Long promised [RP for Cait and Robin]
The quiet of the apartment that Cait and Abby share is broken by the ringing of Cait's mobile phone. On his end of the line, Robin grimaces as the phone rings, and rings again, the sound coming through faint to him even with the volume turned up as loud as possible. The phone has a bit of competing to do with the other sounds around him, of course
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Her fatigue is mainly mental in origin, she knows that. Her body has nearly finished making up the energy she willingly drained away into helping Pippa heal, but the emotional aftermath takes its toll on all of them. Poor Pippa, still heart-wounded for God knows how long to come, and Rory trying to care for and support her, all three of her brothers so painfully silent on the subject of what they did with her abductor (besides kill him, that much is obvious). And Da, he's worried sick about them all.
And now Abby has just learned that a dear friend and colleague of hers is dead in Chicago. Murdered. Jesus Christ, but hasn't her family had enough ( ... )
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Having fun shouldn't be quite this much work, the Puck thinks sourly as he fiddles with controls, both manual and magical.
Fortunately Cait's voice interrupts him before his train of thought gets too negative.
"Cait! Love! Hullo! How are you? Do you trust me?"
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Par for the course, then. She chuckles.
"Hello yourself, darling. I'm all the better for hearing your voice, thank you, and of course I trust you." Which is perfectly true as long as the words "and verify" follow "trust". "Why do you ask?"
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Cait can perhaps hear the occasional curse and sound of things hitting other things as Robin tries to pick the phone up again, but most of the sound audible through the phone is that of a continuous muffled roar. Finally Robin recaptures the phone.
"Sorry about that! Dropped the mobile! Anyway it's smashing that you trust me, since I need you to come out onto your balcony. And I need you to do so with your eyes closed, that's important. You are twelfth floor, yes?"
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Glancing down at her towel-wrapped self, Cait smiles and shrugs. She's been known to relax on her balcony in shorts and a bikini top, so she's actually more covered in her current state. She doubts she'll be out there long enough to do more than startle a neighbor or two anyway. "All right, Robin. I'm on my way."
She knows her own living room well enough to cross it without sight. Finding the handle of the balcony door by feel, she slides it open and steps through. "Right, pet, I'm there with eyes shut, as specified. What should I do now?"
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"Did I interrupt you in the middle of something?" he says in a tone of utter delight. "You're in a rather fetching state of dishabille. Yes, I can see you. No, don't open your eyes. Right, to the edge of the balcony if you please, the railing or balustrade or whatever we call it, and then you've nothing to do-- but-- wait--"
The background sound of the roaring may be getting louder, over the phone-- or perhaps that's not the phone at all, but the noise of something actually approaching Cait physically.
"Keep your eyes closed!" Robin reminds her sternly. "No peeking!"
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"Yes Robin, as it turns out I was in the bath." Her hand reflexively creeps to where it can hold the towel securely closed. She pitches her voice to be heard over the roaring as she moves to the railing. "I won't peek, m'dear, but can you tell me why on earth I smell propane?"
That roaring is definitely getting closer. Cait clutches her towel and tells herself that she really didn't do enough of the "and verify" this time out. Oh blast ...
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The manual-- that is to say, the mundane-- controls he is dealing with are the easy ones, you essentially set them and let go. Dealing with a leather bag of winds is a bit harder; Robin gives up in disgust on fine control and just loosens the drawstrings with a vague attempt at aiming.
Nearly loses his balance, too, in the ensuing rocking.
But this does propel him right directly where he wants to go, at Cait standing there so fair and... betoweled. Lord, does he ever have splendid timing. The Puck congratulates himself, and is grinning as he leans precariously forward, waiting until closer, closer, close enough...
There! One arm hooked around Cait's towel-y midriff, ignoring her startled noise, and one quick lift pulls her off the balcony and tumbling into the passenger basket of the hot air balloon he's currently occupying ( ... )
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In short, her towel will be going nowhere until she says it can.
And then she's falling, though not far, her sprawl into the bottom of the basket tangling with that of her puckish friend, since she managed to take him over with her. Robin's grin blazes brighter than the balloon's burner, which she manages to identify from her flat-on-her-back perspective. By the time her cheerful abductor asks his question, she's just regaining both breath and bearings.
"Good God, Robin, how on earth did you--" A spurt of laughter interrupts her as she recalls the entry he made on his PDA weeks ago. Sweep Cait Off Her Feet. "Never mind. You did magnificently, darling ( ... )
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He busies himself with the burner feed, sending more fuel to fiery immolation, heating the balloon further, letting them rise, rise, rise above the city. The bag of wind, a gift from darling Zee, is retied so not everything escapes. Right now altitude is of more importance than direction.
"Where we're going? Love, I never think that far ahead," Robin clucks. "But I'm delighted you think I did well ( ... )
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With that she faces front once more ... and actually does consider the matter.
The difficulty with past adolescent crushes, thinks Cait, is that they tend to leave one susceptible to teasing and temptation from the object of said crush. Particularly when the crush-ee is as incorrigibly charming as the man behind her. Still, she's managed to turn Robin down one way or another for thirty-five years and a bit; surely she can continue to do so for the space of a balloon ride. Even if she has been caught out wardrobe-wise ( ... )
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"Called in a few favors as well. I must say, this would have been easier to do before September 11th of a few years ago. You have atrocious timing, Cait."
The peeved irrational testiness he delivers that line has, of course, dropped utterly with his next words. "But yes, I rather have, haven't I? And I am so utterly rewarded when you smile like that, Cait. Good heavens, if we aim your face at the bottom of the balloon I imagine we could get a thousand feet of altitude just on the blazing warmth of your smile. You look lovely, did I mention that yet? I'm sorry to have taken you from your bath though. I imagine you looked even lovelier there."
No, Robin's not bothering at all to hide the fact that his eyes are wandering the boundaries of towel and Cait's skin.
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"Why thank you ever so, dear heart. You're looking rather smashing yourself." When outflanked, go on the offensive ... is that one of Sun Tzu's or Musashi's? Never mind. She doubts there exists an aphorism on strategy that Robin can't monkey-wrench, anyway.
A sudden thought triggers an equally sudden fit of giggles. In response to Robin's inquiring look, Cait at last gets out, "Sh-shame about the glamours in some ways. I mean, here we have Kate Stanton, promising novelist, swept off her balcony and into a hot-air balloon wearing nothing but a towel! And by no less than Robbie Fellowes, music mogul of considerable reputation ( ... )
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Thoughtfully, Robin adds, "If it publicity you'd like, I'm sure I can arrange something suitably dramatic that won't tax Bernard's abilities to keep me from getting arrested. You have but to say the word, my lovely."
He leans forward, arms still crossed, concern-or-at-least-the-semblance-of-it flickering across his feature. "Are you cold? I am as you know a source of considerable hot air, even if I am not personally propelling our balloon at the moment."
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And she is. She's spent weeks watching so many who are dear to her hurt, feeling powerless to do much to help them. Surely no one would begrudge her a little time to herself, time to savor a fun new experience, a new perspective on the sights and sounds of the city she lives in, and the warm company of an old friend.
Robin's question catches her in the middle of delightedly watching Central Park draw nearer. "Well, I didn't exactly have a chance to grab a jacket, m'dear," she says absently. Her eyes widen as she hears her own words, and she hastily tacks on, "But I'm sure I'll be fine."
Of course just then the wind chooses to gust, plucking at the hem of her towel and making her shiver and wrap her arms around herself before she can curb the impulse.
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"You mustn't lie to me, dearheart," he says somberly. "For one, you're not very good at it. Bad trait in a writer, you know. Tsk."
With that, he promptly slings an arm around her shoulder and tugs her gently closer. "You're just going to have to huddle with me for warmth, seeing as I neglected to bring a jacket," he says with sweet sincerity, accompanying with a flutter of his lashes down at Cait.
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