Break a mirror, roll the dice, run with scissors, through a chip pan fire fight
Exert from Kings and Queen's, Maverick's POV
I creep into the room as silently as possible, even though usually at this point of the night he’s out like a light, all soft, slow breath, limbs liquid and spread out over the entire right side of the bed. He told me once that he could only sleep on the right because of all the years he spent sharing a twin bed with his brother Jamie.
By now I have a fool proof routine; I leave the door open just enough that the hall light shines directly on the middle of the bed. Reflexively, I step over his work bag and then around his big, black boots, until I’m standing directly over him at the side of the bed. I reach over and gingerly stick my middle finger a centimeter into his back pocket, and I can feel the leathery texture of the wad of money I saw him put there. He doesn’t stir, but something seems off. I wait a few seconds but nothing changes, he remains silent and still. Turning my hand over, slowly I slide the rest of my fingers, up to the palm, into his jeans. Suddenly, it occurs to me that what is strange about the situation is how silent it is, and when I glance at his chest it’s moving up and down too quickly, confirming my fears. He’s awake and he’s not hiding it very well. Or he’s not trying that hard. Or trying at all.
I bite my tongue, turn my head and we meet, eye to eye. His are glowing, his face still mostly in purple shadow. Before I can blink he grips me around the wrist with his large rough hands, and yanks me down on top of him before flipping us over onto the other side of the bed, legs tangled, his weight driving me into the mattress, my arms held down at the side of my head.
“Caught with your hands in the cookie jar,” Shannon teases, grinning broadly. There’s an intensity underlying the light tone of his voice, something rough from the back of his throat, something that rumbled deep in his chest where I could feel it.
I managed to extract the folded dollar bills before he took over the situation, and he examines them in my hand briefly before taking them away. With a small smile still lingering on his lips he slides them deftly into the front pocket of my jeans.
“You could have just asked for it,” he says, leaning down to speak the words onto my cheek, breath ghosting hotly over my neck.
“Yeah right,” I reply, trying to keep my voice from quivering like the butterflies rolling around in my stomach,” Like that’s ever worked.”
Shannon smirks and quirks his eyebrows at me. “Things have changed. I’m now willing to give you anything that you want.”
Up until this point he’s been tracing the lines of my palm, the red hand he caught inside his hunting trap. Suddenly, he stops. He’s looking at it hard now, concentrating on something small and impossible to see in the disappearing light. Purple turning to grey into black rapidly, all in what seems like the span of an eternity, but in reality could only have been mere seconds. Without warning, his head whips up to my face, and he looks confused and almost…betrayed somehow. Just as quickly, without saying a word, he reaches behind himself and produces and liter.
I flinch when he lights it and unsuccessfully try to recoil when he brings it near my hand. Recognition and resignation flash across his face and then were cast back into the growing darkness again.
“Sorry,” he says, distractedly running his arms and hands across his naked chest, which is covered in gooseflesh, “I know you don’t like fire. For whatever reason.”
The last part is a sharp mutter, a pointed jab, but I let it roll off of my shoulders because it’s an accusation completely rooted in truth and also completely call for. He has every reason to be as confused and angry as he wants. It just doesn’t change anything.
“Why do you have that?” Shannon blurts out suddenly. A second later he says right and rolls his eyes at himself. “Like you’re going to tell me.”
I look down at my palm reflectively, curling my fingers closed to hide the mark there, even though it’s too dark in the room now to make it out at all. The ink is as black as the night, faded, but clear and the flesh surrounding it is like the stars and moon and everything bright in the universe. It’s raised and ugly, because it was given to me at too young an age and I had struggled when the needle had seared into my skin, squirming irrationally like only a child can, thinking I was making it better when I was only making it worse. Shannon’s thumb is ghosting over it now, the way mine has a thousand times in moments of distraction. It feels even more rigid and uneven under his rough, calloused ministrations.
I know it by heart and in my mind I can imagine it in its entirety, becoming whole line by line where Shannon’s finger creates it like a blind brushstroke.
“I’d tell you if I could,” I say to him suddenly, breaking the silence.
Shannon smiles at me doubtfully, and it’s a little sad at the edges. “No you wouldn’t”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I smile back weakly, letting him continue to caress my open palm, “But I’d still want to.”
I creep into the room as silently as possible, even though usually at this point of the night he’s out like a light, all soft, slow breath, limbs liquid and spread out over the entire right side of the bed. He told me once that he could only sleep on the right because of all the years he spent sharing a twin bed with his brother Jamie.
By now I have a fool proof routine; I leave the door open just enough that the hall light shines directly on the middle of the bed. Reflexively, I step over his work bag and then around his big, black boots, until I’m standing directly over him at the side of the bed. I reach over and gingerly stick my middle finger a centimeter into his back pocket, and I can feel the leathery texture of the wad of money I saw him put there. He doesn’t stir, but something seems off. I wait a few seconds but nothing changes, he remains silent and still. Turning my hand over, slowly I slide the rest of my fingers, up to the palm, into his jeans. Suddenly, it occurs to me that what is strange about the situation is how silent it is, and when I glance at his chest it’s moving up and down too quickly, confirming my fears. He’s awake and he’s not hiding it very well. Or he’s not trying that hard. Or trying at all.
I bite my tongue, turn my head and we meet, eye to eye. His are glowing, his face still mostly in purple shadow. Before I can blink he grips me around the wrist with his large rough hands, and yanks me down on top of him before flipping us over onto the other side of the bed, legs tangled, his weight driving me into the mattress, my arms held down at the side of my head.
“Caught with your hands in the cookie jar,” Shannon teases, grinning broadly. There’s an intensity underlying the light tone of his voice, something rough from the back of his throat, something that rumbled deep in his chest where I could feel it.
I managed to extract the folded dollar bills before he took over the situation, and he examines them in my hand briefly before taking them away. With a small smile still lingering on his lips he slides them deftly into the front pocket of my jeans.
“You could have just asked for it,” he says, leaning down to speak the words onto my cheek, breath ghosting hotly over my neck.
“Yeah right,” I reply, trying to keep my voice from quivering like the butterflies rolling around in my stomach,” Like that’s ever worked.”
Shannon smirks and quirks his eyebrows at me. “Things have changed. I’m now willing to give you anything that you want.”
Up until this point he’s been tracing the lines of my palm, the red hand he caught inside his hunting trap. Suddenly, he stops. He’s looking at it hard now, concentrating on something small and impossible to see in the disappearing light. Purple turning to grey into black rapidly, all in what seems like the span of an eternity, but in reality could only have been mere seconds. Without warning, his head whips up to my face, and he looks confused and almost…betrayed somehow. Just as quickly, without saying a word, he reaches behind himself and produces and liter.
I flinch when he lights it and unsuccessfully try to recoil when he brings it near my hand. Recognition and resignation flash across his face and then were cast back into the growing darkness again.
“Sorry,” he says, distractedly running his arms and hands across his naked chest, which is covered in gooseflesh, “I know you don’t like fire. For whatever reason.”
The last part is a sharp mutter, a pointed jab, but I let it roll off of my shoulders because it’s an accusation completely rooted in truth and also completely call for. He has every reason to be as confused and angry as he wants. It just doesn’t change anything.
“Why do you have that?” Shannon blurts out suddenly. A second later he says right and rolls his eyes at himself. “Like you’re going to tell me.”
I look down at my palm reflectively, curling my fingers closed to hide the mark there, even though it’s too dark in the room now to make it out at all. The ink is as black as the night, faded, but clear and the flesh surrounding it is like the stars and moon and everything bright in the universe. It’s raised and ugly, because it was given to me at too young an age and I had struggled when the needle had seared into my skin, squirming irrationally like only a child can, thinking I was making it better when I was only making it worse. Shannon’s thumb is ghosting over it now, the way mine has a thousand times in moments of distraction. It feels even more rigid and uneven under his rough, calloused ministrations.
I know it by heart and in my mind I can imagine it in its entirety, becoming whole line by line where Shannon’s finger creates it like a blind brushstroke.
“I’d tell you if I could,” I say to him suddenly, breaking the silence.
Shannon smiles at me doubtfully, and it’s a little sad at the edges. “No you wouldn’t”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I smile back weakly, letting him continue to caress my open palm, “But I’d still want to.”