đ” đ đž đ« đ·đ¶ đ» (jukejoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-06-21 02:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae, superman |
Who: Sam and Daniel
What: Part I: Chess - Really, seriously, chess. It isn't even a euphemism.
Where: Mandalay Bay
When: Immediately after leaving Simon's party
Warnings/Rating: Language
Sam wasnât used to chin-to-shoulder brushy guys, and she wasnât used to guys that basically cowed security guards while wearing unbelievably rumpled suits. She was used to wallet chains and ink and bad attitudes, and she wondered when her life had completely turned itself around without her realizing it. She could blame it all on the stupid French idiot in her head, but that would be lying, and she knew it. But itâs not like she was going to say it outloud or something. Sheâd spent too many years becoming who she was, and fuck if she knew how to be someone else now, at least without it embarrassing her right into the fucking grave. The fact that this guy, this Daniel, didnât know her, well that didnât matter. She knew herself, and that was enough to make the skirt and shrug feel too yellow, her hair feel too girly in the clip - all that shit that would make her family look at her like she was possessed if she showed up at home.
She walked ahead of him down the stairs, her Docs clomping loudly as she went, and she ducked into the first open door down the long hall of rented rooms. The inside was sweet, but too much time living at Neilâs made it seem unimpressive. It was, possibly, a contradiction. Her clothes, her attitude, the split ends that lived at the ends of her hair, they all marked her as someone who should walk into the opulent hotel room and gawk. But, yeah, no. She walked in like it was nothing, and she made a beeline for the soundâs built in sound system, used to the same kind of thing at the Aria, despite the fact that it was obscenely expensive. Finding the Opera station on XM took no thought, and she turned it up loudly enough that it almost eclipsed the sound of the party upstairs. Ok, so there was a sign of her complete lack of breeding, but she just flopped into the plush chair that was angled toward the window, and she tipped her back and listened.
Daniel was all confidence, and it showed in his total lack of haste as they moved down the hall. His shoes were made for the thin hotel carpet, dark soles barely worn except for floors just such as these, yet he made plenty of sound, the shuffle of material, the scuffle of heels, the flap of his coat as he turned through the door. He was truthfully surprised again to see that she was in earnest about the opera. Interests that aligned with that particular musical taste was rare, and if she had not been so blatant in everything she did, he would have suspected it of being some kind of set-up.
Confident that he was of little value, as he had nothing on his person except for the casino card and enough cash for a cab, Daniel walked into the hotel room behind the blonde and allowed the door to slam behind him. He took a little more trouble looking at the place than she, not because he was impressed, but simply because he liked knowing his environment, feeling more secure in space most like his own. It was okay, much better than the open roof and its flickering lights.
Daniel went straight for the bar, which in a room like this had a tray of top shelf bottles for him to choose from. He picked up a black label, glanced at it, and neatly cracked it open to pour himself a glass. By the time he did a circuit of the room to approach girl and sound system, his glass was down to an inch. He brushed at the volume knob to take it down a few notches--still plenty loud. Daniel circled her, draped an elbow above her head along the edge of the chair, and dangled the second glass he had brought in front of her eyes. "Doesn't sound good when your ears are still recovering from the last note."
She heard him at the bar, even over the sound of the soprano, but he wasnât close, and she didnât care if he got completely fucking bombed. Sheâd already decided he wasnât the kind of cut-throat she needed to worry about in a fight. It wasnât like Zee, who reminded her of every last bitch back home with a knife; lashing out at him had been instinctive. Daniel was like Neil, if Neil took to drinking and gambling and not giving a shit. Ergo, harmless. She groaned at the thought, because Neilâs harmlessness was the last thing she wanted to think about right now.
Il Puritani became Norma, Casta diva, and Sam was singing along by the time he turned down the sound system. It took her a second longer to realize the volume had been kicked down, and she let her voice fade. She was barely trained, and her pronunciation left a lot to be desired, but Christineâs influence was definitely there, in technique and pitch. And whatever, so she looked embarrassed as she reached up for the glass he was dangling from over her shoulder. She took a long drink, definitely a classless chug, and she just watched him for a few seconds instead of replying.
âI never listened to this stuff before,â she admitted finally, kicking off the Doc Martens and slipping off the yellow shrug, knowing the snug white, sleeveless thing beneath had thick enough straps not to show any scars. She folded her legs beside her, and she took another chug from the crystal, the scars at her throat dim pink nothings, barely noticeable in the tangle of her unruly hair.
It took Daniel a split-second to realize that she was singing, and the fact that the notes had not stood out to him, bald and distracting, meant that she had enough skill to blend in to the higher pitch. Daniel had almost no voice himself, but he did have a halfway decent ear. His attention changed, and something about him movement as he came around the edge of his chair to concentrate on her face became smooth and precise. He met that look over her embarrassment, blue eyes keen and without amusement.
He backed off a second later, a physical movement that was absolute intention, and brought back the boneless slide of relaxation down his spine. The glass emptied into the back of his throat. He noticed less about her skin and more about her behavior. âNever?â he asked her, with a hint of disbelieving to see what she did with the challenge. A circuit of the couch, and he went back to the bar, this time to retrieve the bottle and bring it back with him. He interpreted her decision of a chair as a certain wish for distance, and expected he would have to coax her out of it. Sliding the glass forward onto a table inlaid with marble, Daniel looked down at the broad chess set in squat stone pieces in the center of it. Pouring, he said, âCome play.â
She watched him prowl around the room. Prowl, because there was no better way to describe the boneless slide of his relaxation and the way he moved to the bar and back, the bottle an extension of his arm. She watched blatantly, because one night in the hotel couldnât complete change her nature. Sure, it made her more cautious, which really pissed her off. She didnât have a cautious bone in her body, not normally. Well, that wasnât true either. The woman sheâd been before Vegas would have already taken what she wanted, but she couldnât bring herself to do it. And, yeah, the distance was unconsciously intentional, but the realization that she had somehow turned into a scared little girl made her determined to change shit, whether it freaked her the fuck out or not.
But chess? Yeah, not such a good idea. Still, she pushed herself off the chair defiantly and crossed to the marble table. She took the bottle before saying anything, leaving her glass in favor of a swig that said she could probably give him a run for his money in the âholding her liquorâ department of life. âRight. And who the fuck do you think taught me to play chess, baby?â she asked, comfort coming from the swirling warmth of the booze in her belly. She reached for the rook, and she took it in fingers that were calloused from construction work and the burns of the torch. At this distance, it was obvious that her wrists and her inner arms told the same story of fire and sparks, marks that only welders bore, along with that eternal hint of metal that surrounded her.
By now, heâd figured out that anything she did that would make his mother faint at the dinner table was a defensive gesture, something she did to try to shock him and make herself more comfortable. It would have been kinder to pretend distaste, but Daniel was not inherently kind in that way, and he just grinned. He picked up his glass, turned it in blunt fingers, rotating it on his palm, tracing the edge with his thumb. He sat forward to the edge of the couch, his weight on his knees and one heel back to press against the front of the cushions. âYou want to learn? Or we can skip right to bed.â His smile became something different, not daring, just wise. He was pretty sure he was going to have to ease her into that, whether she knew it or not. âCome sit down, you can learn from this side.â He beckoned with a tip of his glass toward himself that should have ended with it all over his shirt, but somehow did not.
She was still contemplating whether or not she wanted to learn how to play when he mentioned going right to bed, and the quirk of blond brow she gave him was reminiscent of the woman who would have taken that offer and made him put his money where mouth was. Sam wasnât exactly the demurring flower type, and even a bright yellow skirt and a fair dose of distrust couldnât make that kind of change happen. She watched his hand for a moment, the elegant twirl of the glass against his palm, the thumb that fondled the edge in a way that was both obscene and chaste. âYou really think you could handle me in the sack?â she finally asked, sarcasm wrapping around something inherently sensual in the words. âI think you misjudged me somewhere along the line,â she added, but she moved to his side of the table when he beckoned with that glass, picking up the bottle along the way and adding more forgetful heat to her belly. As she dropped down next to him - intentionally inelegant - she dragged a calloused finger over the edge of his thumb on the glass. It made her think of curved metal and straight, crisp lines and, like always, she wished for her fucking torch and a sheet of pristine silver to work with. A second later, and the bottle was set down, the rook back on the board, and enough distance on the couch to keep anything of hers from touching anything of his. âAre you going to make it hot?â she asked of the chess lesson.
His first instinct was to grab at her. It was usually that way, because Daniel was not in the mood these days to play games with women he had no interest in actually knowing. There was enough alcohol burn in him that his hand left the glass to chase after hers, but as she sat with her careful little moat of cold air between them, he brought it back. He made a thoughtful little sound in his chest, and then he brought both of his hands back around the glass. âIf you get bored, then you let me know,â he said, lazily, but seriously. Danielâs role was not to entertain, and he did what pleased him; this is what he reminded himself in the deep drink and the tip of his chin toward the board set into the marble.
âChess is a battle. You are fighting on a field, and your pieces have value and abilities, like men. Chess is about planning.â He smiled at her, knowing she wouldnât care for that. He put out his hand--soft hands, true, blunt tips meant for a pen and nothing rougher--and drew his middle finger along the heads of the pawns, pale as ivory. âPawns, footmen. They move twice at first--just the charge, you know--and only one forward after that. No cowards, they donât move backward, and attack at a diagonal.â He demonstrated with one, nudging it forward with a flip of his wrist.
Now he turned his head back to her, blue eyes bright, and chuckled. âChange your mind about the bedroom yet?â
The thoughtful sound made her look up at his face, her heavy-lidded eyes a little wide, a little curious and an impossibly deep blue as she tried to figure him out. Yeah, no clue, but his little quip about getting bored hit its mark, dead center bullseye. It was a challenge now, and she was shit at turning away from a challenge, especially one that she perceived as being about her lesser education and monetary status. She didnât care where she came from, or that she hadnât finished high school, but she didnât like other people pointing it out either. âIf I get bored, I will,â she promised, more than a hint of steel in the response, despite the fact that it was glinting off something warmer, something whiskey and Blue.
Chess is a battle was not exactly a thrilling start, not as far as Sam was concerned, but she was paying attention. She sat forward, knees together beneath canary yellow fabric. Planning, too, wasnât exactly thrilling, but that smile said heâd already figured that out. âSmug bastard,â she muttered, looking back at the board. She watched him move the pawn, and she looked back at him when he chuckled. âYou havenât convinced me about that either,â she said, some of her own coming back with the statement, and she looked back at the chess set. âSo the pawns are like runners, low level initiates. Got it,â she said, and whether or not she used the gang terminology to annoy him or not, that was questionable. âThey get sent out to kick ass, and if they run then someone knifes them in the back.â
The smile she turned on him then was angelic smugness. âYou change your mind yet?â
First Danielâs brows sketched upward over the rim of his glass, and then he had to cough as he breathed the wrong way with laughter. He gasped it back, laughed again (light, trivial), and then blinked water from his eyes. âRunners? Like drugs? Really?â He still thought it was funny, but his look was not dismissive, nor the shake of his head as he looked back at the board. âNot my thing, youâre going to have to go with the medieval battle metaphor, cherie.â He wasnât even looking at her as he said it, and there was something lacking in the way he pronounced it, a foreign language and yet not sensual.
Back at the board, he drew his finger along the back line. âYour valuable pieces. Rich, noble men for the most part; Iâm sure youâre used to that being the case.â The smile flickered faster than a silver fish in a stream, and then it was gone. He put down the glass so he could use both index fingers to name the pieces from outside in. âThe rook, a man of the castle. Guards the outer edge. Not very flexible, moves in straight lines, as long as heâs not blocked.â He took the piece and slid it along horizontal and vertical lines in the center of the board, stopping it before it collided with a pawn.
Ducking his chin down he raised his brows at her. âWhich would make it... what?â Curious to know how her metaphor applied.
The look she gave him was all make something of it, as much a defensive mechanism as the discarded Doc Martens. She didnât actually answer his question, because she figured it was one of those rhetorical things, where you didnât actually need to answer. Smart people liked that kind of thing, Sam knew. âMedieval battle metaphor isnât my thing,â she replied, intentionally mocking, but there wasnât any ire in the smartass reply. âCher,â she added, sounding perfectly French when she said it. For that moment, there was no New Jersey in her voice, no attitude in the response. If she wasnât sitting there, looking like she did, she could almost be French, just to listen to her.
But that was gone a second later, and she was taking another swig from the bottle as he explained noblemen, which earned him a shove to the shoulder with her own, a bridge of movement across the moat that separated them. âYouâre trying to get me pissed,â she said knowingly, a tip of lip, a quirk of brow. âBecause you think I have a thing against rich bitches. I donât. Not how you think I do, as long as they donât look down their noses at me.â And that was true, even if it was a new change in attitude. Elias, Louis, Neil, Iris, Tristan. They were all fucking loaded, and none of them made her feel like she was any less than them.
âSay your pawn is Fringe, right? Runner, still being initiated, so he gets the straightforward jobs and no one cares if he gets pecked, and heâs so toast if he runs. If your next line of defense is that rook, then heâs Marginal - Tagging, theft, but mostly keeping an eye on shit. They donât trust Marginals with anything too serious, and Marginals donât step out of line.â She looked at the board, and she picked up the knight. âThat means this baby is your Associate. Usually a thief, but sometimes a dealer, depending on the gang. Regardless, heâs proven his moves, and he offers more protection. If youâre a gang ho, this is who you go for at the beginning.â She placed the knight on her calloused palm, and she held it out for him. âHow does he move?â she asked, heavy-lidded eyes nearly crackling with intelligence behind the booze and sedative.
By this time of night Daniel was usually so drunk that he didnât have to work through higher thought. Sometimes he had company, but it was becoming rarer and rarer, anything outside of his apartment ended up being bigger than he preferred as soon as he stepped into the space and noise. A couple glasses of whiskey and a neon drink all sugar was nothing, and he was awake and aware enough to pick up on things he would have otherwise liked to ignore. The French pronunciation was not the least of it.
Daniel put out a hand and covered hers, neither fast nor slow, closing over the piece and the spread of her fingers. He slowly pulled at her, drawing her a little closer, not a lot, but enough to make it clear that moat wasnât as wide as she wanted it to be. He let her go after the tug, setting her free to resume the space if she chose and even returning his attention to the board almost immediately, the white horseâs head in his hand. âThe knight is the only piece that cannot be blocked from its path. It moves in patterns; two and one, or one and two. Like a capital L.â He demonstrated, and the knightâs potential moves spreading out in a star pattern on the board. âNice moves for a thief to have. Did you learn French, or does your alter speak it?â Abandoning the piece, Daniel took up the bottle and tipped it up to refill his glass.
She watched his hand, and she considered shoving it off, just to be difficult about it. But she let him do it for a bunch of different reasons, and all those reasons filtered through her mind like decks in a card, flipping by too quickly for her to really focus on, but recognizable all the same. She refused to tense when he drew her closer, and she grinned, scoffed a little at the fact that he probably thought she was some reluctant virgin or something like that. Once he let go, she looked at the narrowed space between them on the couch, and then she looked back up at his face. âYou realize Iâve had sex before, right?â she asked, entertainment on her features and her expression more trouble than anyone in the demure yellow skirt should have. But she turned her attention back to his chess piece a second later, taking the knight from him at the end of that star demonstration, calloused fingertips and chipped black lacquered nails against the back of his hand as she took the knight for her own and tested the movement on the board. âShe does,â she answered easily, and maybe she should have kept that to herself, the bit about the Alter, but whatever. âHardcore,â she said motioning to the bishop, without any additional information about anything at all.
Daniel sat back with his new drink loose in his hand. The crystal made unexpected patterns on his face, cut edges of white light from the soft yellow of the overhead globe. Verdi started swaying from the speakers, only short strides away from the trumpet of the voice that followed a few measures later. âYouâve had it, but you havenât had it lately. No good sex, anyway.â His expression had no laughter in it as he said it, and he let her change the subject almost immediately. His eyes slid to the side as he spread his thighs and shifted on the couch cushions, taking in the Bishop. âPriests; bishops, theyâre called, in the game. The Church always did have a long arm; he goes as far as he likes on a diagonal, backward or forward like the rook, until he is stopped.â
âDefinitely Hardcore,â she said of the bishop. âOlder gang members. Theyâre in it for life, and everyone knows it. A few more steps up, and theyâll be completely inhuman bitches, and nothing stops them from wanting to get there once they make it that far,â she said, touching the tip of her finger to the bishopâs tip. âNot nice people. You donât want to get on their bad side,â she explained, belatedly looking at the spread of his thighs on the couch cushion, letting her gaze linger there enough to make a point that she wasnât a fucking novice, thank you very much. âIâve been married for six years. Iâm about as far from a virgin as youâre going to find in Vegas, baby,â she told him, looking up at his face for confirmation that the whole marriage thing? Totally not a deterrent, not for him. He wasnât the most moral fruit in the basket, not if she was reading him right. âHow about yours? American?â His Alter, of course, because how the fuck else would he know?
Daniel thought that was about as significant as a speck on the hallway carpet. âVery American. Itâs sickening.â He waved it away, shifted to face her, and left the chessboard as it was. Daniel didnât have a great deal of interest in gang politics; it was interesting, a departure from his norm, which was mostly current media and old literature, but certainly not why he was here. Propping his elbow on the back of the couch between them, he leaned in a little, taking up some of her space, looking into her eyes for something. âI didnât say you were a virgin. Iâm not asking you for anything. Weâre having a fucking conversation. Relax.â There was no threat in the profanity, it was about as flippant as the rest of him. âWhat are you here for if youâre married?â
His disapproval of how American his Alter was interested her, but it showed as only a hint of something on her oddly un-American features. As for the chess lessons, she glanced away from the board without too much protest on her lips. Sam liked doing, and playing a chess game didnât count as doing, not in her book. It was one of the reasons why her interest in Opera was so odd, because it was entirely fucking passive, and she wasnât passive, not by a longshot. âThis is relaxed,â she promised him, and there was truth wrapped in the words, as if this was just a temporary lull before the return of the regularly scheduled program that was fighting and scrapping. She rolled her eyes at his question, and then she looked at the arm he propped on the back of the couch before returning her inky gaze to his blue one. âCome on. Seriously?â she asked, because this fucker knew precisely why married women werenât where their husbands were - fuck, he was probably the cause of it half the time.
âSeriously. Thereâs more than one reason you could have. Or youâre just bored?â He could see that. He could tell she liked being in the action, and the skittish was new. She felt it in herself and didnât like it. Right there, Daniel decided he wasnât going to try too hard with this one. In the grand scheme of things, heâd been going to quite a bit of effort, but he suspected that even if he got her to really relax, she wouldnât be any more pleasant than she was right now. He was just as interested in her talking as her body. Well, almost.
Daniel glanced back at the board, leaned forward to replace the knight and the bishop to their places, and then sat back again with another tip of his cup against his mouth. âWhite takes first move.â
âDo you want a sad story? Isnât that the preferred tactic with cheating wives?â she asked, watching him right the board and moving the white, centermost pawn forward in a long stretch of pale arm and more of that sting of metal on the air. She would have approved of his thoughts, had she known about them. She wanted that, wanted for other people to believe she was a pinecone through and through, all bristle and nothing soft, not even at the core. It meant success, and she hadnât been very successful at that lately, not here where people insisted on not fighting back whenever she was rude. âHe was mean to me. He beat me. I never orgasmed.â She smirked as she sat back. âOr do you prefer the confident version? The I want you and not him, and it doesnât fucking matter that Iâm married?â She did that one really well, voice going sultry and her expression matching. âOr the truth? My parents picked him, and he was twice my age, and I got tired of fucking up at domesticity and yawning through missionary sex every night. He wasnât an asshole, and he wasnât a bad guy. But I was sixteen when we got hitched, and I wanted freedom.â She paused, and she draped her arm over the back of the couch in an intentional reversal, an intentional show of bravado and a fuck you to the skittishness. âYour move.â
As soon as she mirrored his move with such intention behind it, Daniel took his arm and his knee off the couch and flattened both feet on the carpet in front of the table. He didnât even pretend to take a lot of notice of the board. He matched the opening move of the queen-pawn with his own black pawn so they were face to face on the center of the board. âIf I pulled that shit with you, youâd storm out the door,â Daniel said, allowing his annoyance to show. âWhat makes you think Iâm interested in playing a game Iâve already played? If youâre just going to give me what you think I want to hear, donât waste your fucking time. Or mine.â Again he tipped up the glass.
Annoyance. Alright, that was something, and Samâs eyes brightened with interest. âWhat did it?â she asked. âWhat pissed you off? My arm? My answers? My non-answers?â she asked, and she might be skittish, but she wasnât afraid of that annoyance. No, if anything it cut through the uncertainty, the way feelings always did with her. âMy marriage? I climb I-beams for a living because I like feeling alive. My marriage? Made me feel fucking dead.â She moved her king-pawn forward without too much thought. âYour turn. And I donât mean the chessboard. I mean whatever keeps your eyes dulled, like you donât give a shit about anything.â
Daniel moved his knight to F6, his eyes moving over the board and giving him some information that made him relax just slightly. If the blonde had played out the Queenâs Gambit without effort, he would have left right there; too many circumstances. She was giving off scents of danger now, something about the way she contrasted the skittish vulnerability with the lies that came too easily to her. Daniel didnât like women that were too good at lying to him, even if they admitted it second later. âMaybe because I canât trust anybody that I talk to,â he challenged, wishing suddenly he had a few ice cubes for the drink in his hand, which had lost the warm appeal.
Sam didnât know anything about Queenâs Gambits, and she moved her knight out from B1 to C3, just to get it out and into play. She stared at the board for a second, as if that would make it clearer whether or not the move was a good one, but whatever, and she forgot about her intentional countermove with her arm as she slid off the couch and onto the soft carpet without thinking and reached for the bottle. She took a swig, and she crossed her legs like girls in school did, and she tipped her head back at him. âYeah? Why?â she asked about his trust issues. âPeople say shit you can believe, even with theyâre just running their mouths or talking crap. You just have to listen,â she added perceptively. Yeah, so maybe she was better at trust than she had been, at least when it came to some things, but growing up in a family of thieves didnât do a lot for having faith in people.
Daniel picked up his queenâs pawn from where it had been sitting on D5 and captured Samâs white pawn from the forward diagonal, replacing her piece for his on E4. It was a one-handed move, one pawn for the other, not nearly as clumsy as it could have been given he had a drink in the other hand. Daniel sighed. Few people had an honest conversation with him off the journals, and he was getting spoiled. âI donât like that you lied to me three times in the expectation I was going to like the lies better,â he said, with an air of explaining something to a small child. He stayed on the couch, his knees still spread but his spine hunched over, and most of his shin set gently against the back of her shoulder. It didnât seem to bother him that his side of the board was across the table.
She scoffed at him. âBullshit,â she said easily. âClean your ears out. I asked what you would prefer, and I gave examples of bullshit lies people gave, and then I told you the fucking truth in contrast. My parents fucking picked him. Listen better, baby, before you go getting your panties in a bunch over things,â she suggested, all while frowning at the chessboard and knowing that whatever had just happened there was fail. She worried her lip, and she wished had some cheat code for this or something. Hidden objects and puzzle games were one thing, and she had a feeling she could get this with some practice, but she was seeing inevitable loss on the horizon. Sam didnât like losing. She moved her queen-side bishop - C1 to G5, and she sat back and looked up at him. âAnd stop talking to me like Iâm a kid, unless you want me to return the favor, baby.â
Daniel was unruffled by her assault on his logic. âThatâs what I mean. You think I prefer an answer? Just give me one.â She used profanity so much that he detected a loss of strength in it, so he subtracted it from his reply. He was taking down the irritation even after her direct insult. That wasnât the kind of thing that made Daniel angry. What people did, what they meant, those were more important to him, and he tried to make something of people with what he could understand of their actions. It passed the time.
After a pause of concentration--Daniel was no grandmaster--he moved his queen out to protect his knight, leaving it to occupy D6.
âSo Iâm not supposed to comment on how much people lie, just because you donât like me commenting on how much people lie? Yeah, no, not happening.â She moved her knight from C3 to his pawn, taking it with a smile that was slow, warm, an upturn of lips in pleasure. It was nothing like a childâs smile, not like a young womanâs. No, that was the smile of someone who - normally - went after the shit she wanted and savored every last sting that life sent her way. âYou might be more defensive than I am, baby, and thatâs saying something,â she commented, self-awareness in the statement that came with a casual arm rested on his thigh before she even realized she was doing it, and an awkward correct that had her reaching for the bottle and taking a swig that would make a sailor cough.
Daniel watched the move and sipped as he did so, trying to think on the last time he played chess. He couldnât come up with anything. Must have been years. He looked at her in time to see her pleasure at the capture, and it made him smile despite himself. There were small things that managed to sink through Danielâs thick skin, things he didnât even notice passing. âUsually I just stay home,â he admitted, the smile and the temporary relaxation of her against his leg bolstering his good mood. He leaned over her shoulder and took her knight with his--F6 to E4.
She moved F2 to F3, even as she scowled at the removal of her knight on the board, but her annoyance didnât last more than a second. When Sam was pissed, she was pissed, but that didnât actually happen often. She said her piece/peace, called him out on his shit, and that was that. No grudge, nothing that carried over. She looked back at him, ready to give him shit for taking her horse, but the smile made her stop short of whatever sheâd been about to say. âYou should do that more often,â she said of the smile, and she took another long swallow of the whiskey that was finally starting to go to her head. âTruth? If Iâm not doing something that intentionally scares me within an inch of my life, I like staying home too. Artâs there, and I can put Der Hölle Rache on repeat as many times as I fucking want to.â
ââDer Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,ââ Daniel said, the first line of the aria. It didnât sound elegant at all when he said it; it was a bleak commentary, a black promise. His translation explained it: ââThe vengeance of hell boils in my heart.â Nice, if youâre in a mood.â He took his free hand from her hair, where heâd been twisting the very ends of it through his first and second fingers without her knowledge, just out of her sight behind her shoulder. He nudged his captured pieces (her knight and one of her pawns) out of the way, and then shifted his queen at an angle to B4. âCheck, cherie.â He said it differently, fondly.
He hadnât made it to check in his lesson, and she didnât actually get what he meant, because she was still trying to figure out how the royal bitches on the chessboard could move, all without asking, because she was stubborn. So she concentrated on his translation, her hair long enough that she was oblivious to the twisting of the ends. She turned halfway, arm on the couch beside his thigh as she looked at him. âWay to ruin it,â she said of the German, but there was a smile on her lips, an indication that she wasnât actually pissed. âI donât get the German. I should, because I kind of get some Swedish, like the French,â she admitted. âA hint of fucking Italian too, I think. Itâs weird, like a translator in my head, but the German doesnât do it for me. But I still think the aria is awesome,â she admitted, turning her attention back to the board with a tip of her head and curiosity, not wanting to move something where it shouldnât go, because fuck that. So, check sounded bad, and she was guessing it had to do with one of the crown wearing bitches. She reasoned that the only one he had a straight shot at was the bumpy one, so she moved her queen to D2, hoping that was a legal move, because blocking seemed like a good idea.
No, blondes werenât usually his thing, but he liked the contrast between her appearance and her personality. It was as if she was intentionally doing everything she could to be sandpaper to the touch because she appeared silk from afar. He drank again, found his glass empty, and finally felt the glow of receding thoughts. He curled the lock around his finger as she moved. âSwedish,â he said, not understanding the connection. Few Americans from New Jersey knew Swedish along with anything else--especially French. But then (he had forgotten) she said that it was her Alter. Frenchmen werenât especially fond of other languages, clinging so closely to the elegance of their own. Sometimes Daniel didnât blame them.
Thinking leisurely through his buzz, Daniel turned his attention to the board. He switched to French just because he felt like it. He missed it. âYou did well for your first time.â He captured her queen with his queen. âCheckmate.â Then, realizing he hadnât mentioned it, âThat means you canât get your king free with that knight protecting my queen, so I win.â
She felt the tug of his finger in her hair as she moved, and she glanced over her shoulder with the slowness of awakening intoxication, only a hint of the earlier skittishness in the dark blue of her eyes. But she didnât pull the lock of hair free, and she looked back up at his face when he repeated the word Swedish, as if heâd misheard. âJa,â she replied, offhandedly, again, a native speaker in inflection and tone. But she didnât linger on it. The Swedish was no big deal, just like the French and Italian werenât. Sheâd gotten used to the whole âChristineâ thing with the unfortunate merging of everything, and she turned her attention back to the chessboard instead.
It took her a few seconds to realize what sheâd done to the stupid queen, and she groaned and leaned forward, picking up his knight and holding it up in the light. âAnnoying little shit,â she told the chess piece, and then she looked back at him, knight still aloft and pupils finally blown a little wide from the booze. âYou did not tell me all the rules,â she replied in French, managing outrage, even in the foreign language. She climbed up on the couch beside him, the moat still there, but definitely more shallow than before. âCheat,â she insisted, but there was a laugh in it, husky and playful.
Daniel showed all his teeth in a wide grin, delighted more by the exotic of Swedish--which he had not heard in years and could not speak even conversationally--than by his triumph on the chessboard. (A triumph over a novice was no triumph, and Daniel was enough of his own bizarre gentleman to realize it.) âI did not?â he replied, also in French, pretending innocence. âI am sure that I did. What did I forget?â Daniel twisted on the couch entirely toward her, lurched forward and past her to pick up the bottle, and then, disposing of the pretense, put his arms around her middle with the bottle still in one hand, tugging her toward him.
âYou did not tell me what the two monarchs did,â she continued in French, âand you did not tell me that the goal was to protect the weak male ruler, you smug bastard,â she finished in English, a laugh and a shove to his shoulder as he twisted toward her. âNext time? I kick your ass,â she promised and, sure, the chances of that were slim, but it was just like any other puzzle. She could figure it out with time. She was busy planning success when he reached for the bottle, and she didnât notice the movement until his arms were around her. It was a slow motion thing, catching up, and she looked down at his arms, and she tried to look back at the bottle, and then she looked at his face. Ok, so she was drunk, but she wasnât freaking out, and she let him tug, even if there was a hint of apprehension there in her own fear of acting like a spooked deer or something. Best way to fix that? Taking control, right? So she stretched against him and pressed her lips to his. For her, it was fucking chaste, but it was a start, back in the saddle and all that.