"Do you still want Alaska?" There's no shame in seeing a winter hellscape and deciding 'no', if you ask her. "Because Brazil's got some remote places, too, you know."
"That makes two of us," she says, like they're two people who have won the lottery. Partly she's joking. It's not easy living here. She isn't sure she'd still want to be a warden if she didn't have so much depending on her success.
"Does it drive you nuts having people around all the time?" When what he wants is solitude.
"Or up on the deck, 'cause it's pretty chill when there's not a party going on. There's, uh. Space." In both senses of the word. And he loves, loves looking out at the other kind.
"Yeah, I used to get so space sick when I first got here." Thank God for Jensen. "Now when I go up there I almost get the same feeling I do when I'm just drifting on a hot day, looking down at the fish under my board."
She ended up liking Alfie and Me, but every time she longs for the Enclosure she gets angry at them. Maybe that's a good sign.
"I was just thinking, you know, it's almost midnight. And...do you have someone?"
The grin that causes makes it hard to believe that an hour ago she was in tears, that they've just offered bare details on some of the worst parts of their lives.
"I think it's midnight now," she says. It's not. She knows there's at least another hour. But he is, indeed, sitting right there, close enough that she hardly has to move at all to bring a hesitant hand up to his jaw.
The last time he kissed her-- well, okay, the last time he kissed her, or she kissed him, was under the mistletoe in the elevator. But the last time he really kissed her, he had no idea who he was or she was, had no idea why it could be anything like a big deal. It had been a fun night with a hot chick. Easy.
This time, it's a very big deal and anything from easy, and all it takes is the brush of her hand to set his heart hammering in his chest. He hesitates for a few beats, too, but then he doesn't hesitate at all: he turns in towards her and clasps her face in his hands, pulling her into the kiss he'd wanted to give her in the elevator and every moment since.
She had expected their first kiss (first real kiss, after all this time) to be tentative, hesitant. Brief.
It's not.
It had taken every ounce of willpower to kiss his cheek and be done in the elevator. She had wanted this, though; a kiss with the freedom for her to savor it.
She's not alone in that, and now that he finally has the real opportunity he doesn't waste it. It's none of what she was expecting: it's deep and steady, searching, longing. Anything but brief.
When they finally come up for air, he finds himself at a loss, struck momentarily speechless. He rubs his thumbs over her cheeks, staring down into her eyes.
It simply isn't possible, even for her, to keep a mask up with the way he's watching her. She has never looked back so steadily at another person, not this close, not without knowing what was going to happen next.
When she had brought up midnight she had planned the next step: a quick joke about oh, no, it's not midnight after all, have to do it again. But humor is often a shield for her, and she finds that she's without it right now. The smile tentatively pulling at the corner of her mouth has nothing to do with that.
She's so elated her voice ought to be strong, loud, but she can only manage something like a whisper. "Can we do that more often now?"
"Yeah," he whispers back, not yet smiling, not wanting it to seem like a tease. He moves a hand up to comb it through her hair, looking at the silky strands falling over his fingers. Then her eyes, then her mouth with its smudged berry-sexy-red lipstick.
"Definitely," he adds, and now the corner of his mouth does tick up slightly in turn. "Yes."
It isn't a smile now, it's a grin, a laugh that she is holding back because she wants to be suave, but it comes as an almost squeak and she kisses him again.
He's going to have a fair amount of red on his lips at this rate.
If she can live with the beard, he can live with the lipstick. In the moment, he's all too happy to live with the lipstick; and he really is, he realizes to his own surprise as his mouth finds hers again. He's happy. Not for forever, not even in a way that's really going to stick just yet... but the last time he felt this way, this strongly, was so long ago that he almost doesn't even remember it now.
He's smiling when they break again -- like, actually, really smiling. It might look a little strange, the way it creases and warps his scars, but he also looks younger than he has since the flood took all the weight of memory off him. "Annie," he murmurs, pressing his lips to her cheek, her ear, her temple.
Her fingers stroke through the hair at the nape of his neck, down his back a little ways to the tattoo there, and back up. Her grin is going to be all but permanent the rest of the week, dimming only when her friends need her to be serious.
"I really like you," she says like it's somehow a secret, and tops it off with that grin. "Happy new year, Jesse."
I love you, he thinks, wildly, giddily, but there are certain kinds of crazy he still knows to hold back on. "You, too," he tells her instead, resting his forehead against hers. In theory, they have time. He's here because he's tried to make himself believe they have time.
He traces his fingers over her cheek, her jaw, re-learning the feel of her now that he knows her. "To, um, both of those," he adds as an afterthought.
She closes her eyes, holding still (apart from her fingers still trailing along his back) and just enjoying the sense of someone wanting to study her so closely.
"You could stay the night." She has a roommate. Maybe that's awkward. Is this what college would have felt like? "We don't gotta do anything, but you could stay."
Is that moving too fast? Is it possible to move too fast if your relationship began with sex, sped into panicky fighting, and landed here?
He hesitates, not because she's approaching his boundaries, but because he's similarly trying to figure out where the boundaries are. As far as he's concerned, if he's succumbed, he's succumbed; sex won't make that much more true, especially when it's technically already happened. Besides, he's used to moving quickly, at least physically and in every other sense.
But if she has a concern... He draws back enough to look at her, trying to gauge where the mixed messages he thinks he's hearing are coming from. "If you're worried about Elizabeth coming back, you could take some things and we could go to my place..." he offers carefully. Is that subtle enough? Too subtle?
The offer erases all her uncertainty about what he wants, and leaves her free to indulge in what she wants. Her expression stops being tentative, and turns simply, intensely hungry.
She kisses him once more and grabs a bag, some clothes--not anything to sleep in--a comb. She steals a glance at him. "Do you have neighbors?" Who might complain.
...okay, that pretty much clears that up. Suddenly, she's moving faster than he is. He blinks, pushing himself to his feet.
"No. I mean-- yeah, but I think she's at the party. And she doesn't seem to give a shit when I've got music on, anyways." And fuck her if she does this time, really, because he hasn't gotten laid as himself in well over a year, and that's practically a functional lifetime to him.
With her bag packed and over her shoulder, it's hard not to tug him out the door and rush them along to his cabin.
"Good." It also helps to know how secretive she needs to be.
"I don't know how things works here, with you being a warden, and me not being, and I don't want to get you in trouble. If people even care about that stuff? So just- however you want to do this." A pause. "But if it's up to me I don't want to pretend, I don't want to not be able to dance with you at parties."
He hadn't actually thought about that at all, maybe because he just barely thinks of her as an inmate, and he does have to pause for a second. His first instinct is to say fuck anyone who cares, too, but being an asshole to everyone else on the ship hadn't worked out well for him when he'd first gotten here, and it probably won't now. His brow furrows. Would they really have a problem with it? Jesus.
"I don't want to pretend, either," he decides -- or makes plain, really, because he already knew that much. "But maybe, um... lemme talk to some people, see what we'd be, like, in for and all. Okay? Is that cool?"
"I can live with that," she agrees. Right now she'd be content to live with a lot of things as long as she gets all of this, too. "I might tell my friend, but not your name or anything. Just...you know. That I'm happy."
"Yeah." He brings the back of her hand up to press his lips to it with fierce affection. He doesn't want to put her through too many compromises, but he already knows -- he's sure she already knows -- that between his demons and her demons, there will be some big ones somewhere. He's grateful that she's taking the initial hurdles well. He's relieved, if still sort of shocked in the depths of his soul, that he's still making her happy.
"Maybe say it's a warden -- see what she says," he suggests. "Test things out."
He lets go of her hand as they walk out the door, but it doesn't take him long to realize that the halls are basically deserted with everyone still upstairs. By the time they get to the elevator, his fingers are twined with hers, and he leans in for a kiss once the doors are shut. "No mistletoe," he mutters against her lips.
Annie realizes now that she has never had anyone kiss her hand, that with all the soft affection her packmates had given her they weren't like this. And to be fair, she was never this clear-eyed about how much she wants it with anyone before this. Her love has always been deep, but it was always hazy.
"I'll tell you what she says," she murmurs, pink in the ears, delighted.
The elevator, though, she knows the elevator. She wonders what he'd think if he knew how often she'd let her mind drift between these doors, back to a Herculean effort on her part to maintain boundaries. "D'you know what I wanted to do with you in here? Had nothing to do with mistletoe," she croons, and kisses him deeper.
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Because she's not wrong about what he's looking for: the real priority is finding a spot where his closest neighbor is a mile away.
"It's not like I gotta decide any time soon," he adds, drumming his fingers against his knees. "I'm gonna be here basically forever first, so."
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"Does it drive you nuts having people around all the time?" When what he wants is solitude.
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So yes, kind of.
"Or up on the deck, 'cause it's pretty chill when there's not a party going on. There's, uh. Space." In both senses of the word. And he loves, loves looking out at the other kind.
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She ended up liking Alfie and Me, but every time she longs for the Enclosure she gets angry at them. Maybe that's a good sign.
"I was just thinking, you know, it's almost midnight. And...do you have someone?"
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Or possibly: I'm sitting right here.
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"I think it's midnight now," she says. It's not. She knows there's at least another hour. But he is, indeed, sitting right there, close enough that she hardly has to move at all to bring a hesitant hand up to his jaw.
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This time, it's a very big deal and anything from easy, and all it takes is the brush of her hand to set his heart hammering in his chest. He hesitates for a few beats, too, but then he doesn't hesitate at all: he turns in towards her and clasps her face in his hands, pulling her into the kiss he'd wanted to give her in the elevator and every moment since.
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It's not.
It had taken every ounce of willpower to kiss his cheek and be done in the elevator. She had wanted this, though; a kiss with the freedom for her to savor it.
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When they finally come up for air, he finds himself at a loss, struck momentarily speechless. He rubs his thumbs over her cheeks, staring down into her eyes.
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When she had brought up midnight she had planned the next step: a quick joke about oh, no, it's not midnight after all, have to do it again. But humor is often a shield for her, and she finds that she's without it right now. The smile tentatively pulling at the corner of her mouth has nothing to do with that.
She's so elated her voice ought to be strong, loud, but she can only manage something like a whisper. "Can we do that more often now?"
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"Definitely," he adds, and now the corner of his mouth does tick up slightly in turn. "Yes."
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He's going to have a fair amount of red on his lips at this rate.
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He's smiling when they break again -- like, actually, really smiling. It might look a little strange, the way it creases and warps his scars, but he also looks younger than he has since the flood took all the weight of memory off him. "Annie," he murmurs, pressing his lips to her cheek, her ear, her temple.
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"I really like you," she says like it's somehow a secret, and tops it off with that grin. "Happy new year, Jesse."
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He traces his fingers over her cheek, her jaw, re-learning the feel of her now that he knows her. "To, um, both of those," he adds as an afterthought.
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"You could stay the night." She has a roommate. Maybe that's awkward. Is this what college would have felt like? "We don't gotta do anything, but you could stay."
Is that moving too fast? Is it possible to move too fast if your relationship began with sex, sped into panicky fighting, and landed here?
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and in every other sense.But if she has a concern... He draws back enough to look at her, trying to gauge where the mixed messages he thinks he's hearing are coming from. "If you're worried about Elizabeth coming back, you could take some things and we could go to my place..." he offers carefully. Is that subtle enough? Too subtle?
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She kisses him once more and grabs a bag, some clothes--not anything to sleep in--a comb. She steals a glance at him. "Do you have neighbors?" Who might complain.
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"No. I mean-- yeah, but I think she's at the party. And she doesn't seem to give a shit when I've got music on, anyways." And fuck her if she does this time, really, because he hasn't gotten laid as himself in well over a year, and that's practically a functional lifetime to him.
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"Good." It also helps to know how secretive she needs to be.
"I don't know how things works here, with you being a warden, and me not being, and I don't want to get you in trouble. If people even care about that stuff? So just- however you want to do this." A pause. "But if it's up to me I don't want to pretend, I don't want to not be able to dance with you at parties."
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"I don't want to pretend, either," he decides -- or makes plain, really, because he already knew that much. "But maybe, um... lemme talk to some people, see what we'd be, like, in for and all. Okay? Is that cool?"
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She slips her hand in his. "Okay?"
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"Maybe say it's a warden -- see what she says," he suggests. "Test things out."
He lets go of her hand as they walk out the door, but it doesn't take him long to realize that the halls are basically deserted with everyone still upstairs. By the time they get to the elevator, his fingers are twined with hers, and he leans in for a kiss once the doors are shut. "No mistletoe," he mutters against her lips.
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"I'll tell you what she says," she murmurs, pink in the ears, delighted.
The elevator, though, she knows the elevator. She wonders what he'd think if he knew how often she'd let her mind drift between these doors, back to a Herculean effort on her part to maintain boundaries. "D'you know what I wanted to do with you in here? Had nothing to do with mistletoe," she croons, and kisses him deeper.
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cw implication of torture
cw implication of torture
cw implication of torture
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oh right this got nsfw a minute ago
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