Connections…

William D’Aubigne was sending an intoxicated lamb to the slaughter.

“I don’t wa-”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “Your wife is going to kill you if you get any drunker and come home-“
“I’m not that drunk-”
“Yes, you are.”
“Nooo, I’m not.”
“Chuck, I’m a better lawyer than you when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, I’ve got the edge.”
“Why? Because of yer frrreeaakin’ Cornell degree.”
“No, because you can’t find your ass with both of your hands. Now iiiiin yoooou goooo.” With a good push and placement into the cab.
“Fuck you, Will.”
“Say hi to Tracy for me.”

With that, he shut the door and slipped his hands into his pockets.

And as he watched the rather intoxicated man get carted off to his house, the young man in the expensive blue jeans let a strange realization wash over him. It was, of course, that Chuck Pangiotis had his car keys.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, was where we started our scene. With a lawyer making his way to the bus stop, smelling like second-hand bar stench and fabric softener. And now? It was time for the waiting game.

And, as luck would have it, there is a street rat on the prowl tonight. She doesn’t like being a charity case, so only uses the brotherhood to sleep, and that’s it. She scrounges for change to buy the meals they’d provide if she had need, and she hardly touches anything else unless its absolutely necessary. She’s a stubborn little shit, that’s the bottom line.

Thus, this perpetually thin, constantly on the move, sticking to the shadows hiding kinfolk is wandering the ‘Green on her own once more. She rounds the corner just in time to hear the tail end of that conversation, enough to recognize the voice, the stance, the man in the expensive jeans watch the tail lights flicker, then drive away.

She watches to see which way he’s going, judges it to be the bus stop, and shakes her head. Not that you could see it under the hoodie that’s pulled low – as always – to cover her face in shadow. She shoves her hand into the ‘roo pocket of her hoodie, and beat to hell hiking boots make little noise as she heads his way. She gets close enough to fall into step with him before she even says word – then when she does, it’s with an unseen smirk.

“Don’t tell me. Killed ya car again?”

Prowling was reserved for streetrats, and as it turned out his favorite one happened to be out tonight. Then again, how many Gnawers did William know? He could count them on one hand. However, this was not the point. The point was that he was fortunate that Maija was out tonight, because otherwise he’d have to sit in the silence and wait for a bus that may or may not come.

He didn’t notice that she was out and about. At least, not at first. Not until she spoke.

He stopped and turned around, slipping his hands into his pockets and letting a slight grin cross his face. Don’t tell her that he killed his car again? Again, of course, being the operative word. He shook his head and responded.

“No, ma’am, my car keys happen to be in the back pocket of a very intoxicated litigator and I genuinely hope that he does not loose aforementioned pants before he gets home as that my land lord has refused to give me another housekey.”

Aparently, he’s lost quite a few of them.

Smart enough to realize this is a common occurrence, the losing of his housekeys. She glances up at him, the light of the street lamp catching in her dark eyes – eyes that he saw unhindered by the hoodie for a few precious minutes just last night. She doesn’t duck away as fast now, as once the mask has been lifted, here’s no turning back, right?

There’s a flicker of amusement across her face, a ripple of emotion that’s quickly gone, as is her way. “So, this is a common occurrence, then, the losin’ of ya keys or the muckin up ya car?”

She lifts a hand to scratch along the underside of her jaw a moment, then shoves it back into her pocket. (Her hand, not her jaw. that’d be awkward.)

She was curious as to whether or not this was a common occurrence, his mucking up the car or losing the keys or… well, general malady. William D’Aubigne seemed to be a malady magnet. He kept his hands in his pockets, but then? He took them out and shrugged slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “The house keys, anyway.”

A pause.

“And come to think of it, the car too. I’ve never been too kind to the Prius. Made a mess in it earlier in the month, had the upholstery torn out in some places. You just happened to see my car when it was unnaturally clean,” he said.

“Guess I’m lucky then.” To have seen it unnaturally clean. Not that one would think dirt ever bothers her. For the most part, she’s clean, but there’s only so much you can do laundry wise, when you don’t have much of anything to change into while you wash what you wear. The hoodie has seen many better days, and the jeans are a bit threadbare in all the right (wrong) places. It is what it is.

“So. How you figure on getting home?”

Their dinner last night, and the moment of honest, or openness, hasn’t made her into a chatty cathy, that’s for sure. It’s still a little awkward, little stilted, as if feeling for solid footing on a shifting sand. That she asks questions and conversates at all is a bit unusual, to tell the truth. Must be something about him…

Oh, it reminded him of college. Rapture.

Oh, she was lucky. Something about that statement made a grin cross his face. It stayed briefly before flittering away. Conversation was awkward, yes; it was going to be awkward regardless of whatever moment of honest, open communication they had shared earlier in the week. They both weren’t the type to disclose willy-nilly, but they had made a start. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

“Ask Mrs. Jameson ever-so-nicely to give me another chance, and… oh, I don’t know, make up some excuse about getting mugged. It worked last time,” he stated with a shrug. Then again, last time he’d had a concussion, too, so the line worked a little better. That, however, was another story for another day.

“Been keeping warm?”

She considers what he says about how he’ll get into his house this time. Begging Mrs. Jameson ever-so-nicely doesn’t sound like it’ll be a good idea at this late hour of the night. “Or, you could ask someone to pick the lock.” Logical, right?

Has she been keeping warm? That was a laugh – a brief sound that was gone almost as fast as it arrived – as with all her expressions. She’s well used to keeping everything close to her chest, keeping all her emotions firmly in check. It’s not a pretty life she’s had to lead, not at all. She just shakes her head, and glances down at herself. “Why you think I walk all the time? Keep warm. Ain’t got no padding to store any kinda heat in, in case ya ain’t noticed.”

It’s a safe bet that even if he touches her hand right now? Her fingers will again be chilled, despite being tucked into the pocket of her hoodie like they are.

A beat passed.

“Hey, Maija,” he said. “Do you know how to pick locks?”

And then? A continuation of conversation. He slipped his hands back into his pockets. He had maybe half a foot on her in height and at least forty pounds; William wasn’t a big guy by any means, but Maija? Maija was thin to the point of underfed. It made sense. He listened, then seemed to listen to-

No, wait, there was no seeming. He was listening to whatever it was that she was saying. Seemed to make it a priority. he focused, he listened, and he’d respond as necessary. If he touched her hand right now, her fingers would be icy. And, for a moment, pale green eyes flickered downward for a moment and then back to her.

A consideration, and left aside for now.

A beat.

“Ok, so not for a long time, but I kin give it a go, if ya want. If nothin’ else, if ya got a window unlocked/opened, I’m small enough to wriggle inside. Ya know, if ya wanted me too.”

Awkward, again, as she realizes she just invited herself to his house, more or less.

Did he..?

Aww, shit.

“Window by the fire escape is unlocked. Assuming someone else hasn’t gotten to it, that should be a good bet,” he said. There was a quiet triumph in his voice. William let a slight grin cross his face.

“You know,” the young(ish) man started, “I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve broken into my own apartment, but I’d be lying.”

But it’s not been the first time he’s had to break into his own apartment. She glances up at him, and than shakes her head. “Somehow, I ain’t think it was. They say…” Uh oh, the infamous they.. “Those what got th’ fangish sensibilities got them some sorta flaw. I’m beginnin’ t’think I done found yours.”

At least it’s not like he has a second head, or some mental disability – at least not that she’s discovered. Of course, its not like she is without flaws either. But they’re not talking about her – for now.

He made the statement as though this was just another fact of life that he had gotten used to. He was tall. He had green eyes. And he looses his housekeys. These are things that he could not avoid, and were simply the facts of life.

Besides, they weren’t really trying to get into the apartment, they were trying to avoid incurring the wrath of his landlady. Such was the pain of renting. Besides, if losing his keys was the only thing that was wrong with him, it really was a wonder that he was still single.

“You’ve figured me out, fortunate you’re my second in command Miss Maija.”

“I think,” she continues, after a moment. “That as ya second in command, all key holdin duties for our World Domination Tour should fall t’me. It’d be a shame if we’re in Canada, an’ ya suddenly can’t get to ya Mountie uniform cuz ya ain’t got keys, don’tcha think?”

because he’d look dashing as a mounty, ya see.

She organized her thoughts, and he? Well, for his part, William’s thoughts seemed to come rapidfire. They were organized and put together in seconds and then imparted with a degree of eloquence that was hard to put a finger on. Mister D’Aubigne was an attorney by trade, and seemed to have quire the way with his words.

But then? Then there were those times that he was silent. There were times that he took a moment to organize his thoughts and ask questions. It seemingly came out of nowhere, actually, but it had been something he had thought about for… well. Awhile. “How old are you?”

Again, question asked without the implication that he expected her to answer.

She has one of her own, first. “Does it matter?”

Curious, really, and not exactly a dodge. There’s a few different ways she can answer the question. She certainly looks at least 16, possibly older. If she’s still running, it’s a safe bet it’s not because she’s of legal age – but then again, it would depend on what ‘legal’ activities one is talking about. Can she vote? smoke? fuck? drink? And which of the above does he really want to know?

She watches the ground, the way her toe scuffs at the cement, the way her hands are gripping something in he pocket of her hoodie, the way the light glints off that puddle of water over there. Finally, she clears her throat. “Depends on which ID I use.” a touch of humor, before admitting. “17. Old ’nuff.”

Old enough for what….

It was a safe bet that he wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t somehow important. William waited as the bus pulled up, finally. Hands stayed in his pockets, and for his part, he didn’t seem to ready to get into the bus yet. The driver looked somewhat impatient. Then again, what did it really matter?

If she was seventeen, it put her at running around fifteen and a half. Meant that she hadn’t finished high school, and came with so many other implications. But, at that moment, they were implications that William didn’t push too hard for.

A pause, and then?

he laughed a little, more to himself than anything. “It’s fortunate that I’m a decade older than you. When I’m feeble you should be spry enough to run the world.”

The bus is here, and he doesn’t board immediately, waiting for her answer, and then to give one of his own. It’s a bit of laughter, a comment of their world domination plans, yet she doesn’t read too much into it. She learned long ago not to put too much stock on anyone sticking around – there’s always something that sends them off. For him it might be her age. It might be that she’s uneducated. It might be that she’s still running. It might be that she don’t know if she’ll ever get the chance to stop running. It could be anything.

Or nothing.

“Age is jus’ a number. Ain’t matter one way or the other when it comes down t’what ya survived, and what ya can face again, ya know?” A thin shoulder lifts in a bit of a shrug, as she watches the ground at her feet, before pointin’ out. “He ain’t gonna wait much longer. Ya gettin in or what?”

Seems it’s a decision time… which way is she goin?

The driver seemed to think the same thing, looking at the man rather impatiently, like she had somewhere to be or like she was trying to figure out whether or not standing around outside was in-vogue or something to that effect. He looked at the bus again, and then back at Maija.

“C’mon, let’s go,” he said.

And she has yet to scare him off.

She glances up at him as lips flicker into something like a smirk. “Yeah, ok. Wouldn’t want ya to break nuthin crawlin through th’window. Bein all old an’ feeble an’ shit.” She moves past him and up the steps into the bus, hesitating at the driver as she starts to dig for coins to pay. She comes up with half the fair, and offers it to Will with a bit of a shrug – it’s all she has.

Oh, sweet, new quarter. He was surprised by that one. He handed her what he had left in the way of change. He had change. Figured he would, at least. There was a slight nod of thanks. Between the two of them, there would be two people on that damned bus.

“Feeble I can handle, but old? Really now?” he had to grin, then got on the rest of the way. The bus driver roller her eyes and got to driving.

She looks up at him as she lifts her hand to slide a stray lock of hair back under her hood, giving him that small glimpse of her features, strong and thin, with lips curved into the slightest of smirks. “Your the one what brought up age. Tell ya what – ya forget mine, an I won’t give ya hell bout yours….”

Pause. And even a little grin before she pulls her hoodie back into place. “…too often.”

he forgot about hers, and she wouldn’t give him hell about his…

too often.

“Oh, what? What was that? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, I’m old,” he said. “It’s a deal. You drive a hard bargain.”

She tsks, and watches out the window, her thin frame comfortably slouched next to his. Here, he can see the rips in the knees of her jeans, the edges freshly frayed. Here, in the dingy light of the bus, he can see just how ragged her clothing is, how those jeans won’t last much longer. She doesn’t seem to notice. He always notices everything.

He might even notice she’s watchin, keeping track of where they’re goin. So she can get back, presumably. Or so she can find him again – which it is remains to be seen.

Maija watched out the window; they rode a good too blocks in silence before she heard him rustle a little next to her. Right hand going to brush her left slightly, a weight on her backpack that remained for a moment- contact was brief. She might not have noticed; he noticed everything.

Maija already knew a bit about him now. Where he lived, what he did for a living, that he kept the window by the fire escape open. All in all, she knew some important information about him. And she knew, by experience, that his hands were warm. Warmer than hers, at least.

He rustles, and his hand brushes against hers. It’s a touch that is warm, if brief, and tells her many things – the most important being that he’s still there. He ain’t run scared yet. And secondly, that his hands were warm, where hers are almost always cold, and they’re cold now.

The touch is brief, but it gets her to look up at him again. This close, the shadows of the hoodie aren’t so deep, it’s easy to see the features he remembers from the night before. Part of her wonders what it would be like to not need to hide – if maybe, once their inside, she can pull the hood back and relax enough to let him see all the minute little micro expressions that flit across her face so easily. Would he learn more then – would he learn too much?

This close, he can see the little curve at the corner of her lips, the small smirk that’s almost a smile, for all it’s briefness. Perhaps he can even see the question in her eyes, born of so many questions that have come before tonight. It was a group of people she stayed with for a while that gave her her name – all because of the aged, world weary look in her eyes. A sea of bitterness he called it – and then translated a name to fit it. Scandanavian or something. Maybe he sees a bit, maybe not.

But that’s neither here nor there. And her hand is no longer here, neither, but there. It’s a rustle across her pack as she lets her fingers fall to rest next to his again. All she says though, is the obvious. “Yer warm.” And she’s not. It could be all there is to it, as she turns her head to watch out the window once more.

But there were so many questions that could arise from touch. You noticed things. William noticed things- he always noticed, it seemed. This would be the third time Maija and William have interacted and he already had proven to be observant. That he had looked for things that others didn’t particularly care about at first. [He’d asked to see her eyes before he had asked how old she was. He had asked if she wanted to press charges; that had to be worth something]

But when would he pass that line between knowing enough and knowing too much. With his hand brushing hers, was he really kept at arm’s length?

And maybe he did see her for her name. Maija- something Scandanavian. A sea of bitterness. And maybe he missed it, took a turn for the desert when she smiled. One could rant in poetic images when thinking of Maija. If one could get lost at sea and drown, or run and choose to die of thirst. She smiled, and in turn his lips turned up slightly at that. A look that became too natural for him.

Their fingers rested close; she said the obvious. He nodded. he was warm. His skin was warm, comparatively. They had statements to be made about the temperature of one’s hands and their temperament. What did it say about him?

“Have your hands always been so cold?” he asked. Then, his hand slipped into hers. Something about this gesture seemed almost subconscious. Her hands were cold, and on some level he liked it. Found it interesting that her fingers were thin, just as her features were sharp.

He notices things, and she notices that he notices. It’s an oddity to her, after seeking to be hidden for so very long, after skipping states and running roads and sleeping in shadows. To have someone see her, want to see her, it sets the world a little off kilter, the stage a little offset. It’s awkward, as often is their conversation.

But this is surprisingly not awkward. He slides his hand into hers, offering the warmth of digits to thin fingers that are always pale, always chilled. It’s natural the way her hand rests in his, the way her fingers curl, and smooth against the heat of his skin. The question pulls her eyes from the window, back to his, and down to their hands. “Guess so, ‘cept in the heat of the summer. Even in Florida it’d be 90 before my hands would warm. Ain’t bother me much. Bother’s others, sometimes.”

Her lips curl into that little smirk, the flicker of amusement chasing across her features. He can probably guess what type of times that’d be a bit of a bother…

She guesses that her hands have always been cold. Even in Florida. The younger woman brings up a time where it might have been something of a bother to others around her, which allowed for his oh-so well-educated brain to skip merrily to places that were dirty and considerably more funt han his ivory tower. Brows raised and his expression shifted slightly to something between conspiratory and playful.

“Really now, I can’t think of a single time that would be an unfortunate circumstance,” even the grin was playful. His hand didn’t leave hers though; Mister D’Aubigne leaned back and fell into quiet comfort.

She lifts her free hand to push back an escaped strand of hair, sliding it behind her ear before tugging her hood back into place. The hand in his doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away, simple rests in the warmth of his grasp.

The contact is primal, common, and almost new, as long as it’s been since she’s allowed anyone in, anyone even this close – and there are still giant gulfs of unknown depths between them. She still marks their progress, learning he streets, the stops, as the bus engines rumble under their feet.

The silence is comfortable, with only a touch of the awkward as he thinks devilishly playful thoughts. Her thoughts don’t play across her face so easily, even when not hidden away. Where his grin is easy, and fits him, her’s is more a lost glimpse of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day.

He may think she has no comeback. “…if ya ain’t like cold feet against ya in the middle of th’night, imagine cold fingers takin cara ya mornin’ wood.”

He’d be wrong.

a pause. As though the younger woman had thoroughly broken his well-bred little brain.

“It might actually be a bit of both.”

Actually laughs. It’s brief, but it’s clearly more than a snort of amusement, if less than a burst of the giggles. It’s a laugh, none he less, and for him to hear it, it’s a first. She had broken his poor well-bred little brain. He caused her to actually laugh, and for that, the round should be declared a tie.

It also tells him a little more about her – for all her youth, she is not a novice. Many fear breaking her, for her size, her age, her past. They forget that the past is what molded her, gave her the core strength she possesses, even as it affected her in so many other ways. Somewhere deep inside, there exists a tiny bit of playfulness, still, shocking as that may be.

She clears her throat, and silence falls between them again, before she attempts to break his poor brain just a little bit more…

“Well. As th’ dictator in charge, guessin it’d be up to you to decide which it’d be. As ya second in command, I kin only provide examples.” Said with perfect blandness, as if she were suggesting she provide him an example of say, Starbucks vs. Folgers.

Because this was their stop, even if he didn’t want to let go of her hand at that moment, he had to because this was where they had to get off and she had to adjust her backpack. Because they needed to move, and he wanted to make sure that they got to the fire escape relatively unscathed.

She wasn’t the innocent type. She wasn’t the breakable type either, in so many senses of the word. Realistically, if we thought about these things, William probably spent a decent chunk of his younger years married.

Hell, he did spend a good chunk of his younger years married. Before that? During that? After that? Well, it wasn’t something one quite discussed too often.

“We’re about a block away,” he said.

He stands, and when his hand slips from hers, she follows. It takes a bare second for her to shoulder her pack again, and follow him to the front of the bus, down the steps, and to the start of their brief walk.

She doesn’t take his hand again, though she doesn’t automatically shove her own into the depths of her ‘roo pocket either. They’re about a block away, he says, and she nods – just a short, sharp movement. A block is nothing to her, the girl who walks miles in a day to just keep moving. She glances up to the street sign, marks it and the direction in her memory, before falling easily into step next to him.

They’ve walked together before. At least this time it doesn’t involve pushing his car.

The two of them got a good distance before a question did arise, and the man with the pale green eyes looked over at his slightly smaller, distinctly lighter companion. He didn’t weigh the pros and cons, but he didn’t do anything or say anything that would imply that this was not a question he had taken into some consideration. There were implications to be made about aforementioned question, and we all know about Fangs and their propriety.

“Do you want to stay, or do you have other plans?” Did she want to stay. At his place, that is. For the night. Though, admittedly, the young(ish) man didn’t seem to think too much on the question. Or think much of the question.

But, that said, he put the ball in her court.

But then there’s the other part of that question – does she want to stay. The balls in her court, and his hands aren’t in his pockets either. She walks quietly after the question, as if she has to give it thought. Fact is, she’d already decided when she stepped up into the bus with him, what she would say if he asked.

“Dunno. Ya got a shower, a washer n dryer an’ a shirt I kin borrow?” She glances up at him after she asks, just a brief glance, as her hand brushes across his in the natural swing that matches her walk.

Their hands brushed, yes, and it was quiet cue for him. she didn’t mind his presence; he didn’t mind hers. Though, admittedly, contact that seemed to speak of familiarity was the kind that didn’t seem to make sense from an outside perspective. Then again, from an outside perspective, they shouldn’t have been talking in the first place.

“You understand why I’m so adament about keeping my land lady happy. She might Steal my dryer. She-who-eats-my-paycheck is a very influential woman.”

Maybe that whole ‘opposites’ theory holds some merit.

There’s a nod as he speaks of She-who-eats-his-paycheck, and the risk she poses to her dryer, followed but a brief sound of amusement. “Yet ya left ya window open, where anyone could just run off with it. Clearly, I’m gonnna haveta be in charge of security too, when we take over the world.”

(What are you doing to night, Brain? Same thing we do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world!)

Well, maybe William would have to reconsider. She didn’t run away screaming at the mention of an ex-wife. Circumstance dictated so many things.

There was a nod to his land lady, the devourer of income, and a nod at his quiet attempts to thwart her oppression. Or, conversely, his thoughtless actions that would no doubt piss her off royally. “You’re holding the keys, you’re ensuring security, your chief morning-wood-temperature-control engineer, is there anything that you won’t be doing, Maija?”

They rounded a corner, and it was off to an alleyway. He seemed fairly familiar with it. It wasn’t Lake View, but it certainly wasn’t the ghetto by any means.

“Dishes.”

Fair enough, one should think. Oh and.. “Cleaning the bathroom.” A nod follows that one, as if that’s a good enough start for now. A girl has to have her limits, after all.

She studies the alleyway they turn down, looking at the area that is familiar to him. It’s not filthy like some dark alley’s she’s holed up in, but not pristine by any stretch of the word. Fair to middlin’, as Aunt Sassy down in Florida would say. Not that she’s Maija’s aunt, but that’s what everyone called her. She had a saying for everything, including the ‘in between’ state of things.

She glances up at him, and then to the buildings they are between, looking for the open window, as if she could tell which one was his by a glance. She can’t of course, thus simply follows his lead.

“Oh, and speeches. You’ll haveta handle that. I ain’t talk in front of folks.” She hardly talks at all, so his can’t come as a surprise addition. “Diplomacy ain’t my strong suit.”

And cleaning the bathroom. Ohhh, harsh. He winced a little, and tried his damnedest not to look wounded. A glorious and false thing, really. Truth be told, when he’d been married Loraine didn’t clean the bathroom either. Or the dishes. Then again, neither of them cleaned the bathroom or did the dishes; they lived primarily on take out and had a maid.

What a miserable existence, to be stuck cleaning up after privileged twenty-somethings.

“Sounds fair enough. Madame, if nothing more, I was born to be a front man,” he said. Diplomacy wasn’t her strongsuits but… well, William was nothing if not a diplomat. A skill that was both treasured and wasted. he made his way to the fire escape, and started to head on up. Or, well, he got it ready for climbing. “Fifth one up.”

Fifth one up he says, and she looks up, and up, and locates the right one. Fifth Floor. Good thing she ain’t outa shape, hm? She nods, and as he pulls down the ladder so that they can start their climb, she reaches out to grasp the side of the ladder.

Amusement chases across her features as she looks up at him. “You starin at my ass, or am I starin at yours…” who goes first, of course…

And, with that, he started on up. But then, he stopped and turned around a little. William was, oddly enough, fairly comfortable on the firescape. Familiarity of movement suggested that he had, in fact, done this before.

“Or, do you have any preference?”

He turns and asks if she has a preference, and she just waves him on. He doesn’t need to see the ass of her jeans is nearly worn through. At least, not yet. Not that she’s shamed of it, but well, if they split, she’d rather not have them give up the ghost while her ass is in his face.

She’s polite like that.
(or something)

She hitches her pack up higher on her shoulders, and waits till he’s up over her head, before she starts to follow him, the metal doing it’s clanging best to alert he money-grubbing dryer-stealing landlady as they move. Fortunately, it seems sturdy enough. She’s been on some that are in far worse condition.

It’s only when they reach his landing that she comments further. “Not bad. Nothing to be ashamed of, certainly.” because, of course, she checked.

Which only opened about halfway before it got stuck.

He looked only vaguely amused with it. He then turned to Maija and got on with the conversation.

“Well, I suppose of all the things I should be ashamed of, I can cross my ass off the list,” he gave a curt nod at that, letting a grin cross his face before he tried the window again.

Note to self- tell maintenance to fix this.

He crosses his ass off the ‘shame’ list, and turns to tug on the window again, as she turns and looks around, studying the buildings, the landing, the other landings here and there. It’s not a bad building, and doesn’t seem to put on any airs. Comfortable, without being cheap.

She looks back at the window, and the progress (or lack there of…) and shakes her head. “S’it open enough for me t’fit? I can unlock the door for ya if it ain’t gonna budge no more…”

That’s why she’s hear, after all, right?
(….sure. We’ll call it that. Breaking and Entering.)

Which, of course, was part of Maija’s original selling point. She was small. She was small by comparison and could squeeze through; they had discussed this before. They had a plan, and if nothing more William and Maija had determined their plan long before they were five stories up, staring at a crack of a window trying to get in.

“There’s a coffee table fourteen steps in, so you might want to turn on a light once you’re in,” he said.

He couldn’t remember his keys, but he knew how many paces away his living room furniture was.

So she doesn’t hesitate, she lets him have it, before she crouches to lay her palms on the windowsill. There is a moment of hesitation though as she looks up at him now. “14 paces to the coffee table – where’s the light?” Because if she’s going to turn it on, that’d be a good thing to know, hm?

While he tells her this, she does her best shimmy move, and begins to wriggle through the window. She’s sorta like a cat – if her head fits, the rest of her fits too.

She didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t press.

Fourteen paces to the coffee table, where was the light?
“From there, take two steps forward, on the far left side there’s an end table and a lamp,” bet he could even tell her what wattage the lightbulb was.

She wriggled her way in, and so he had to ask. “Want your backpack back now or later?”

She tugs it down and then looks back at the window, and him standing there. The fact that he asked does a lot to ease the hesitation, to ease the worry. “I kin get it at the door. Better hurry though, less I get bored and start nosin around..” It’s said with that little touch of amusement to her voice, as she counts her way forward. She once met this chick who couldn’t figure out what a ‘pace’ was. Was the dumbest thing she’d ever seen – how hard is it to know a pace is a step? And she’s walked alongside him long enough now to measure her own closer to his.

…and just barely touch the table with her leg, instead of slamming into it. Two more steps forward, and to the left, she finds the table and the light and flicks it on. She doesn’t look around right away, instead she surveys the damage done to the ass of her jeans, and judges them to be mendworthy – but barely. Only then does she look around the apartment as she moves toward the door to unlock it, and let him in.

She wore blue underwear though, and for some reason some part of him took some sort of quiet glee in knowing this. She didn’t seem the type to wear pink or florals or anything of the sort- they were blue, and obviously she wasn’t wearing a thong or else he would be given a false impression and he wouldn’t have-

William D’Aubigne, quit thinking about Maija’s ass and get down the fire escape.

Right. Fire escape. That’s why they were here, to let him into the apartment. “I should hurry, then, lest you find something embarassing,” he said.

Maija had matched his steps, so she knew about how far away he was judging when he spoke in paces. William, true to form, knew his apartment. He knew it inside and out. When she turned the light, the place was lit up with a dim fifty watt lightbulb. The apartment was something comfortable, and relatively nice. The furniture was comfortable- half of it antique and the other half being stuff that he acquired from Ikea. One could make assumptions as necessary about this.

More importantly, William D’Aubigne had books. Books upon books and even more books. About anything and everything and some simply because he could have them. Some French, some Latin, and some older than old. There were few photos around. THey could be explored later.

Upon this discovery she actually stands quite still, for a long moment, just looking at all of them. She belatedly remembers to turn the lock on the door, before she moves toward the shelves to run her fingers across the bindings. The furniture, the antiques, the dingy bulb – none of it holds anything near the facination that the books do.

Everyone has a weakness. This is hers. He’s thinking about her ass, and she’s fingering his… books. Everything, anything, there’s so many here, there’s bound to be something she’d find interesting (anything! everything!). She doesn’t even think to snoop, and likely wouldn’t have anyway. This was a find in and of itself and she pays the pictures no mind either.

Her fingers itch to pull some out, the classics, the older than old versions, books about places, people, and if she’s lucky, perhaps even an art history book somewhere in the pile. This is where he finds her when he enters the apartment, lost in the world of books, fingers trailing over the bindings, the words, the titles, the order or lack thereof – something she’s been denied – or denied herself due to circumstances beyond her control – for far too long.

She likely doesn’t even hear the door.
Or notice that she’d pulled her hood down so she could better see the treasures before her…

There was some sort of order there. Mostly, they were arranged by subject; as much as his heart pined to have his things arranged by the Dewey decimal system, he just didn’t have the time (or self loathing) necessary to learn the entire system and reorganize everything accordingly. Because, god, if he did he might start trying to read all of them again. This, however, was not the point.

When he came in, she was looking over the books trying to see if she had truly hit the jackpot with this man. True to form, the man had art history books. True to form, he had more history books in general than one could shake a stick at. Ancient to modern. Wars and times of peace and any Renniassance that the heart desired.

He came in and she was fixated. The young(ish) man took a moment to close the door, moving through his home with a degree of ease, turning on a second lamp and causing the room to brighten considerably.

Or rather, not so much him – just in general. It’s clearly something ingrained, a learned behavior. “Sorry. I didn’t.. I mean…”

She stumbles to a stop, and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear, before reaching automatically to grasp her hood and pull it back up – stopping short and letting her hand fall to her side. He’s already seen, this is Will, the Man Who Would Rule The World, with her as his second in command. She makes a slight gesture, as if waving away the awkwardness, that’s a little more then it has been before. Of course, now they’re alone together in his apartment surrounded by…

…books. All the books… “ya done read all these?”

Had he read them?
“Most of them,” he said. “I never managed to wrap my head around Russian, so there are some I haven’t gotten around to…. it’s been ten years since I’ve touched some of these.”

And yet, if he was asked, William could probably tell her what every one of them was about. What the third word in the secenth paragraph on the fifteenth page. He could probably recite bit after bit of information if someone would have asked, because even if he managed to lose his housekeys every couple of days the man had a memory that was impeccable. It wasn’t that he lost things, it was that his things managed to find themselves in situations where they were no longer in his possession.

In a way, one could consider his library to be the equivalent of notches in an intellectual bedpost. Except, he seemed to treat them too carefully to think of them as conquests.

She doesn’t ask to borrow any, or to even remove them from the apartment. She does, however, look like a kid in a candy store at the prospect of just getting to browse. It’s obvious she’d treat them as well as he has, too. She glances around to locate her pack, to see where he’d set it, before her attention is drawn to the books again.

“Ain’t had a chance to jus.. read.. in a long damn time.” A pause, and then a glimpse of why she had reacted that way. “My uncle – he had himself a lotta books, was always readin, but he ain’t let us touch ’em never. I’d sneak in, soon as he was sleepin, and read everythin’ I could get my hands on. He caught me, once.” She stops cold there. And it’s what she doesn’t say that tells him exactly what happened, it’s the look that flitters across her face before it faces away into her carefully crafted normalcy. It’s in the way her hand goes unconsciously to her side, wrapping around her ribs, before she catches herself and pulls her hand back down.

She clears her throat. “I mean – won’t smudge em, I’ll take a shower first, but can I look at some?”

He had found her weakness, and it seemed to be one that they shared.

She explained what had gone on, saying more without words than she had with them. It was a little background, really, and at the very least it gave William a frame of reference. A little determination for whoever “he” had been when she was referring to Seattle and why she left. BUt, Maija cleared her throat, and William had something else to respond to.

She wouldn’t smudge them, she’d even shower first. With that, william gave his response.
“They’re books, they were meant to be read. Not hoarded,” as though this was his permission. “I’ve put some of those through Hell and back, I have sincere doubts that you would damage them just by reading.”

Actually smiles, and it’s as if the sun broke through the shadows that reside in her eyes all other times. It changes her whole face, her whole look – it makes her almost… pretty. Though she’d deny it if it were even suggested. Dark eyes capture the excitement of something so simple, something others take for granted as she turns to the shelves again, and lets her fingers slide across the bindings of those nearest her.

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, chewing absently as she tries to decide where she’d even begin. Of all the things he could do for her, this is probably the best thing she could imagine – just to have this chance.

“OOoohhh…” it’s barely breathed as she looks down at herself, and the state of her rather dingy sweatshirt. She peels out of it quickly (funny how things suddenly change), and sets it aside (it makes an odd clankin when the ‘roo pocket hits the floor), leaving her in a thermal shirt that doesn’t look much better, but is at least a little bet better condition then the hoodie.

She deems this good enough, and she finally reaches for a book – unsurprisingly its one of the art history books, the heavy volume cradled in both hands and pressed to her chest. She doesn’t tear her eyes from the rest of them just yet either – not even noticing that without the hoodie, he really does have a nice view of her ass thanks to the rip – and exactly how thin she really is.

Being a man with money, he may never quite understand how much this little gesture means to a streetrat like her, but that lingering excitement, the softening of her normal expression just might give him a small clue. She blinks, and looks back over at him, and ducks her head a little. “Thanks…” for trusting her with something of his, even if it’s just books.

He had no clue how much this meant to her, but given her expression, the lack of tension, the almost wondrous glee that came from that.

Maija peeled out of her hoodie, and it was one of those moments where he could look at her in quiet praise. When she smiled, something genuine, one could venture to say that she was downright beautiful. And, judging by what he’s seen of her thus far, she may deny this adamently and move onward.

He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly content to let her be off in her own world for the time being.

Thanks, she said. For trusting her with something of his, she left unspoken. The young(ish) man nodded some, a quiet and sincere sort of expression flickered through his gaze. And it was a quiet joy, a sort of understated pleasure taken in having… well, having someone around who gave two shits about what she was reading. For having someone around who didn’t take these sorts of things for granted, for being.

“No problem,” he replied.

“As much as I ain’t wantin to wait and want to dive in.. I really could use that shower first. And the shirt, so’s I can maybe get some of the grime off this stuff. And also, maybe cover my ass which is hangin out the back of my jeans.”

She smirks a little, and arches a brow slightly. She’s sure he noticed. As much as she tends to hide, though, it doesn’t seem that she’s actually embarrassed by it at all. For a girl who buries herself in clothing 3 sizes too large, it’s almost shocking to see her now, and the comfort she has in her own skin, here in the relative safety of his home.

It was an absurd thought, really, because he ahd a bed that was a decent enough size to accomodate two people. He only used half of it, still didn’t dare cross into the other side.

That thought aside, he continued onward. She talked about her ass, and she was sure he noticed.For his part? Well, the green eyed man suddenly found the ceiling incredibly interesting and chose to look at that instead. No cracks, still. That was a good sign. She was so damned comfortable with herself- there was nothing awkward there about her movements or state of dress. Maija wasn’t hiding at that moment, and for his part he noticed.

Even if his eyes were on the ceiling.

Shirt! Right! Off to the bedroom. “Oh! Right, shirt… I apologise, you… Right,” and with that it was off to his room to find something. “Need some boxers too? Shirt should cover most of everything but I’m not sure if you want to wander around the apartment in various states of mostly naked.”

She leans against the door to his room, shoulder finding purchase on the frame, her arms crossing loosely around her waist as she watches him. She not hiding – not now, and he’s noticed. She’s noticed that he noticed too, and it doesn’t make her dive for her hoodie and slink outside once more. At least, not so far.

He’s not sure if she wants to wander around in various stage of undress, and she can’t resist. “Would it bother you if I did?”

And bother could mean so many things…

And judging by the slight grin on his face, the almost playful tone, she could take that statement to mean so many, many things.

“Then I’ll definitely skip the boxers. And?”

And… and… and?

“If you ask nice, I’ll even let you wash my back.”

He shook his head some and then headed off to his room. The door stayed open; if she followed, then she followed. The room was of a decent size. The bed was comfortable. Again, reds and browns and what-have-you. It was immaculate, yes, but he had definitely been in there a couple times. Namely because there had yet to be a thin layer of dust to coat things there. He didn’t have any houseplants.

But he did have a cat. A tabby that seemed to glare balefully at its current flatmate. William seemed ot just move around the cat. They seemed to have a working relationship only. The cat, for its part, ignored Will and Will, for his part, pretended that the cat wasn’t there.

He eventually found a tee shirt. Something from the Columbia film festival. Little known, less cared about short films. A little thin in some places. “I suppose I can get over the fact that you won’t be wearing pants.”

She straightens, and steps closer to wrap her hand around the fabric of the teeshirt, close to where he holds it, close enough that their fingers brush again, the chill of her skin against the warmth of his.

“Thanks,” she says, and glances up at him, a little smirk playing across her lips before it fades away again. “If it helps, I kin promise t’ put pants back on after I don wash and fix’em…”

She promised that she would put her pants back on, and William just shook his head some. But there was that grin again, something playful and something that was too long neglected. Maija was something completely different, and more importantly she seemed more real than anyone he’d met in some time.

At any rate, she promised to put pants on. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I might venture to say that you sans pants might not be a complete travesty.”

She has no intention of putting her jeans back on until she’s good and ready.

She takes the shirt, and tosses it over her shoulder as she turns and heads toward he door. “I won’t take long….” so if he wants to wash her back, he’d best decide. She looks for a door that’ll likely lead to the bathroom, and upon finding it slips inside – pushing the door, and ignoring when it doesn’t close all the way.

It doesn’t take long either, for her to unlace and kick off her boots, strip from her layered shirts (Under the thermal is another t-shirt and a tanktop worn next to her skin. No bra.) and peel from her jeans. She examines the rip more closely, discerning how difficult a mend will be, before she tosses it on the pile of her other things. She doesn’t look in the mirror as she undresses, as some might. She doesn’t need to see her reflection to realize how thin she is, how her rips can be counted easily, how when she bends over, the knobs in her spin can stick out along her back. She doesn’t need to look to see that every inch of fat has been stripped from her, but for the swell of breast, which somehow has managed to keep a feminine curve – small, but fabulous, as an old friend used to say. Thin waist – his hands may actually span the entirety of her waist or at least be close should he try – flare into her hips, with pelvic bone traceable under her skin. There is no spare inch of anything anywhere on her.

What there is, is the bruises fading across her cheekbone, under her eye, and others across her back, and ribs. There’s one that looks as if it were particularly nasty spread across her high. Seems there was more damange then previously thought in whatever fight she’d had. All are in the latter stages of healing, though, and it’s safe to say what pain lingers is easily ignored.

Those blue panties and her socks are the last to join the pile of clothing, as she turns on the water – as hot as she can stand it – and steps under the spray with a sigh of relief.

She headed torwards the door, and said that she wouldn’t take long. So, if Iwlliam was going to seize an opportunity, he had to get to it pretty damned quick.

The bathroom, like pretty much all of the rest of the house, was clean. What did this man do for a living? Aparently, when he wasn’t busy being an attorney he was cleaning because the bathroom, mostly blues and whites and bachelor chic, was relatively clean and put together. ANd he had headed back to get something to drink when he caught a glance.

It didn’t take a genius to realize that she was thin. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever fight she had been in had been particularly nasty, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that, had things gone worse, she could have ended up in the hospital. William glazed over the thought of hospitals pretty damned quickly, chosing instead to head back to his room.

The young(ish) man went through his drawers to find something to get some sleep in. Eyes went back to the door, towards the bathroom and for his part, the man paused. He hesitated, and then. “God, William, you are a dumbass, you know that?”

He shook his head and got dressed.

For her part, she makes use of his soap, shampoo and conditioner, and all the hotwater that she needs to get herself clean at last. Where most girls would take hours, she takes minutes – she’s obvioiusly not ‘most girls’. It’s perhaps 5 minutes later that she steps out of the shower – having had to wash her own back – and wraps uses a towel to dry off her in frame first, before she wraps up her hair in the same towel. Not used to excess of anything, so she only uses one towel, where others would use two. She uses a dab of shampoo/conditioner, where others might use a palm-full, so on, so forth. For her, a life of privilege is something only dreamed about, and never realized. So ingrained in her, it’s likely that even if she did come into some sort of money, she’d still live the same way, for a very long time.

She slips his t-shirt over her head, and it falls to mid thigh. Seeing that, she doesn’t other putting on anything else, simply gathers all her clothing, and her boots in one hand, before she heads out to find her pack, and him.

“Where’s the washer?” She calls, partially to discover where he was hiding, and also so she knows where to deposit her clothing. She dumps it on the floor by her pack, before reaching inside to dig through and find her spare panties – these ones are green, and the last clean item she has in her pack. She slips them on, and into place on her hips so that he’s not completely mortified by her state of undress, the poor well-bred man.

No bruises.
No cuts.
Nothing to suggest that he was damaged in any way, shape, or form.

A life of privilege was something that she had only dreamed of, and probably would have appreciated much more than those who simply lived with it. And when she came out, William looked at her, her hair, her face and wondered about simple details. She asked where the washer was and was putting on underwear while doing so.

“YOu have really nice legs, Maija,” he said. Stated. And then moved on. Quiet compliments, and almost conversational. Because, well, he tried to mitigate the fact that he had, in fact, checked her out briefly and approved whole heartedly.

Where was the washer, anyway? “It’s by the kitchen. Little room, sharing space with the pantry.”

He approves, and she digs out the other shirt, tank top, and pair of socks that she owns, and adds them to the pile. Yes, that means it consists of one pair of tattered jeans, a thermal, two t-shirts, two tank tops, two pairs of panties and 2 pair of socks that make up her entire wardrobe. There’s another pair of jeans in there, but they’re shreded. She’ll use them to patch up the ones she wears once heir clean.

She leaves the pile for a moment, so that he can retrieve her hoodie as well, brushing past him close enough for the scent of fresh clean girl to assault his senses. Nothing but soap and shampoo and [i]her[i/].

She passes by the second time, her hoodie in hand, so that she can add it to the pile, emptying the ‘roo pocket before doing so. The clanking heard when she dropped it earlier turns out to be some sort of pocket knife (tripple action cold steel, to be exact – which joins a matching one she’d already taken out of her jeans pocket), 2 nickles and a penny. She tucks them into her bag, before gathering the entire pile of clothing, pitifully small, and she looks over at her shoulder at him.

“Want to show me how it works?” The washer, presumably, as they’re all a little different, and better safe then sorry.

Just enough to make him force that composure. Not held by a thread, but rather, his composure was gripped tightly for fear that it would slip. Because, at his core, whether he was primal or just another sheep who smelled too much like wolves, he was a man who was prone to temptation.

It was what made that composure so damned important, really, but it wasn’t something we were going to talk about.

Temptation, that is.

“Sure,” and with that they headed off to start some laundry. And no amount of baseball or cold showers could deter that thought that was nagging in the back of his mind.

The laundry room was, in fact, small. It was big enough to hold two people and the washer and some of the food, but for the most part they had to maneuver around each other. William seemed adept at getting his laundry together, and hers was no different. The man regarded her laundry briefly, before nodding and setting cycles accordingly. He did his own laundry. Little triumphs for men like William.

And damned if standing there, in close proximity, with her right there, all fresh and clean and her that he didn’t let out a slight sigh. That muscles didn’t tense, that his heart beat to the point of being able to taste it.

And after a moment, composure remained. Because, at his core, he was prone to temptation. But by practice, he was a man of control. Because William D’Aubigne would not be one who would be governed by his impulses; he would not prove them right.

But, we weren’t talking about legacies and temptation, were we? We were talking about laundry.

He sets the washer correctly, and she helps tuck her clothing into the machine that likely hasn’t seen such ground in filth in all it’s days. They work around each other, in the tiny little laundry room, and he remains composed – but not easily.

But mostly, they’re thinking about (……) laundry. At least that’s what they keep telling themselves.

Once they get the laundry started, she looks up at him again, and.. pauses. Just pauses and studies his face, the way he smiles, the way he fights against something inside, shown only in the tiniest ways. Thing fingers lift, and rest lightly over his heart, chilled even after the shower, even with the fabric of the t-shirt separating her from his skin.

She looks as if she’ll say something in that moment, and maybe he has some hope as to what it will be, maybe he knows what should come next, maybe there’s some tell tale sign in her that shows him she’s enjoys the effect she has on him, despite his desire to withstand temptation.

“Thanks…” is what she says. and maybe that’s all she means. Or maybe there’s something under it, as his heart is under her hand, beating so that he can taste it, so that she can feel it. She doesn’t pull away, not for an eternity that lasts at least two seconds, before her hand slides down his chest, across his abs, then away to her side again.

Well, now. Do we really want to know what he was thinking about? Why he was thinking about it, or why… why it mattered that he didn’t just lean forward and kiss her. Why they didn’t end up locked in some sort of teasing state while the washer dared to fill and go about its business. And despite his desire to remain composed, Maija enjoyed the effect that she had on him.

Her hand was on his chest, and it was at that moment that she could tell precisely how well-practiced he was at remaining in control. His heart was beating like he’d taken a brisk walk, breathing was forced and controlled. She could feel his lungs tighten, and her hand travelled downward. She didn’t pull away, and she thanked him for…

Well, William chose not to remember what she was thanking him for.

He let his fingertips graze her cheek, palm resting against the side of her face that wasn’t bruised, and he leaned downward. TO say that it was impulsive was a lie. To say that he was placating his desire, giving in was also a lie. He weighed his options, and acted accordingly, and he acted with control.

She thanked him, so he kissed her. Not so gentle as to be too soft, not too rough as to imply a lack of reserve. Maybe that was the crack in the control. Maybe she could tell a lot from that, from the meeting of lips and his heartbeat and the fact that she wasn’t bent over the washing machine by now. It was in the hesitation and the motions that said it all.

He’d thought about it. About discarding clothing in the tiny room and just going at it with this young, intoxicating woman that he had, almost literally, just met.

But eventually, after a moment, he pulled back, close enough that they could breathe, and curiosity satisfied now that he knew, vaguely what she smelled like. What she tasted like. Knew her textures and proportions.

(…there’s always a yet, just as there may always be another chance to bend her over hat washer, to throw caution to the wind, to thoroughly explore this girl he’s just met…)

She thanked him, and he kisses her. Dark eyes search his as he bends to her, and remain open, as his lips find hers if only for half a beat. They fall closed in concert with her hand that lifts gain, sliding under his shirt to spread chilled skin across the small of his back, warming themselves in the heat of a man who’s never known what it’s really like out there. What it’s like to sleep in an alley, to wake so stiff with cold that it takes minutes to decide to move, with bones that ache with the force it takes to do so. He’s never known a night without an available bed – his own, or another’s, he’s never known what it’s like to wake with the old crazy hobo breathing in your face so hard that his spittle falls into your mouth when you scream at him for encroaching on your space… all these things he’s never known…

…but what he knows is this. Her lips are soft, and willing. Her thin frame reacts to the carefully thought about kiss with a slight lean to bring her closer, and her breath is fresh with the stolen minty toothpaste she’d used during his shower. He knows that she does not pull away, not in the slightest, that her touch welcomes his, despite the fact they’d just met.

He pulls back enough that they can breathe, with his curiosity momentarily satisfied. The tip of her tongue gathers his taste from her lips to further savor the moment, teeth pressing into her lower lip a fraction of a second before she smiles. A slow, slight, lingering smile, that doesn’t fall away too quickly to her normal smirk.

“I have a feeling you’re going to be bad for business…” is what she says – and if he can name that movie, she’ll be amused, and vaguely impressed. They don’t show new movies to kids who can’t afford them after all, and the dollar section at blockbuster is filled with older 80 and 90s classics.. if only he hada porche instead of a prius…

Dark, dark eyes met pale green ones- more peridot than poison, really- and then his closed and they kissed for hald a beat. Her hnads found the small of his back, proof that, despite the warmth of the room, that she was almost always cold and that he was almost perpetually warm. She might have expected to feel smooth expanses, and for the most part he was unscathed, safe for whatever scars her fingertips found. Not surgical, but trauma-based. Not stitched, but not healed naturally either.

If she had lived the life he had, she would know it wasn’t natural at all. That whatever she felt had probably been much, much worse once upon a time. But that was all one could tell from the subtle touch. From distance, from something that was, more than likely, not her primary focus.

She quoted to him, and for his part he let a slight smile cross his face. Not full bodied, but something that was content. His curiosity was satisfied, which opened the door to a whole world of other questions. “I didn’t peg you as a Julia Roberts fan,” he said.

They didn’t unwind just yet, and despite all that composure he didn’t want to break away.

His smile is content, and her’s lingers still, without falling into habit. Composed, the both of them, and not ready to break the close contact. “…even a girl like me hopes for happy endings, sometimes.”

It’s said offhand, but there is a truth underneath it, that she is just stubborn enough to believe someday things might get better. She may not get (or want) a white knight so to speak, but a life without scratching fingers to the bone for a penny or two would be nice – even if it seems entirely impossible.

That wasn’t quite important. He took a moment, after a long while in silence before he broke away. She thought that, someday, things would get better. Hoped that they would, at the very least. Maybe not to the point of privilege, but certainly to the point of normalcy. Where there was a roof over her head at least half the time.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Or what he could get, for that matter.

There was silence for awhile longer, and then he started to pull back, let his hand travel from her cheek downward, past her collar bone and from her shoulders to his side. He started to pull away. “I’d better get to bed,” he said.

But, he didn’t leave the room just yet. He hadn’t been ready to break contact, but he had anyway. William D’Aubigne, you dumbass.

But she’s also a realist, one who knows what it takes to survive another night, another hour, another moment. He hadn’t been ready, but he did so anyway. He breaks contact, and suggests that he’d better get to bed. She, in return, lets her hand fall from his skin in slow, lingering slide, before it falls completely to her side and she turns just enough to lean against the washer so that he can pass her by and do what he’d better get to doing.

The smile that had lingered, slides away, into the comfort of composed non-expression, as her gaze drops away as well, finding something interesting on the floor to watch instead. It’s like watching the walls go back up, piece by piece, brick by brick. Her hands lift to rest against the top of the washer beside her hips, and she lets him go, the rumble of the filling washer vibrating against her back, under her fingertips, as she puts her thoughts back in order, carefully finding the strength of composure she’s always possessed.

She doesn’t stop him. She doesn’t reach out, she doesn’ say anything at all. He hadn’t been ready, but he had broken the contact anyway.

And with that, he took her hand and started to lead Maija out of the laundry room. That is, of course, if she would let him.

“Yeah, ok.” Her brilliant response, as she lets him lead her from the laundry room. Her fingers close around his, her thumb a soft slight caress against his own.

She has no expectations of where he will lead – the ball is firmly back in his court.

But it was one that he chose to ignore. The ball was in his court, again.

And he was not sure where it would lead him, but it did seem to lead them back to the bedroom. One could have said many things. That this was now something premeditated, that holding her hand, warm to her cold, and heading off to his room. He had not been ready to break contact, and this was not an impulse. Not anymore.

She let the ball remain in his court, and for his part, he could not keep from wanting to stop. To turn, to look upon her with something close between desire and reverence. Somewhere between want and need, for contact, for comfort, for someone who was real. To say that he lived a life of privilege did not mean that William did not lead a life that was dull. That he led a life that extinguished passion and dictated that he should play nicely, that warmth indicated more than the obvious.

They were close, his arm slipped around her waist and instead of lasting a moment, a half a beat, when their lips met it was something full. Nothing timid, but still his usual composed. There was something held back there, as one could guess there may always be, but it did not stop him from wanting to know her in a more carnal sense at that moment.

For her, the worry is that he think she is taking advantage, that he feel used. She is not the type to do so, ever, and will continue to fight to make sure that is known, even while standing here, so near to him, dressed primarily in his shirt. This is not payment, payback, pay anything. This is exactly what it is: desire for contact, comfort, real.

He stops, and slides his arm around her waist, as she lifts her face to his, and this time – though he initiates the kiss, she is more than simply willing. This time, she meets the press of lips to hers without timidness, without holding back. While there is something held back in him, some wall that she may never see behind, this is the time she chooses to let him see her.

He wants to know her in a more carnal sense, and she responds with a willingness to let him learn whatever he wishes. Here, she allows him to strip far more than her clothing away. Here, he will find what others rarely see, as long as he dares to keep looking, to stay here, to connect with her.

Here, he’ll find Maija.
In all her simple complexity.

For all their nobility, William D’Aubigne had met many that were simply children with Rage.

But it wasn’t that he felt entitled, but rather that he simply wanted contact. He wanted to be with someone who was there, who was as she was, who did not have expectations and chains and strings attached to every move that she made. And that was Maija, who, for all her hiding in so many senses of the word, chose to hold nothing back from him. Not there.

She was willing to let him learn her body, to worship where curves should have been, to see her for flaws and vulnerabilities and strengths and so much more. And with that, the headed closer to the bedroom, guided slightly to the bed and he broke the kiss, the contact ever so briefly to breathe out words of reverie. “God, you’re beautiful,” he told her.

And then started to pull the shirt off over her head. Again, all in reverie. It was interesting how the statement was not placating, was not as though he was all but drooling over her. It was almost tinged with awe. Maija was a woman who was complete. Whose parts made a whole. And she was beautiful.

He breaks the kiss to breathe his proclamation, and she smiles, the smirk gone for now, replaced by something honest, and real in the way it reaches her eyes, sets off sparks somewhere in the deep, dark depths. She leans up to press her lips to his again, as he tugs at the shirt he’d just gotten for her, to pull it up over her head. Hands lift, letting the fabric be pulled away, only to fall to ensure his t-shirt follows hers. Cool hands slide up over his ribs, forcing the fabric upwards in a soft slide, while lips find the skin above his heart.

She rests there a moment, feeling the beat that pounds in time with her own, until a trail flows upwards to find his lips again once the fabric is gone, tossed out of the way. She has no words, not that she ever uses many to begin with. Her thoughts, ever visible in her eyes, are laid bare now with the slide of fingertips over skin, in the exploration of the lean lines of his torso, the strength of his chest. She doesn’t need to voice her approval of what she finds, it is there in the soft exhalation of delight across his lips.

He finds her a woman complete, he finds her beautiful, and right now, she believes him. More than that, she finds him her equal.

He worships where curves would be on another woman, cherishing what she has instead while she encourages with lips and tongue and touch. When he shies away, when he hesitates, she takes the lead until he is over the momentary hesitation. Here he finds her stripped down, raw, and open to his exploration. Here he can know her like few ever do – there are no walls, there is nothing but the build of his heat deep within her.

~.~.~

Sometime later, much later, he will discover something else, as they lay tangled in a twist of limbs and sheets, while they attempt to regain breath, and to have their hearts resume normal beating patterns, while her fingers slide in lazy, effortless caress up and down his spine, and he – perhaps – worries about crushing her, and she figures she does not care if he does. It is than he discovers the oddest little thing…

her hands are finally warm.