He's been cooped up for far too long, that is the problem. He's going stir-crazy. Now that he's back on his own two feet, he'll have to pick up his training again and get back on patrol as soon as possible.
Savant dresses quickly -- jeans! He can wear jeans again and not cut-off sweatpants! -- but leaves his shirt on top of the toilet tank. Gotham summers are muggy, sticky and miserable, even after sundown. Given the circumstances, sure Creote will forgive him for showing up at the dinner table less than fully dressed. He's certainly put up with worse. Savant snags his crutch and makes his way toward the kitchen. He does need to talk with Creote. The lease here will run out soon. He does not think that Oracle will renew it and he certainly does not intend to stay here. They must plan their next move.
Creote is facing away when Savant arrives in the kitchen. The big man's black muscle shirt is soaked through with the sweat gleaming on his bared arms and broad shoulders. Small tendrils of Creote's dark auburn hair cling to the nape of his neck.
Savant dimly recalls that he came to the kitchen for a reason, but his memory must be playing tricks again. And so he stands, speechless.
Creote turns to face Savant--does the Russian look softer? More delicate and gentle? Surely not, at his size. Still, there must be something different about him.
"Dinner will be ready soon." The smell of Kotmis Satsivi and Chrov plav simmering on the stove has flooded the apartment, yet Creote's own aroma--no, musk--is still present, especially with the sweat. It's not a bad smell. It's simply there. Noticeable.
Creote's version of down-home cooking. He must be in a very good mood.
Savant suddenly feels very awkward, clumping around Creote's domain on one sound leg. Nonetheless, he draws closer to the stove.
"Smells good." The words are quiet and maybe Savant is not looking at the chicken when he says that. Creote's sweat isn't unfamiliar either; their lifestyle is hardly sedentary. They spar, they fight back-to-back, and, occasionally, they run like hell. The scent triggers memories of adrenaline and easy comraderie. Fuel for whatever brightly burning thing is consuming his mind and flesh.
Moving like a man half dreaming, Savant brushes Creote's hair away from where it sticks to his shoulders.
It's hair. Hair is soft. But does all hair feel that way? Has Savant felt Creote's before? Would he remember anyway?
The touch is slightly jarring to Creote, for whom physical contact more often than not means violence and probably death. Not that he can't do personal contact, but it's rarer these days.
Creote doesn't notice where Savant is looking though, as he seems fairly focused on the food.
"Ah..." Savant smiles despite himself. He feels odd. Intoxicated. Maybe a bit giddy. "Better for being out of that cast. Pale, though. A terrible contrast to the rest of me, however. I'll need to get some sun."
Savant contemplates the tie holding Creote's hair in place, but decides against undoing it. He's not so drunk on the moment that he wants to chance what Creote might do if hairs find their way into supper. He does edge closer, however.
Scent. Sight. Touch. Sound. What's missing? Oh.
Truly?
Yes.
Despite everything, the kiss that touches the back of Creote's neck is a small, hesitant thing.
Savant finds his heart has suddenly relocated from his chest to his throat. He has not been punched. Calm. Smile. It's not as if you've exactly been caught at anything.
"I believe that I am."
And Creote is turned toward him now. A personality trait that has served Savant well in his blackmailing career is his willingness to take advantage of any situation. And Creote is facing him now. Savant doesn't quite have to stand on tip-toe to give him a proper kiss.
There is a part of him that wonders just what the hell he's doing, but it is not making itself heard over other concerns.
For being such a large person, Creote moves easily and swiftly.
But not out of the way. Perhaps just due to the force behind Savant's push, Creote is backed onto the stove. The rice dish is knocked over, it's contents spilling everywhere, but the meat dish is saved.
For the briefest of moments, Creote allows himself to savor the taste of Savant's lips. But then he quickly grabs the man by his shoulders and lifts him up and away from.
Once set back on his feet, Savant is stunned into momentary silence. There is absolutely no logical way for him to explain his actions, or the fact that he'd been starting to enjoy himself.
"That...has nothing to do with it. You are not yourself, Savant. You're not...this way."
He's heard about enough mind-control cases that that's what he's attributing this to. That, or some cruel joke. But Savant wouldn't play that. So it has to be mind-control. Or something.
What can he ask to figure this out, though? Anyone gone tampering with your brain lately?
Savant's first thought is to respond with, "And how can you be certain that you know me so well?"
Except that this is Creote, which would make it a stupid question.
"Perhaps I am not the same man I was when we first met. Haven't we been through a lot together since Athens?" His head is starting to clear somewhat, but, somehow, what has just happened bothers him far less than the fact that he cannot explain why he did it. Hardly at all, in fact.
Savant sighs quietly, relaxing a little as the words finally form themselves. "Creote, you are my best friend. You know me better than anyone else ever has and I trust you completely." He steps forward, laying the fingertips of his left hand lightly on Creote's wrist. "There are worse starting points from which to explore things, you know."
Stubborn, over-muscled Russian mule. Nice to know that some things are steady constants in the universe.
"If you're dreaming, then there's nothing to worry about, is there? But I assure you, you are not dreaming and there is still nothing for you to be worried about."
Savant dresses quickly -- jeans! He can wear jeans again and not cut-off sweatpants! -- but leaves his shirt on top of the toilet tank. Gotham summers are muggy, sticky and miserable, even after sundown. Given the circumstances, sure Creote will forgive him for showing up at the dinner table less than fully dressed. He's certainly put up with worse. Savant snags his crutch and makes his way toward the kitchen. He does need to talk with Creote. The lease here will run out soon. He does not think that Oracle will renew it and he certainly does not intend to stay here. They must plan their next move.
Creote is facing away when Savant arrives in the kitchen. The big man's black muscle shirt is soaked through with the sweat gleaming on his bared arms and broad shoulders. Small tendrils of Creote's dark auburn hair cling to the nape of his neck.
Savant dimly recalls that he came to the kitchen for a reason, but his memory must be playing tricks again. And so he stands, speechless.
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"Dinner will be ready soon." The smell of Kotmis Satsivi and Chrov plav simmering on the stove has flooded the apartment, yet Creote's own aroma--no, musk--is still present, especially with the sweat. It's not a bad smell. It's simply there. Noticeable.
Not the stealty creature he so often must be.
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Savant suddenly feels very awkward, clumping around Creote's domain on one sound leg. Nonetheless, he draws closer to the stove.
"Smells good." The words are quiet and maybe Savant is not looking at the chicken when he says that. Creote's sweat isn't unfamiliar either; their lifestyle is hardly sedentary. They spar, they fight back-to-back, and, occasionally, they run like hell. The scent triggers memories of adrenaline and easy comraderie. Fuel for whatever brightly burning thing is consuming his mind and flesh.
Moving like a man half dreaming, Savant brushes Creote's hair away from where it sticks to his shoulders.
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The touch is slightly jarring to Creote, for whom physical contact more often than not means violence and probably death. Not that he can't do personal contact, but it's rarer these days.
Creote doesn't notice where Savant is looking though, as he seems fairly focused on the food.
"How's your leg?"
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Savant contemplates the tie holding Creote's hair in place, but decides against undoing it. He's not so drunk on the moment that he wants to chance what Creote might do if hairs find their way into supper. He does edge closer, however.
Scent. Sight. Touch. Sound. What's missing? Oh.
Truly?
Yes.
Despite everything, the kiss that touches the back of Creote's neck is a small, hesitant thing.
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"Savant, are you okay?"
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"I believe that I am."
And Creote is turned toward him now. A personality trait that has served Savant well in his blackmailing career is his willingness to take advantage of any situation. And Creote is facing him now. Savant doesn't quite have to stand on tip-toe to give him a proper kiss.
There is a part of him that wonders just what the hell he's doing, but it is not making itself heard over other concerns.
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But not out of the way. Perhaps just due to the force behind Savant's push, Creote is backed onto the stove. The rice dish is knocked over, it's contents spilling everywhere, but the meat dish is saved.
For the briefest of moments, Creote allows himself to savor the taste of Savant's lips. But then he quickly grabs the man by his shoulders and lifts him up and away from.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?"
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The Endless changes nothing for now, content merely to sit back and watch.
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He counters with a question.
"You aren't enjoying it?"
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He's heard about enough mind-control cases that that's what he's attributing this to. That, or some cruel joke. But Savant wouldn't play that. So it has to be mind-control. Or something.
What can he ask to figure this out, though? Anyone gone tampering with your brain lately?
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Except that this is Creote, which would make it a stupid question.
"Perhaps I am not the same man I was when we first met. Haven't we been through a lot together since Athens?" His head is starting to clear somewhat, but, somehow, what has just happened bothers him far less than the fact that he cannot explain why he did it. Hardly at all, in fact.
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Give in.
Even Creote can feel it this time, though perhaps not as strongly.
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"I am dreaming. It is the only other explanation."
An admission of possible lust on Creote's part? It's all the Endless needs to push more, opening Creote's mind and intensifying as he can.
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"If you're dreaming, then there's nothing to worry about, is there? But I assure you, you are not dreaming and there is still nothing for you to be worried about."
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