against his cheek. she teases him for his smile - slow, lopsided, amused. before she can go to throw her cup away, he pulls her over and she smirks at him and he tries his damnedest to kiss it off her. her hand is warm against his neck. she makes him light-headed.
"may i walk you home?" she asks right against his lips (and short of breath, he notices, his jaw clenched hard for a moment). he just nods, tries not to lick his lips and nods, because he is so wrapped around her little finger and it doesn't matter if she knows it or not. he knows it; that's enough.
__
he just wants to touch her. she's not sure what she wants.
she had asked to stay and of course he had said yes because saying no will have to be something he practices. this was thin ice, and the ball was in her court even if this was his apartment. none of that ever really seemed to matter. she borrows a pair of 'pajamas' from him: a t-shirt that's huge on her and an old pair of sweats. she giggles at whatever out-dated and terrible band name is on the t-shirt before she disappears into his room to change while he ducks around the apartment throwing things away and hiding boxes of bullets.
seeing her small and barefoot and pale in his old clothes makes him reconsider everything. this was a bad idea. more idea than he can handle. he shuffles around the kitchen awkwardly while she leans back against the counter and undoes her braid, shaking the curls loose.
"you know," she starts, glancing up at him calmly as she continues with her task, "i'm not going to have sex with you."
it's like a slap in the face, and him even thinking that in the first place is obviously a sign he needs to reestablish his priorities. not going to happen soon. it's a miracle he doesn't flinch, just narrows his eyes slightly and nods. he forgets sometimes that she has relatively no shame or filter. he's still undecided as to if that's a good or a bad thing. "okay. that's fine."
"thank you."
"want help?" he motions to her hair. she smiles like she's glad he's not angry or throwing her out and nods like he might reconsider if she takes too long to reply, and he wonders vaguely if he's that much of a dick. yeah. she undoes her pink ribbon and holds it clenched tight in a fist while he deftly unravels the rest of her braid, running his fingers through it to work the bigger kinks out. her hair is thick and soft. he kisses her cheek just to get his nose in it.
they talk for a long time once they're curled up in bed, her back to his chest, about stupid random stuff (banora apples, satin versus silk, what people's last thoughts really are.) she had dragged his arm over her and spent most of the night tracing the lines of his palm, never faltering in what she has to say. she complains about his cold feet and he laughs because if that isn't ironic he doesn't know what is.
it's nearly three o'clock in the morning and the conversation has dwindled to whispered comments at hour intervals before she huffs a little sigh he has come to learn is her yawn, and murmurs a "goodnight" into his pillow. she falls asleep with their fingers laced. he stays awake for a long time, forehead against her shoulder.
when she wakes him in the morning, nosing along his jawline, it just kind of hurts but he smiles, groggy and mostly unconscious. she is tousled and beautiful and kisses him awake. he couldn't ask for much more; she's grateful he doesn't.
"you should get a real bag," he murmurs around his cigarette, and she recognizes the restless flick flick of his thumb on the sparkwheel of his lighter, "so easy for someone -"
"to pick pocket me," she finishes, not glancing back over her shoulder at him because it's this game and if she does he might disappear, "i know, but they won't. don't you have faith in anybody?"
he doesn't say anything and she keeps walking. part of her falters, whispers at her to turn around, go back, but it's a silly part. it still smells like smoke.
sighing, tucking a curl behind her ear, she shifts her basket to her other hand. "aren't you going to walk me home?"
"don't be thick just to be thick."
"well, aren't you going to ask? i haven't said you could."
"didn't realize i needed your permission."
"ask."
out of the corner of her eye, she watches him drop his cigarette, watches him grind it out with the toe of his left boot. his jaw is clenched, shoulders squared and stubborn in his suit jacket, heavier coat over his arm. old habits, she sighs. his off-duty clothes aren't different enough from his on-duty uniform to warrant a mention. he inhales, exhales, groans out a sigh.
"can i walk you home?"
"i don't know," she chirps, all innocence as she slows her steps to let him catch up, "can yo-" he interrupts her ("may i?") and she laughs and reaches back for him with her free hand. "of course. don't sulk."
he takes her hand and walks her home, and she tells him about her day and watches the tension leave his shoulders.
__
he's made to wait outside her bedroom door as she changes and he pokes around the quiet corners of her apartment, lips quirked in amusement as he touches little knick-knacks and runs his fingers over the corners of old wooden picture frames. it's not his first time here, but he still finds odd things that only make sense in the context of belonging to her. she interrupts him while he's snooping in her fridge and rolls her eyes when he grins at her over the top of the door.
"you're so weird." it doesn't count because she can't stop smiling as she says it.
"i know," he shrugs, gives her a very blatant one-over and laughs at her boots with her skirt and she sticks her tongue out at him, "you look nice."
"i know." she huffs. "you act like i don't know how to dress for a date."
"oh, now you know what a date is, do you?"
she tries to close the refrigerator door on him as he laughs and whines about cold glass bottles on his skin.
__
they go out to eat - somewhere quiet and dark where they both know the owner and staff for very different reasons but people leave them alone and they share a half-bottle of wine. they talk low and slow and she giggles for so long she gets the hiccups.
when they leave the restaurant it's cold and dark and the streets of their small city are packed with strangers in coats and ugly jackets and he turns the collar of his up against the wind, gives her his scarf and she leans heavily against his arm. they buy paper cups of coffee at a small outdoor cafe near an alley that they stand huddled together in. she rests her head against his chest while she sips from her cup as he quietly mocks the people that walk by and she snorts and flicks at him and tells him to be nice. he agrees to, for a price, and she leans up to brush her lips against his cheek. she teases him for his smile - slow, lopsided, amused. before she can go to throw her cup away, he pulls her over and she smirks at him and he tries his damnedest to kiss it off her. her hand is warm against his neck. she makes him light-headed.
"may i walk you home?" she asks right against his lips (and short of breath, he notices, his jaw clenched hard for a moment). he just nods, tries not to lick his lips and nods, because he is so wrapped around her little finger and it doesn't matter if she knows it or not. he knows it; that's enough.
__
he just wants to touch her. she's not sure what she wants.
she had asked to stay and of course he had said yes because saying no will have to be something he practices. this was thin ice, and the ball was in her court even if this was his apartment. none of that ever really seemed to matter. she borrows a pair of 'pajamas' from him: a t-shirt that's huge on her and an old pair of sweats. she giggles at whatever out-dated and terrible band name is on the t-shirt before she disappears into his room to change while he ducks around the apartment throwing things away and hiding boxes of bullets.
seeing her small and barefoot and pale in his old clothes makes him reconsider everything. this was a bad idea. more idea than he can handle. he shuffles around the kitchen awkwardly while she leans back against the counter and undoes her braid, shaking the curls loose.
"you know," she starts, glancing up at him calmly as she continues with her task, "i'm not going to have sex with you."
it's like a slap in the face, and him even thinking that in the first place is obviously a sign he needs to reestablish his priorities. not going to happen soon. it's a miracle he doesn't flinch, just narrows his eyes slightly and nods. he forgets sometimes that she has relatively no shame or filter. he's still undecided as to if that's a good or a bad thing. "okay. that's fine."
"thank you."
"want help?" he motions to her hair. she smiles like she's glad he's not angry or throwing her out and nods like he might reconsider if she takes too long to reply, and he wonders vaguely if he's that much of a dick. yeah. she undoes her pink ribbon and holds it clenched tight in a fist while he deftly unravels the rest of her braid, running his fingers through it to work the bigger kinks out. her hair is thick and soft. he kisses her cheek just to get his nose in it.
they talk for a long time once they're curled up in bed, her back to his chest, about stupid random stuff (banora apples, satin versus silk, what people's last thoughts really are.) she had dragged his arm over her and spent most of the night tracing the lines of his palm, never faltering in what she has to say. she complains about his cold feet and he laughs because if that isn't ironic he doesn't know what is.
it's nearly three o'clock in the morning and the conversation has dwindled to whispered comments at hour intervals before she huffs a little sigh he has come to learn is her yawn, and murmurs a "goodnight" into his pillow. she falls asleep with their fingers laced. he stays awake for a long time, forehead against her shoulder.
when she wakes him in the morning, nosing along his jawline, it just kind of hurts but he smiles, groggy and mostly unconscious. she is tousled and beautiful and kisses him awake. he couldn't ask for much more; she's grateful he doesn't.