Speaking of things that have been in a holding pattern forever...
I promised buongiornodaisy Prometheus & Satine months ago.
* * *
"That one."
Satine squinted. "Are you sure?"
"Unconditionally, my dove. Just look at him."
"Harold, I don't mean to complain, but it could be pointed out that three nights ago you set me on that mad little Italian fellow, only to find out later that he's impoverished royalty--"
"Sparrow--"
"--in exile--"
"I can explain--"
"--and I still have marks on my back."
"Lucky thing our seamstresses are so creative?"
"Harold--"
"Regrettable it may have been, but bad intelligence can be avoided once bitten. Still, this one, Satine, this one I can feel myself. This one is big. I don't know how yet, but it certainly can't harm anyone to find out."
Satine peered out from behind the giant ostrich-feather fan again. Frankly, she didn't see it. The man was tall, true -- rather too tall, even for her liking -- and pale as stage paint. His suit fit just well enough that she was certain it had been stolen. Not to mention the company he was keeping: political sorts, all ignoring the floor show. They were probably going on about Captain Dreyfus again, all of which Satine found tiresome.
"If you really think he's our man tonight," she huffed, pursing her lips.
"Don't overthink this, my sugarlump. Go!" Harold nudged her with both hands in the small of her back. She yelped, indignant, and shot him a glare over one shoulder. Harold conveniently noticed one of his more minor financial backers at that moment, and turned his back to chinwag.
She heaved a sigh. Harold was right, as he had a maddening tendency to be: the pickings were slim as her waistline tonight, but if he was as good as she could do, then there was nothing else for it but to sally forth.
It was too easy, really: one deft self-insertion into the ring of conversation, one exclamation that she simply couldn't control her hips with such gaiety afoot as this, one swipe through the tall one's black hair and he was rolling beneath her fingers. "I'll be waiting," she whispered against his ear, the paint on her lips as stark against his coloring as a fairy tale. His circle of companions all gaped at her. She grinned, rather wickedly, and flounced off to be courted by someone else.
He was waiting for her, slouched sideways against the bare brick hall. Smoke rose in tendrils from a pungent cigarette he held. Satine paused behind him, puzzled somewhat by the sheer bigness of his hands. In that moment, he turned around. He didn't quite smile at her, but half his mouth quirked upward. "Madame," he said, and flicked the cigarette to the floor.
"Please," she responded, letting her voice go husky as she closed the last few feet between them. "Call me Satine."
"Satine," he repeated. The word rumbled pleasantly his throat. Perhaps he wasn't quite so ungainly as she'd pegged him for. "That's not your real name," he said, making no move to touch her.
She pressed closer. "I think you'll find it's apt, never mind what you call me." One hand snaked up to trace the line of his jaw. "I know just the place where we can get truly acquainted..."
He huffed a laugh, with no unkindness in it. "That's lovely of you to offer, but I'm actually here with a message for you."
"Why, I feel a messenger, right down--"
"Take the night off. Say you're with me. I'll even pay you for it. But take the night off. Sleep untroubled for an evening."
"Really, now! What makes you think--" Her hand touched something cold beneath the sleeve of his jacket. She stopped, and squeezed, and swallowed. "Oh. Are you a criminal?"
"Well, I have been a thief, but I like to think I have other qualities to recommend me." There was nothing dangerous about him, not yet, and Satine had learned to recognize the signs. Taking her gently by the arms, he pushed her back a pace. "Anyway, as I was saying before, I have a message for you." She knitted her brow, unable to look away from his face. "Keep warm," he said. "Keep dry. Oh, and by the way -- his name will be Christian." He slipped out of their strange embrace, and nodded once before setting off down the hall.
"Wait!"
She caught up with him. "What's your name? What are you talking about?"
The tall man paused, then took up her hands, turning them over in his. "You came out so beautiful," he murmured, and nothing in his tone suggested a simple compliment on her body. Later, when she was lying alone in the Elephant, a mysterious stack of gold ingots by her pillow, she would think perhaps she should have invited him up regardless, just to hear him talk. He must have had such stories.
She never learned his name. The political types never came back to tell her. But she stretched out on her sheets, fair skin against red satin, and imagined his discourse all the same.
* * *
"That one."
Satine squinted. "Are you sure?"
"Unconditionally, my dove. Just look at him."
"Harold, I don't mean to complain, but it could be pointed out that three nights ago you set me on that mad little Italian fellow, only to find out later that he's impoverished royalty--"
"Sparrow--"
"--in exile--"
"I can explain--"
"--and I still have marks on my back."
"Lucky thing our seamstresses are so creative?"
"Harold--"
"Regrettable it may have been, but bad intelligence can be avoided once bitten. Still, this one, Satine, this one I can feel myself. This one is big. I don't know how yet, but it certainly can't harm anyone to find out."
Satine peered out from behind the giant ostrich-feather fan again. Frankly, she didn't see it. The man was tall, true -- rather too tall, even for her liking -- and pale as stage paint. His suit fit just well enough that she was certain it had been stolen. Not to mention the company he was keeping: political sorts, all ignoring the floor show. They were probably going on about Captain Dreyfus again, all of which Satine found tiresome.
"If you really think he's our man tonight," she huffed, pursing her lips.
"Don't overthink this, my sugarlump. Go!" Harold nudged her with both hands in the small of her back. She yelped, indignant, and shot him a glare over one shoulder. Harold conveniently noticed one of his more minor financial backers at that moment, and turned his back to chinwag.
She heaved a sigh. Harold was right, as he had a maddening tendency to be: the pickings were slim as her waistline tonight, but if he was as good as she could do, then there was nothing else for it but to sally forth.
It was too easy, really: one deft self-insertion into the ring of conversation, one exclamation that she simply couldn't control her hips with such gaiety afoot as this, one swipe through the tall one's black hair and he was rolling beneath her fingers. "I'll be waiting," she whispered against his ear, the paint on her lips as stark against his coloring as a fairy tale. His circle of companions all gaped at her. She grinned, rather wickedly, and flounced off to be courted by someone else.
He was waiting for her, slouched sideways against the bare brick hall. Smoke rose in tendrils from a pungent cigarette he held. Satine paused behind him, puzzled somewhat by the sheer bigness of his hands. In that moment, he turned around. He didn't quite smile at her, but half his mouth quirked upward. "Madame," he said, and flicked the cigarette to the floor.
"Please," she responded, letting her voice go husky as she closed the last few feet between them. "Call me Satine."
"Satine," he repeated. The word rumbled pleasantly his throat. Perhaps he wasn't quite so ungainly as she'd pegged him for. "That's not your real name," he said, making no move to touch her.
She pressed closer. "I think you'll find it's apt, never mind what you call me." One hand snaked up to trace the line of his jaw. "I know just the place where we can get truly acquainted..."
He huffed a laugh, with no unkindness in it. "That's lovely of you to offer, but I'm actually here with a message for you."
"Why, I feel a messenger, right down--"
"Take the night off. Say you're with me. I'll even pay you for it. But take the night off. Sleep untroubled for an evening."
"Really, now! What makes you think--" Her hand touched something cold beneath the sleeve of his jacket. She stopped, and squeezed, and swallowed. "Oh. Are you a criminal?"
"Well, I have been a thief, but I like to think I have other qualities to recommend me." There was nothing dangerous about him, not yet, and Satine had learned to recognize the signs. Taking her gently by the arms, he pushed her back a pace. "Anyway, as I was saying before, I have a message for you." She knitted her brow, unable to look away from his face. "Keep warm," he said. "Keep dry. Oh, and by the way -- his name will be Christian." He slipped out of their strange embrace, and nodded once before setting off down the hall.
"Wait!"
She caught up with him. "What's your name? What are you talking about?"
The tall man paused, then took up her hands, turning them over in his. "You came out so beautiful," he murmured, and nothing in his tone suggested a simple compliment on her body. Later, when she was lying alone in the Elephant, a mysterious stack of gold ingots by her pillow, she would think perhaps she should have invited him up regardless, just to hear him talk. He must have had such stories.
She never learned his name. The political types never came back to tell her. But she stretched out on her sheets, fair skin against red satin, and imagined his discourse all the same.