(no subject)
When she wakes up, it only takes a few seconds for the memory of the night before to come filtering back in like the morning light streaming through the bedroom window, its edges coated in frost, and Annie smiles to herself, stretching lazily in the bed, still feeling loose-limbed and more than sated - even if she's aware she probably looks like hell as a result. Slowly, with her eyes still closed, she rolls over, stretching out a hand, expecting to find skin, warmth, anything to signal to her brain that he's around. Her fingers come into contact with cold pillow, and Annie's eyes snap open.
She's a little disoriented, coming out of that place between asleep and awake, but as she sits up, clutching the bedsheet against herself and blinking blearily, the rest of the room comes into focus, just as empty, and Annie represses a shiver that doesn't have everything to do with the chill in the air. They must've let the fire go out last night, and the room is colder for it. There's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she tries to ignore as she slides to the edge of the bed, walking across the cold floor on the tips of her toes, and rummages in his drawer for a shirt to wear. The Victorian style is long, more of a dress shirt than a casual tee, but it covers her plenty, even if the sleeves hang down almost past her fingertips.
She can't hear anything, any sounds when she tries to listen for signs of life, and instinct and paranoia both have her glancing around for a note, but the pillow is as bare as when she'd touched it minutes earlier. She shoves her worst fears back down and heads out into the hallway, and the warmth hits her all of a sudden, a blast of heat, and the noise of crackling flames reach her shortly before the smell of food does - pancakes, if she can trust her nose - and when she turns the corner, she takes in the sight of everything: Ivanhoe curled up asleep in front of the fire, and Auggie standing just through the arching doorframe in the kitchen, hovering over the stove.
It suddenly hits her - why she'd been so reluctant to get involved again after Ben, why she had shied away from the prospect of having something deeper than a friendship with Auggie. She's been so afraid of committing to anyone because of her fear of what will happen after, of potentially being burned, of waking up to an empty bed and a note that doesn't answer any of the questions spinning around in her head - and she's got to be an idiot to think that, out of anyone, Auggie would ever leave her now.
She doesn't say a word, but she makes an effort to keep her footsteps audible as she approaches him from behind, sliding her arms around his waist and gently kissing his back, over the place where his tattoo sits, between his shoulderblades. "You made breakfast," she murmurs, more grateful than he'll ever know.
She's a little disoriented, coming out of that place between asleep and awake, but as she sits up, clutching the bedsheet against herself and blinking blearily, the rest of the room comes into focus, just as empty, and Annie represses a shiver that doesn't have everything to do with the chill in the air. They must've let the fire go out last night, and the room is colder for it. There's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she tries to ignore as she slides to the edge of the bed, walking across the cold floor on the tips of her toes, and rummages in his drawer for a shirt to wear. The Victorian style is long, more of a dress shirt than a casual tee, but it covers her plenty, even if the sleeves hang down almost past her fingertips.
She can't hear anything, any sounds when she tries to listen for signs of life, and instinct and paranoia both have her glancing around for a note, but the pillow is as bare as when she'd touched it minutes earlier. She shoves her worst fears back down and heads out into the hallway, and the warmth hits her all of a sudden, a blast of heat, and the noise of crackling flames reach her shortly before the smell of food does - pancakes, if she can trust her nose - and when she turns the corner, she takes in the sight of everything: Ivanhoe curled up asleep in front of the fire, and Auggie standing just through the arching doorframe in the kitchen, hovering over the stove.
It suddenly hits her - why she'd been so reluctant to get involved again after Ben, why she had shied away from the prospect of having something deeper than a friendship with Auggie. She's been so afraid of committing to anyone because of her fear of what will happen after, of potentially being burned, of waking up to an empty bed and a note that doesn't answer any of the questions spinning around in her head - and she's got to be an idiot to think that, out of anyone, Auggie would ever leave her now.
She doesn't say a word, but she makes an effort to keep her footsteps audible as she approaches him from behind, sliding her arms around his waist and gently kissing his back, over the place where his tattoo sits, between his shoulderblades. "You made breakfast," she murmurs, more grateful than he'll ever know.