the_gene_genie | OOM: 6620, #3

'Thanks, love.'

The moment the door is closed, she steps in close, ostensibly to take the wine from him, but it's a good excuse to push him back lightly against the wall and kiss him. Not a hard kiss, but a demanding one, nonetheless.

Lest he forget for one moment just how much she wants him.

'Mmfph.'

Caught him off guard a bit, there.

Never mind. He sets the bag down, wraps his arms around her and kisses her back. Because that's pretty much the way he was expecting this afternoon to go anyway.

She catches herself, and pulls back a bit, but he's wrapping his arms around her, and she can't resist. She doesn't want to resist anymore.

There's a low purr of hunger in the back of her throat, and her hands sweep up his chest to catch his face between her palms.

'Tea. There's tea coming, you said?' It's a breathless question, asked without putting any more space between them than is absolutely necessary.

'I could run through the shower, while you wait.'

'Yeah, go on.'

Quicker she's done, quicker he'll be done, and that means getting on with the good stuff.

'...just don't take half an hour in there this time, alright?'

She's nodding, pushing him away like she has to force herself to keep her hands off, but her hands aren't quite with the programme.

'Put the champagne on ice, will you? And maybe find us some music?'

That should keep him busy for a few while she disappears into the bath. She just wants to rinse the salt and sand off, maybe check that she doesn't look like Medusa with her hair gone wild like this.

Edited 2012-07-13 00:01 (UTC)

He blinks, and nods.

'OK.'

Only when she's in the bathroom, does he let his face turn to confusion. Where's e supposed to magic ice from? And as far as he knows, there isn't a stereo in here, unless it's hidden under the bed.

No, he doesn't get down at check. He sits down and pulls his boots off, then socks and shirt. Unbuckles his belt, and unfastens the button on his jeans. She's bound to be ages, so he just relaxes for a minute or two, his head hanging over the back of the chair. The smell of salt on his body makes him think of what they just did out there, which is far nicer way of remembering than the sand itching in places there shouldn't be sand.

The reverie is broken by a knock on the door. He takes the tea from the rat.

'Find us an ice bucket, would ya? Do it quick, an' I'll chuck you a quid.'

Pause.

'Or some cheese. Whatever.'

The rat gives him a withering look and runs off, but is quick to return. So when she gets out, she'll see her bottle of Bolly on ice, and Gene nearly dozing in the armchair.

No music though. She can sort that if she wants it bad enough.

She opens the door just a crack and peeks out, checking where he is. Yes, she had expected him to just flop on the couch and be out like a light, but he's sitting up in a chair.

Another towel clad dash to the wardrobe yields a couple of options. Another set of clean clothes, a dark blue masculine robe of thick cotton towelling, and its mate, something far more feminine in a silken material that runs through her hands like water. Yes, that will do just nicely.

It only takes a moment to hang her towel back up and slip into the robe. Her hair is still damp, but curling at her temples, just a slight wave.

'Bathroom's free,' she calls, going straight to the device on the night stand and starts poking at it. Eventually, she finds a station she likes, something in quiet flamenco guitar to complete the feel of being on holiday.

'Mmm.'

It takes a minute to rouse himself, but when he does, and sees that she's there in just a robe, it's not so difficult. He detours on the way to the bathroom, to kiss her neck and give her bum a squeeze. Just for a second, then he melts away to get clean.

More than five minutes, less than ten, and he's back. Dried off, wearing a faint splash of Denim For Men, and wearing just a towel around his waist. He leans on the doorframe, and crosses his arms, just watching her.

While she waits, she pops the cork on the champagne, (ooo, he did get the good stuff) and pours them both a glass, leaving the bottle in the ice. After a moment's consideration, she concedes, and pours him a glass of Scotch as well.

That leaves her to pace about the flat, listening to him shower, trying to decide just what to do with herself.

Eventually, she settles in his chair, leaning on one elbow and trying to remember the last time she was this nervous about a romantic liaison. Too long to remember, or too nervous to compare, she can't decide. When he emerges, wearing only a towel, she can't help the rush of heat to her cheeks, or the way her heart seems to be racing in her chest. He still wears the fine gold chain she remembers, and that memory makes her heart swell.

'Do you remember that day at Edgehampton? The vault?'

'Yeah, of course.'

He pushes off the doorframe, and walks over to the Scotch. It gets knocked back in one swallow - satisfying as only the first drink of the day can be - and then he takes the champagne, and moves to sit on the couch opposite her.

'What about it?'

A smirk prowls her lips, and she twirls the stem of her glass between her fingers.

'I'm surprised you didn't get a crick in your neck from staring so hard at my chest.'

It had been a stressful day, and she was scared out of her wits, she remembers. But he put an arm around her, and held her close against his chest. Never mind that they were both drenched in sweat, never mind that before the light failed, he'd been ogling her red brassiere like it was the candy store window. He'd made her feel safe.

'I never got a chance to tell you just how close I came to kissing you that day.'

'You blame me?'

He stares off into middle-distance (dramatically), closes his eye and shakes his head, his expression one of pure appreciation.

'Magnificent tits.'

Underwear wasn't bad either. He cracks an eye open, and smirks.

'Good job you didn't, really. We would have given them an eyeful when they opened the door.'

It's nice to know, though. That there were moments even then, when she did a good impression of not being able to stand him, of the attraction being mutual.

She smiles at him fondly, and maybe she fiddles with the front of her robe a bit, making sure she's both decent and framed nicely.

'Oh but we did give them an eyeful, don't you remember? They were talking about us for weeks afterwards.'

Her head falls to one side and she gives him a long look. And then she sets her champagne glass aside, uncrossing her long legs and standing. It feels like that happened to someone else, in some other world. In a way, it did, she supposes.

She crosses to him, and holds out her hand. 'I know you're not in a tux, but -- dance with me?'

She's fiddling with her dressing gown, and that distracts him for a moment. And then he's nodding because yes, they were, and then she's standing and he's seen that look on her face before, and she's not...

'...Alex, I'm wearin' a towel.'

There's a twist of something in his chest. He knows his face stays still. But there it is again, the razor edge of a mood change, sawing through his peace.

'Please don'...can we just talk a bit first, this time? Please?'

'Sure, yes, of course,' she answers, gently taking a seat next to him. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rush you.'

Way to go, Alex. Just put your foot right in it. She feels like a heel, realizing what memories that line must have dredged up. She sits, curling her feet beneath her again, close but not touching him. It's hard to know what will set either one of them off, so she's all for taking it slowly, finding their way together. She clasps her hands together, and keeps them firmly in her lap.

'What do you want to talk about?'

Edited 2012-07-13 02:30 (UTC)

He pauses so the urge to snap has time to fade, and has a drink. His fingers start toying with the lighter on the arm of the chair.

'Don't know. I don't, really.'

But he definitely doesn't want to dance.

Another moment, and he reaches for her, threading an arm around her waist and giving a slight pull to get her closer.

'C'mere.'

She melts against him, the need to touch and be touched by him as raw and powerful as it's ever been. Her hands settle on his skin, pressing her palms flat so she can feel his heart beating, can feel the rise and fall of his chest. The memory of reading his name on that mud-caked warrant card surfaces, and with it, that same cold sense of dread. But he's here, right here, wrapping his arms around her, and they're going to be okay.

If she has anything to say about it, they're going to be okay.

She nestles close against him, her nose marking the line of his jaw, almost hiding her face against his throat.

She'd apologize, but she's afraid to say anything, lest she disrupt this fragile peace with her big mouth again.

He's alright with nobody saying anything for the time being. Especially as he's kissing her now, tilting his head back and sideways so they fit, and one hand slipping inside her robe to cup her breast.

He wants them to be OK. He's just not sure how to get there, but hopefully it'll take care of itself. And it can wait, because he's busy.

Edited 2012-07-13 13:00 (UTC)

She exhales with relief, twisting to meet him, her breath shuddering in her chest at the feel of his hand inside her robe. But it's his kiss that she focuses on, needing that connection. Gentle and intent, she explores the softness of his mouth, listening, trying to learn what he needs from her. It's as good as any apology she could utter, and it feels more honest than words.

He makes a quiet noise as his thumb strokes over her nipple, gently rubbing it to a peak. Just that one simple action is enough to light up the arousal under his skin, thin lines of heat through his abdomen that centre between his legs. She's always had this effect on him, even without ever getting to touch outside of carrying her away from various life-or-death situations over the years, or the occasional hug. He's only had to start thinking about what she would feel like, and it starts. So this is familiar, but new as well; his brain maps the weight and heat of her breast, the softness of the skin, the gorgeous tightness of the nub under his fingers.

He shouldn't do it. The flashes of irritation are enough to tell him he shouldn't do it, because they mean that things aren't OK, don't they? But he can't stop. She's warm, and she's kissing him, and she's already proved how much better he can feel when her hands touch him. It's the wrong reason for going there, but he can't stop.

His arm is pulling again, ushering her over on to his lap. He wants her straddling him, everything up close so he can play.

She hesitates, not resisting, but going slowly. It's obvious they both know where they want this to go, but he wanted to wait just a moment ago.

'Love, what's wrong? What happened to talking a bit first?'

And a bed. She thought they were headed for the bed this time.

Still, she shifts into his lap, but not astride him, not yet. And she doesn't stop kissing him, painting his mouth with soft, wet heat, running her hands through his hair.

'What's there to say?'

His mouth hovers over hers. She sits on his lap, and he moves a hand down her stomach, resting it on her waist.

'We both want to.'

It's reason enough, isn't it?

'Yes, but we wanted to do it for the right reasons. I don't want either of us to feel coerced, or worse -- used.'

She pulls back a bit to look into his face, the lines around her eyes etched deep with concern.

'I want to make love to you, Gene. And I can wait, if that's what we need to do. I'm not going anywhere. And it feels like you're -- like there's something wrong, still. Like there's still something hanging over us.'

She might recognise the expression on his face. She saw it when he walked around his desk to stand in front of her, and held a tape out, and said, why am I a threat to you? Hurt, and sad, and resigned. And just a little bit angry.

'You think there's still something hanging over us?'

Really!?

'Of course there's somethin' hanging over us, Alex. When do you think there's not going to be something hanging over us?'

He wants to say it doesn't matter, that them going to bed won't make it worse, or better, or change anything. It'll make them feel good, and they can forget for a bit, and eventually the sex would be for fun. And because of how they feel about each other. Not anything else.

Except, she's looking at him all worried, and asking what's wrong?, and the anger coils together and burns up his chest, up his throat and out of his mouth. How can she not know?

'I had half my head blown off. And you...you dug me up.'

He pulls back further, hands dropping away from her. But his eyes hold hers.

'Hope it feels better, touching me with skin on. Wouldn't like to think the bones did it for you.'

As soon as he says it, he wishes he hadn't. But it's too late.

And there it is. Her expression crumples in the face of it. Her hands don't let him go, because she needs him to know.

'Gene...'

He has every right to be angry. It was a horrible thing to go through, and she was on the outside, looking in. But she wasn't the one who pulled the trigger. She wasn't the one who suppressed the memory. And she wasn't the one who kept the truth from him.

'Do you think I wouldn't change it if I could? Do you think for one second that that's how I wanted it to play out? I never in a million years would have imagined that drive ending up with me kneeling over your grave. I never would have thought -- you could have kept such a thing from me. That you were dead, and that I was, too.' The tears come, and she tries to power through them.

'I'm sorry, and I know the words don't mean anything; they don't change the truth, but they're all I have. I'm sorry and I love you and if I could change it all I would, but I can't. All I can do is hold you and touch you and tell you I'm here now, I'm not going anywhere. Please, forgive me. Tell me what to do to make it right, and I'll do my best.' The last few sentences are barely intelligible as the sorrow twists her voice in her throat.

There is no rhyme or reason that will save her from this. And she knows it, somewhere deep down. But she'll still keep trying, right up until the very end. It's all she knows how to do.

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