(Untitled)
The switch in weather - and pretty much everything else - is going to take time to get used to. It was always bad enough when things were moved around in places he was used to by carelessness, but this - the entire landscape is different to him now, and it felt a little like he's back to square one because of it. It was a bit disorienting at first
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She's not predicting him to turn his head, to shift and place his mouth directly against her own, and the gasp of surprise she emits against his lips, the sound mostly stifled by the kiss itself, is proof of that. His lips are still cold from the winter chill outside - the tip of his nose is, too, as it brushes against her own when she turns her head slightly to change the angle, and when his hands fall to settle on her waist, she can feel the sensation if not the warmth through the damned corset, light points of pressure from his fingertips. She'd placed her hand on his shoulder when she'd risen up to initiate the kiss, and now it rises to cup his face gently, her palm warm against his cheek made pink from the cold.
There's another noise she makes, too, a soft murmur, or maybe a sound of protest as he finally breaks the kiss, still hovering in her space, his hands still resting on her hips, and she turns her head only slightly to feel his breath against her cheek, her fingertips spindling across his jawline. Slowly, she opens her eyes, looking up at his face, trying to get a read on how he's processing all of this, but he looks just as surprised as she feels. She couldn't have anticipated this. Could she? Annie opens her mouth to speak but he's already beating her to it, and their faces are still hovering close enough for it to make doing it all over again more of a temptation.
"Yeah," she breathes, but she's torn between pulling out of his embrace to check and considering the idea of being a little more thorough. "Probably."
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And if this proves anything, anything at all, is that he definitely has been keeping himself in check. It's always been fairly easy to ignore the long dormant attraction he's had for her, but not when they're like this. About the only thing keeping him from moving forward and pressing her up against the doorframe is the realization that if it goes badly, if he's reading this wrong, he'll be ruining this one, perfect constant in his life. There's no turning back from that, and he's painfully aware of it.
"Annie," he murmurs, his tone huskier and probably more intimate than he intends it to be. He doesn't know what he wants to say after, but he's still not moving, almost willing her to do something, anything, to tell him what she wants him to do. Making the first move comes almost naturally to him, but he can't do it in this case.
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Maybe she's been ignoring it all along. Maybe she's only been fooling herself into thinking it would never happen because of their friendship. After everything they've been through, letting a sudden kiss derail all of that seems almost like an insult, cheapening the past. Or maybe it doesn't. On the other hand, this could be what all of this has been building up to here, without work, without outside distractions. This is the most time they've spent outside of the office together in all the years they've been friends - and now, there's even no office to speak of. There are some things she does now without even thinking - readying a second cup of coffee in the morning, lending him her arm on the way to yoga, ordering a drink in preparation for his arrival every time they decide to frequent the Hub. They've been living together, for God's sake, and sometimes she marvels at how domestic they've become, are still becoming. And she can't pretend she doesn't hear the way other people quiz her about him - Luce, Eden, Sam, any of their mutual friends. What do they know that she doesn't?
Everything, apparently, judging by the way she closes her eyes again when he utters her name like that, low and intimate, and her fingertips clutch onto his shoulder in response, nudging her temple against his, her heart racing with the prospect of what she might lose if she pulls away and what she might lose if she doesn't. "Auggie, I - " She wants this, now, and could easily wind up pressing into him again, taking advantage of all that their proximity has to offer. But she's scared, and that feeling grips her tight in the chest like a fist squeezing around her heart, making it difficult for her to breathe. Her fingers curl under the collar of his jacket, turning it down in an action reminiscent of all the times she's done it before, and she turns her head to kiss his cheek, just once. A confession, maybe, but not exactly a consolation prize either.
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It shouldn't happen at the whims of this island anyway, if it happens at all. Suddenly it's hard to deny now that he does hope it might. One day, maybe.
The kiss on his cheek does make him bold enough to lift one hand from its' spot on waist to cup her jaw gently, though it's a gesture that's more warm and comforting than anything else. He doesn't lean in, doesn't try to bridge the small gap between them.
"Thanks," he says instead, his voice still soft, and a smile lifts after. He lingers for only a few moments more before finally easing away from her (though not without some bit of reluctance), stepping out into the hallway. It's as though there were never a barrier at all. He turns back to her, motioning around him. "Looks like it worked."
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They've opened a door now, and all that remains is whether they're going to cross through it or linger on the other side, peeking through occasionally. She's considering the possibility of this happening again, now that the initial moment has passed, but she doesn't want it to be like this. There's no question that they both want this, especially by the way his hand lingers on her cheek, and she tilts her head into the touch of his palm, certain that he can feel the way her mouth draws up at the corners to shift her expression into a small, hopeful smile. They both want this, but it's not the right time. Not now.
He takes a step back from her and she releases a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding, blinking the rest of the world back into focus as she tries to calm the racing of her heartbeat and the heat in her face, a flush she can't entirely blame on the winter weather anymore - and just to test and see, she steps back as well, expanding the space between them. There's no boundary holding them in anymore, but she doesn't want to go too far. "Looks like it did," she quietly echoes.
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They'd be fine. They had to be.
"I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want anything?" he asks, gauging whether or not she wants to stick around or not. It just feels like he ought to give her the option of making an excuse to duck out and go elsewhere. Hell, a part of him wants to do it himself, to collect his thoughts alone somewhere. He just doesn't like the kind of message that might send if he does.
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"I'll snag us a table," she decides, skirts swishing audibly as she starts to move again. "Unless - do you need any help?" It only just dawns on her that the kitchen might be completely changed since everything else has, and she doesn't want him to fumble or burn himself from not knowing the new layout. She's willing to set aside her own feelings on everything to help him, and she steps close to him again, cocking one elbow out in force of habit.
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He turns then, moving toward the kitchen, using his cane for any extra guidance he might need. It's a little busier than usual, though on the bright side of that, at least it seems like the coffee's always flowing for people coming in from the cold. Still, he deliberately takes his time, if only to try to clear his head.
Not that he actually manages to do that very well. He's distracted as he puts together the two mugs of coffee, trying to at least sort his thoughts out. The thing is, he's been casual with that aspect of his life for a long, long time. It's always easier that way, because everything is complicated enough without adding that to the mix - been there, done that. And he was fine with that, accepted it, and he never was left wanting.
Still, he's not stupid. He knew, even if maybe it'd been in the back of his head, that Annie was almost immediately off-limits the second he realized how easily a connection between them formed. She was trouble, and apparently that assessment ended up being right on the money. The kiss hadn't even been that long, but it'd still been enough to remind him what he's been missing the last couple of years. Something he can't ignore he misses, not anymore.
So what did that mean? He didn't know. For someone who's always prided himself in being good with women, he's kind of at a loss right now on how to approach things. Does he just not bring it up? Act like nothing happened until she says something, if she ever even does? He doesn't want to ruin things either way, and it feels like it's such a precarious position, like one wrong step could ruin things. He doesn't like the idea that he basically has to sit back and see what happens - that's never been his style.
He sighs, putting together the coffee he just poured, realizing getting lost in his own head in the middle of a busy kitchen isn't the best idea. He tucks his cane under his arm and carries the two mugs out, careful not to bump into things he already knows is there by memory as well as people in general. Most seem to get he's blind at this point and move out of his way before he needs to worry about it.
At the very least, he knows the general area where she'd be sitting. It's just a matter of finding her, and, thanks to a few minutes earlier, he has a more vivid than usual idea of what she smelled like. He pauses when he realizes she's nearby, and he heads over toward her. He holds out the mug when he's close enough, not even sure if she noticed he's back.
"Your coffee," he says, as a way to announce himself, too.
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She's not going to hold it against him if he winds up taking a little more time in there than absolutely necessary. How could she, when she's still mentally reeling, trying to reconcile all these potential ramifications of that kiss and what it means for them now? If anything, she needs the breather as much as he does, and as she takes a seat at the table, gently arranging her skirts around her, she moves to remove her jacket, starting to warm up all over again, needing to shed some layers before she winds up overheating. Some things she can't do anything about, like the corset, even though she's overcome by the desire to just rip it off, to tear at it until it comes apart and she can finally remember how to breathe again.
Was she being completely selfish? Should she have stopped the kiss long before it had turned into what it had, that seemingly innocent action spiraling out of control in a matter of seconds? Would she even have been able to if she'd had the ability to predict how it was going to play out? And this is the real kicker, the question that makes her shoot a furtive glance around the room before giving into her feeling for a moment, that desperate gasp of breath as tears spring to her eyes, ones that she frantically wipes away: even knowing, would she have wanted to stop it?
She can only sit here and pray that she hasn't completely ruined everything between them. He'll insist that she shouldn't blame herself, if she were to mention it, but she can almost predict everything he'd say to her if she shared her thoughts about all of it with him. Almost everything. Some of it she hasn't been able to get a read on, especially those seconds immediately following the kiss itself. It's those doubts that are going to be keeping her up at night for a while, she thinks, unless they decide to talk about it right now. She can't know for sure if it'll happen until the words actually make it out of either of their mouths.
Annie sniffs audibly, making every move to erase traces of this having affected her in any way when she hears the sound of approaching footsteps, looking up and putting on a smile that wouldn't have him fooled for a second if he could see it for himself. "Thank you," she murmurs, reaching out to take it from him, her fingertips brushing against his as she does. Suddenly she's torn between pulling back, letting the mug fall to shatter and spill, and setting it aside, leaving their fingers intertwined, using her grip to pull herself in for a repeat performance. Her hand trembles visibly, and she reaches up with the other to hold the mug in both, effectively steadying herself.
"These things look so fragile," she comments, as a way to break the silence, looking down at the patterned china. "I'm almost afraid to even hold on too hard."
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Still. He knows he didn't show restraint and he gets a sinking feeling he should have. Nothing like that is worth potentially ruining things, and he has to wonder if that's already happened. Hell, even the light brush of her fingertips conjures up something in him now, which he very quickly ignores. Once she takes the cup, he feels around for the empty chair next to her, sitting down in it and putting his cane aside.
"I was considering fighting people for the crumpets I'm sure were in there somewhere, but decided against it. By the way? Fancy cups or not, I'm not doing the pinky thing - just giving you a heads up now," he jokes, shooting her a smile that's more tentative than he probably would've liked. It's almost instinct that he falls back on trying to make her at least laugh a little - something approaching normal for the two of them - because he sure as hell isn't sure if he should bring what happened up.
That he doesn't even know how he would approach the subject doesn't help things, either. It feels like every option available is just asking to make things worse instead of better.
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His admission has her glancing over at him, and that combined with the sight of his familiar smile, tentative but still present, is what has her laughing sooner rather than later, a small chuckle that slips out easier than she could've predicted, and she shifts, the edge of her skirt nudging his leg as she gives him a similar nudge with her arm, leaving her shoulder to rest lightly against his once she finally leans back in her chair, visibly relaxed.
"Well, I'm doing the pinky thing. It's all part of the whole atmosphere," she adds, smiling slowly, and as she takes a sip of coffee, there's a number of comforting factors that serve to let the warmth wash over her in a way that eases the knots in her stomach, slowly pulling them loose. She wants things to be okay with them. She's almost desperate to ensure that nothing happens to get in the way of that - even if all that kiss amounts to is nothing more than an island slip-up.
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"Should I have gotten you tea instead, in that case?" he asks, amused, lifting an eyebrow up in her direction, his smile a little more sure now. He takes a sip of the coffee he'd poured himself before adding, "I just hope you're not planning on using a fake accent to 'add to the atmosphere'. I'd hate to have to pretend not to know you around people."
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She knows his threats are empty despite his best attempts at keeping a relatively straight face, though her smile dissipates slightly as she allows herself to consider the events of the last few minutes. She doesn't know if she should address it directly with him, but not mentioning it feels even more wrong somehow, and she finally just decides to bite the bullet in a sense, reaching over with one hand to gently pat his knee. "We're okay," she murmurs, a quiet promise, and means every single ounce of the sentiment behind it in her voice. "Even if you do go and throw me under the bus around people for trying to be authentic."
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On a whim, he catches her hand before she pulls it away from his knee, placing his on top of her much smaller one. He squeezes it reassuringly once he does. A part of him knows he should pull it away afterwards, He doesn't, not quite yet, though he makes it a point to leave it lax enough for her to slip it away if she's uncomfortable with it. It just feels like the smallest sign of affection he can show without things getting weird again.
"It'd be a carriage, not a bus," he points out with a quiet chuckle. It's certainly not the important part of the conversation, but it gives him precious seconds to figure out what he's going to say. It feels like saying anything that might be misunderstood could be disastrous.
When he does speak again, his expression is a little softer than before.
"We are always okay," he settles on. It feels like an important point to make sure she knows he means that, that she's too important to lose because of something like this. Still, if there ever is a time he wished he could see, it's now. He can only pick up so many cues without being able to read her expression, to know if he's at all stepping over bounds.
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Annie isn't sure what compels her, isn't even sure she should be doing this at all, but when his hand goes lax over hers, gently releasing some of its hold, she turns her wrist to flip her hand over, her fingers slowly interlocking with his for a deeper hold, thumb smoothing over the arch between thumb and forefinger. She's half-convinced that he can probably feel the way her pulse quickens under his own wrist, their arms linked together from the elbow down, but when she speaks, her voice is miraculously steady, not even a tremor betraying the rush of feeling that accompanies such a simple action.
"Would it be a horse-drawn carriage, or one of those magically driven deals like in Harry Potter?" she asks, quietly thinking out loud, trying to continue their playful banter if only to distract from everything else filtering into her mind right now. "I'm just thinking about the difference between being trampled and run over and simply run over. In the end, it probably won't matter, but since we're talking hypotheticals here." Her grin teases the edges of her mouth up. "And all over a pinky finger and a British accent you haven't even heard for yourself yet. I could totally be convincing."
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It's hard not to be distracted by the simple touch. It's hard to ignore the fact he wants to kiss her again, actually, which is going to take getting used to acknowledging. He knows it's crossed his mind before, but there's no stamping them back anymore. Not when they're like this.
"Harry Potter? You're such a geek," he snorts quietly, his thumb idly running along the back of her hand in a slow, lazy back and forth motion. He's well aware of the gigantic amount of hypocrisy in him calling her that, and he's already expecting her to call him out of it. "I don't actually remember mentioning throwing you under anything until you brought it up, by the way. That's all your assumption."
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