Who: Neil and Sam What: Canoeing. (1/2) Where: Lake Mead. When: Recently. Warnings/Rating: Nope.
Mornings sucked.
Sam had always hated them, and Saturday morning came way too fucking early, and it made her wonder why the fuck she'd decided to torment Neil with something that happened before noon. The water in the shower was freezing, and she drank two cups of cheap Maxwell House and popped three Xanaxs before she managed to get dressed for the day in denim shorts and a snug white tee. The sedative in her system meant she wasn't even worried about the still-pink scars at her wrists, not like she normally would be. She propped the door, so Neil wouldn't knock and wake Joey, who was sleeping in the apartment's one bedroom, door closed and snores carrying to the living room. Then, makeupless, hair still damp, she sat down on the mattress on the living room floor, hairbrush in hand and the heel of her other hand rubbing hard at her eyes.
She managed to finish one braid before she fell back asleep, one leg off the craigslist mattress, the curtain that offered a tiny bit of privacy in the living room for her bed drawn back.
The apartment was standard for Fremont. One bedroom, thin walls with water stains and mold on the ceiling. It was small, and the failing AC meant it was perpetually hot and nasty inside. The smell of pot carried through the walls, and there were needles along the walk to the door. The carpet was dingy, and the linoleum in the small kitchen was even dingier. The place had an old, 19-inch turn-knob television in the corner, on the floor. It boasted two barstools at the kitchen counter, and Sam's filthy mattress on the floor, with a bedsheet turned into a curtain on a string to drag in front of the mattress. Joey's closed door hid a similar mattress on the floor, and the avocado-faded bathroom opened onto the living room.
That early in the morning, no one was awake and fighting, and there were no drug parties happening. For Avenue 8, it was peaceful. A hellhole, yeah, but a peaceful one.
Neil didn’t hate mornings, exactly, but he liked sleeping in, and he was never one to rise at the crack of dawn to watch the sun rise or to head out for an early morning jog. If there wasn’t a valid reason for him to get up early, then he was more than happy to stay in bed. For the past two weeks, that hadn’t exactly been possible, since Beth cried a lot at all hours of the night and he’d ended up getting practically no sleep at all. With the baby gone and back to her mother, he could sleep again, and he’d actually crashed for almost a day straight once Ella had come and fetched her. The baby stuff was gathered up and donated, and if he kept some of it, just in case, he definitely didn’t tell anyone, and kept it stuffed away in some deep, forgotten closet that no one ever went in.
Seeing Sam was one of those rare reasons that got him out of bed early on a Saturday. He showered and dressed comfortably, as instructed, old jeans and a loose t-shirt that had definitely seen better days. On the way to Avenue 8 (yeah, he took his least expensive car for this trip) he picked up a couple of coffees, deciding to toss in muffins at the last moment. At least it looked like the weather would be nice, though dry and hot was usually the default for a place like Vegas. He pulled over by the curb once he got there and tried not to wince as he got out, the building contrasting sharply with his own suite at Aria. Really, he hated the thought of Sam staying at a place like this, but he’d done his damnedest to convince her to come back, and maybe he just had to let things happen at their own pace at this point. The apartment building might have been quiet, but he had a feeling it was a lot louder and rowdier and more dangerous at night, a suspicion that was only confirmed as he made his way to her apartment.
The door was open, which surprised him, and he stepped inside carefully, taking in the water stains, the mold, and the general dingy small-ness of the place. Neil tried not to judge, he did, but he could’ve gotten her set up somewhere a lot nicer. “Sam?” He spotted her on the bed, half-on, half-off, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe to announce his presence.
She didn't sit up with the quick jerk that should have accompanied a startling noise heard in sleep. Yeah, no, she stretched on the floor-tossed mattress, arms overhead and her toes curling as they dragged across the dirty carpet. She made a sound that was sleep and invitation, a muttered, "hey, baby," the was husky enough to speak of early morning and intimacies. "Come lie down." She cracked open her eyes, looked at him in the doorway, and then she remembered that Joey was asleep behind the nearby door.
"Fuck," she sat up quickly, just like that, and she put finger to her lips in the universal gesture for shut the fuck up. A motion to Joey's door, and the continuing sound of snoring, indicating why Neil needed to be quiet. Sam stepped into a pair of flip flops as she stood, and she didn't bother waving him in; there wasn't much to wave him into, yeah? She braided the rest of her hair as she crossed the room to the door, ruffled and sleepy looking, and she pressed an easy, unconcerned kiss to his jaw. "Please tell me you have coffee in the fucking car," she whispered as she stepped back, grabbing keys and penning a quick note to Joey, so he didn't lose his shit when he woke up to find her gone. The note was left on the kitchen counter, and she tucked her phone and a small pillbox into the pocket of her too-short shorts. She grabbed a plaid shirt from where it was draped on the counter, and she slid her arms into it and left it open, scars hiding from sight beneath the checks of red and white.
She nudged him out a second later, and she closed the door with the care she would give to something really expensive that she didn't want to break. When nothing roared from inside, she grinned, and she tugged a finger through one of Neil's belt loops and used it as a lead, moving ahead of him down the narrow hallway and down the stairs. She stopped at the foot of the last step abruptly, intentionally letting him bump into her and throwing a gap-toothed grin over her shoulder at him, the calm teasing more reminiscent of last year, than of anything recent. "That's the best you could do for a junk heap, huh?" she asked, spotting the car.
They were supposed to be going... somewhere, Neil was sure of that much, but the huskiness in her tone combined with the invitation made it tempting to accept her offer and just lie down beside her. He should have remembered Joey, that she wasn’t living alone, but he didn’t, and he took a couple of steps forward before she sat up and swore. The laughter on his lips died before it could fully form, and he cocked his head to the side in confusion before it clicked. Oh. He nodded, understanding, and kept quiet as she stood and got her stuff together. The kiss to his jaw made him grin, even though it surprised him, and he decided not to push his luck by questioning her calm and starting the day off badly. “Coffee and muffins,” he whispered back, obviously pleased with himself.
Her let her nudge him out of the room, and waited, amused, as she ensured that the door closing didn’t awaken the protective older brother within. Neil hadn’t met Joey yet, but he suspected there might be a hell of a lot of animosity coming his way once they did.That was a concern for later, though, and when she tugged on his belt loop, he followed, as though he didn’t have any other choice. “Hey,” he protested, when she stopped on the last step and sent him stumbling into her. She hadn’t been like this in a while, not since the hell in Marvel world. “I thought I did pretty well,” he shrugged, when she asked about the car. “So, do I get to know where we’re going?”
She grinned over her shoulder at him when he protested. "Keep up, old man," she teased, gap-toothed happiness. Sure, it was a medicated smile, but there wasn't enough of the Xanax in her system to change her, not yet. Small doses just took the fucking edge off; it was escalation that was the problem. But just then? That wasn't a concern. The dosage was low enough to be safe, and her inky blue eyes were focusing more sharply the longer she was awake. Her fingers tugged on his belt loops again, and she pulled him toward the car wordlessly, not stopping until she had him in front of the hood. She leaned against it a second, and she let her other hand find the belt loop on the opposite side of his jeans, so her handhold was twice as good. She pulled him against her, no panic or fear in her eyes, and she squinted up at him in early morning sunlight. "Maybe," she said, all that just for one word and an accompanying grin, and she fished his keys out of his pocket and palmed them.
She snuck beneath his arm a second later, and she made her way around to the driver's side of the car. She knew Neil well enough to know he wouldn't give a shit about the car. The fact that she didn't actually know how to drive? Yeah, that might be more of a problem. But she liked thrills; when she felt like this, she liked thrills. And it couldn't be harder than a bike, yeah? "Get in, baby," she said, as if she owned the fucking car and got to call the shots. She waited to see if he bitched about it, but her confident smile said she didn't think he would. She'd gotten him out onto rickety balconies and thrown out of expensive shows; this was nothing.
“Old man?” He gave her a look of mock outrage, deliberately choosing to overlook the fact that her smile might be influenced by something else. For now, at least. Turning a blind eye was in the past, but surely they could have a couple of hours or so before he started in on the concerned line of questioning. “I’ll have you know I’m not old,” he protested, still following her lead, and any thought of maintaining distance was lost when she pulled him against her. He’d wanted to let her dictate how slow or fast they moved, after all, and here she was, dictating it loud and clear. He leaned down, eyebrows raised, and began to ask in a teasing sort of way how he could change that maybe to a yes when she palmed his keys. It was a dirty trick, and he groaned, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.
He assumed, obviously incorrectly, that Sam knew how to drive, and if worse came to worst he was right there in the passenger’s seat if intervention became necessary. So when she moved around to the driver’s side, he shrugged, making no move to take the keys back. “Okay. Just don’t get us killed,” he teased, sliding into the passenger’s seat, oblivious to the fact that he’d just virtually handed keys over to someone who couldn’t drive.
"Hey, a decade or something is a long time," she teased, all gap-teeth and the real desire to just forget how fucked up shit was for the morning. She'd had more panic attacks in the past week than she'd had since the fucking shit in the Marvel door, and she just wanted to forget it for a little while. The pills helped with that. They didn't help her not want more drugs, though, and she knew that was a fucking problem. But she didn't want to talk about it yet. Later, maybe, when they got where they were going. She could have taken Lin's suggestion and picked something loud and fast-paced, but she hadn't, and that choice had been intentional. She just wasn't ready to face up to that shit yet. And, yeah, there was the added worry of Ella and some cute fucking baby. No, she didn't want to dump her problems on Neil's door if she could fucking help it, even for a few hours.
She laughed when he groaned, and then the key was in the ignition and she was completely fucking overturning it. She pumped the gas, which made the parked engine rev, and she looked over at him as he got in. Her gaze was mischievous, but she didn't bother with her seatbelt. The Xanax made thrills easier, and she liked that about it. She opened one of the coffees that sat in the holders, and she took a long sip. A bite of a muffin came next, and she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "That makes everything fucking better," she said truthfully, letting one hand slide along the front of his shirt, then gunning the gas by mistake. Then she pulled her hand back, and she tucked the car into a jerking reverse that made coffee slosh. She laughed, entertained with her own fuck up, and she pushed the buttons on the car's radio, looking for music.
The song she settled on was one that reminded her of Lin, and it was so the fucking antithesis of Neil; that made her smile. And, eventually, she got the car on the main drag without hitting anything. "I hope you aren't tired, baby."
Neil just shook his head with an exaggerated sigh, as though her generalization of the age difference between them was something he found exasperating. “Or something,” he repeated. “I’ll have you know a decade isn’t that long. Besides, haven’t you ever heard that you’re only as young as you feel?” He could do this, fall back into the easy dynamic they’d had before, even if he wondered just how deep it ran beneath the surface. Yeah, Iris was all weird about some Ian guy from her past, but he’d offered to help, and unless there was some dirt on him to get the cops involved, he wasn’t sure what could be done. But Sam had made a scene, right? The attention would make the guy less willing to bring scrutiny on himself. Sure. And maybe it should have concerned him, that she’d gotten this guy’s attention in a negative way, but it didn’t even occur to him that he might be dangerous in that sense. Besides, he wasn’t the only rich bastard in this town. Money talked, and he had more of it than he knew what to do with. Aside from that, though, he wasn’t sure what other problems Sam had, which was a running theme, but he was always wary of pushing too hard, too quickly.
He thought she made the engine rev because, well, it was her, and surely she wouldn’t actually drive recklessly enough to get them into an accident. She might not have buckled her own seatbelt, but he buckled his, and he gave her a quizzical look, tinged with a smile when she kissed his cheek. “What does?” And then she gunned the gas, and she laughed, and he finally began to wonder if she should even be behind the wheel of a car. He was far from Mr. Morals, but he didn’t drive like a maniac and he didn’t think risks that actually had the potential to be dangerous were very thrilling.
The music wasn’t his style at all, but he wasn’t thinking about that. “I’m not tired,” he said automatically, and the more time passed, the less faith he had in her driving abilities. “Maybe you should put your seatbelt on,” he ventured, because hell if he wanted a cop to pull them over. “You’ve driven before, right? I mean, you have your driver’s license?”
She looked over at him, her grin playful, despite the undercurrent of medication in her blue eyes. "How old do you feel, baby?" she asked him. It was joking, a tease, and there was nothing serious about it. She was into him the way he was; she didn't want him to be a decade younger, but she liked giving him shit about it. And she had no clue he was thinking about shit with Ian, because she wasn't thinking about shit with Ian just then. It was easy to set shit on a shelf with the right level of meds, to pretend it didn't exist for a little bit.
She was a thrillseeker, when she wasn't feeling like the world was ending. She looked over he suggested she put the seatbelt on, and she grinned at his question about having a driver's license. "It never seemed important, since I couldn't afford a car," she said honestly. "Shit. Even my parents don't have a car. My husband did, but he was the only one who drove. It was this old Chevy Caprice, brown, and it looked like a fucking rectangle on wheels," she said, even as she snapped her seatbelt in place to appease him. She drove too fast, and she turned too quick, and she stopped too close, and her fingers flexed on the steering wheel as she grinned over at him again in pleasure. "I'm giving you a fucking heart attack, yeah?" she asked, only mildly apologetic. She leaned over, kissed his jaw, and then she took another sip of her sloshing coffee.
She calmed it down after that, not wanting him to take the car keys. She muttered about slow people, changed the radio station to something Broadway, and breathed slower as they left the crowded lanes of the strip. Lake Mead was only thirty minutes outside the main drag, hiding down a curving lane that went nowhere but there. She'd been there once, soon after coming to Vegas, and she'd been fucking amazed that someone had decided to build an enormous fucking lake and a bunch of rivers in the middle of the desert. She opened the windows, making wind whip through the car, and she sang along with Frank Sinatra. The signs clearly indicated where they were going, and the scenery gave way to mountains and a complete lack of buildings. "So, I think you should get a fucking bike," she said out of nowhere, as they neared the the final signpost.
Neil wasn’t good with thrills, and he wasn’t good with risks. Yeah, to a certain degree he could throw caution to the wind, but there was always a line of common sense that held him back. Like, say, not having a driver’s license, or never having driven a vehicle before. “Okay, listen, I’ll teach you to drive,” he said. Her seatbelt was something, but she still went too fast, turned too quickly, and came thisclose to rear-ending the car in front of them more than once. They were just lucky no cops were around, in his opinion. “Just a minor one,” he admitted, of him having a heart attack. “Go slow, okay? Be careful. Seriously, accidents aren’t fun.” He wasn’t angry, just worried, and it took a lot of effort to sit still and keep from grabbing the steering wheel himself to make sure they didn’t hit anything. The kiss to his jaw calmed him down a little, and he sighed, fondness creeping in and replacing some of his concern.
Once they got off of the crowded lanes, he found it easier to relax. The city gave way to a more scenic view, and for the first time he actually started paying attention to their surroundings, trying to figure out exactly where it was they were going. “I’m guessing you don’t mean a bicycle,” he said, glancing over at her. “What’s Lake Mead? Are we going fishing or something?”
His almost-calm insistence that he would teach her to drive made her smile. "Hey, I haven't hit anything, yeah?" she asked, unconcerned in the way of the very young. She didn't fear smashing against anything, and life had taught her that fucked up shit happened when you weren't looking, not when you were expecting it to come at you headfirst. Luckily, she was willing to slow down once they were outside the city limits, and the roads out of Vegas weren't anywhere near as crowded as the roads into Vegas were. And anyway, his uneasiness was kind of fucking adorable.
"A motorcycle," she clarified, as expected. "Russ got me that piece of shit for a hundred bucks at Christmas, and it's finally running. I took Ash for a ride the other day, and she's dead fucking set on getting one." She looked over at him, swerving just a little when she took her eyes off the road. "You should get a Bolt. They're fucking gorgeous, not as expensive as some of the alternatives, and I think it's sexy," she said with a gap-toothed grin didn't bother trying to hide the fact that she wouldn't mind bumming the bike on occasions. "There are day classes to learn to drive, and you don't need a real license or insurance, baby,"
As for what Lake Mead was, she didn't answer until they were through the gates and parked in front of a wooded riverbank with multiple small docks and canoes lined up. "Lin suggested inline skating or something," she said, as if that was worse, and she grabbed both cups of coffee and the bag of muffins, before tossing the keys at him and going to the canoe rental shack and telling the attendant that Neil was the money.
“You haven’t hit anything yet,” he clarified, though it was difficult to sound admonishing when part of him wanted to laugh at how carefree she seemed about her lack of driving skills. Once they were off the main roads, most of the risk slipped away, so long as she didn’t drive them both off the damn road. Neil didn’t push the issue of driving lessons, figuring he could revisit that at a later time. As for the motorcycle, he pulled a face, trying to imagine himself actually riding one of those things with some success. “Wait, Ash wants a motorcycle?” He glanced up, brow furrowed, but managed to bite his tongue in order to keep from launching into some sort of lecture about how dangerous they were. Ash was a big girl, and if she wanted to ride a motorcycle, well, he trusted her enough to be careful while doing it. “I have no idea what a Bolt is,” he admitted, gaze darting to the road when she swerved. Affording one wasn’t the problem, that much was clear.
A motorcycle. He shook his head, giving her a mock chastising look. “I know what you’re trying to do, telling me you think it’s sexy so I’ll give in and agree.” And, as much as he hated to admit it, the tactic was a good one. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
His quip about fishing had been in jest, but he wasn’t exactly expecting canoeing either. The closest thing he’d ever done was rowing, back in private school, but he hadn’t stuck with it for long and was usually on the stands during the big races. “Lin would suggest inline skating,” he muttered, catching the keys as he slid out of the car and locking the doors before following her to the rental shack. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, digging out his wallet and extracting a couple of fifties for good measure. “Have you ever been canoeing before?” He wondered if this was something she would kick his ass at, or if they’d be going into this equally unprepared.
"Yeah. Ash was hitting people up on the journals with pictures of this green fucking speed bike," she assured him once the attendant had taken his money and gone to get a canoe ready for them. She sipped one of the coffees, not knowing whose it was and not really caring. "A Bolt is a bike made by a company called Star. You can get a naked one for 8k. A Harley or Triumph is going to cost you 30k, easy, for the same shit." She grinned at his assertion that he knew what she was doing. "You could come ride my junker around and see how you like it," she said, with an almost unsuppressed waggle of brows. She leaned in to kiss him, stretching on her toes and holding her arm out to keep the coffee from sloshing down his shirt. But the attendant came back just before her lips brushed his, and she rocked back onto her heels with poorly restrained laughter and a look that was all feigned obedience as the attendant explained the rules of safety, which basically amounted to don't drown.
"Once," she said of her storied canoeing history. "I didn't row then, and I don't think I'll be rowing now," she added, in case he expected any heavy lifting from her. She moved ahead of him onto the docks, following the serious attendant who was still giving his spiel about staying away from any kayaks or wildlife. The river was slow and long, and this wasn't any whitewater shit; she would have liked whitewater. But part of her just wanted the fucking quiet for five seconds. And, yeah, she still liked the physicality of it, of being outside and sweating and feeling the fucking sun on her face for once, instead of the stale air of the apartment or the garage.
The canoe was big, roomy, and she almost laughed at the fact that it was a lot fucking bigger than she remembered. "Your arms are going to be so fucking sore," she said as she climbed in, the canoe teetering slightly in the water as she settled her weight and sat down at one end. The attendant was explaining how to tip the canoe back over if it flipped, and Sam just sipped her coffee and slipped out of her long-sleeved overshirt. It was sunny enough out that the glare made the scars hard to see on her pale wrists, and she slipped her sunglasses on so that she didn't need to squint. She finished off one of the muffins, and she waited for Neil to get in and start his exercise in manual labor. She was trying very hard not to fucking grin.
Neil had no idea what a naked bike was, and none of the names she was listing off meant anything to him. Well, except for a Harley, because everybody knew Harley Davidson, but he didn’t actually know anything else save for the fact that it was a well-known name. “That’s a pretty big price difference,” he said doubtfully. “Wouldn’t the more expensive ones be better?” In his world, higher quality meant higher prices. “I’ll come take it for a ride as long as you promise not to laugh if I end up failing horribly.” Because he might very well end up making an idiot of himself, and he knew it, even though he couldn’t help smiling as she leaned in to kiss him. The attendant’s timing was horrible, and he rolled his eyes at the interruption as the guy went on and on about safety. Yeah, whatever, he could swim, so it wasn’t as though he was worried about drowning if they did tip over.
“Are you implying that I’m going to be doing all the hard work while you sit back and relax?” He raised his eyebrows, only half-listening to the continued spiel of what not to do while canoeing. Safety was important, sure, but a canoe wasn’t a car. They weren’t going to run over any people or animals out here. He eyed his coffee with mock mournfulness, since rowing and drinking hot liquid didn’t mix, and he took one last long gulp before discarding the cup and climbing into the canoe after her. It swayed precariously as he attempted to find his balance, and he shot the attendant a grin as he managed to cease the movement and settle down without overturning them both into the water. Rowing was a collective effort, unlike this, and he held the oar like he had no idea what the hell to do with it. Which, in all honesty, he didn’t.
But he could figure it out. How hard could it be, right? The attendant began to explain, but Neil shrugged him off, dipping his paddle into the water and awkwardly pushing off, away from the dock. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, but he could pretend he did.
She laughed. "Yeah, baby, the more expensive ones are better," she said, because fuck if she could lie about that. "But they're also more fucking expensive, and I'm pretty sure it'll be harder to get you to fork over 30k for me to bum whenever I want, than it would be to get you to fork over 8k," she said bluntly. And, yeah, she didn't even stop to consider that most of the world would think she was picking his pocket. Charity didn't scare the kid who'd worn church donated shoes all her childhood. She grinned when he agreed. "You won't fail. Baby, you were practically made to sit a bike." Despite all his fucking upbringing, Neil didn't look too fucking posh for a bike. No, just the opposite, and her appreciatively inky gaze said as much. "And I'm doing more than implying that you're going to do all the hard work, while I sit back and relax," she said of canoeing. No point making him think this was going to be some joint work shit.
Anyway, even drunk people canoed without dying, and she had every bit of of faith that he could pull it off. She watched the dock get further and further away, and she watched the attendant wander off after deciding they weren't going to drown. Then, she kicked off her shoes and made the canoe tilt as she stretched back comfortably, her bare toes on his legs and her arms on the canoe's edge. The new bruise on the back of her thigh was just visible now, with the long overshirt gone, but she didn't mention it. The canoe was big enough, sturdy enough that tipping it over would be a fucking challenge, which meant he was in for a lot of teetering on this particular trip. "I'm like fucking Cleopatra," she said with a playful grin, tipping her head back enough that the ends of her thick, blonde hair dipped into the edges of the water. She dragged her fingers in the warm water, and she flicked her fingers at him, spraying water in his face. "I could be imperial and demand you take that shirt off," she suggested, with only a little fear in her blue eyes. He was far enough away that it was safe, and the drugs helped, yeah, but the appreciation in her eyes was completely fucking genuine. She finished off her coffee, and she tossed the empty cup into the center of the canoe, just missing his knee.
The difference between 8k and 30k didn’t matter as much to him as it did to her, and it was no secret that Neil wasn’t quite as careful with his money as he should have been. He didn’t gamble, didn’t play the stock market, at least not seriously; his problem was spending it on people, or letting them spend it for him, especially when it came to Sam. He knew very well that any motorcycle he purchased would probably be used more by her than him anyway. “If I’m going to buy a bike, Sam, I’d rather spend the extra cash to get a better one. That’s what I did with my cars,” he shrugged. Sure, he could spend less on a vehicle that could get him around, but he had the funds, so why not go for quality? “I don’t know about that,” he said, doubtful. “I haven’t even ridden a normal bike in years, and back home, I looked like an idiot on a horse.” He pulled a face when she said she wasn’t just implying that he’d be doing the brunt of the work, but he didn’t try pawning off any rowing on her, and he didn’t complain. He never would, especially not when this was the most relaxed he’d seen her in a while.
His gaze fell on the bruise unintentionally, a blip in his perusal of her as she stretched back, but while he came close to commenting on it he decided, in the end, to keep quiet for now. Not forever, no; nothing good had ever come of turning a blind eye. But he didn’t need to bring it up now. “If you’re Cleopatra, who does that make me?” Despite struggling for the initial few moments, he developed a sort of rhythm with the oar, which made the process a lot easier even if the effort required wasn’t changed much. He mock frowned when she flicked the water in his direction, and he paused in his rowing long enough to splash her with more than just a few droplets. “You could be,” he agreed, playful, “but what if I don’t agree?” He raised his eyebrows, grinning.
She wasn't surprised at his desire to spend more money on a bike than was necessary, not when he lived in a fucking suite that had windows for two solid stories along one wall. She hadn't understood that opulence once upon a time, but now she just got that it was how he did shit. She didn't think he was pretentious. She thought he just didn't fucking care. He got what he wanted, and he didn't give a shit about the price tag. Spending extra money on anything wasn't something that was part of her life, and she wasn't used to it, but she wasn't going to begrudge him. "Yeah, ok. I get to pick, though, even if it's a fucking Harley," she said. "I know more about bikes," she added, making the token effort to assure him that there was a reason for her getting to make the selection, one that didn't mean she was going to steal his wheels. She hadn't looked at any high end bikes. She was a cheap girl at heart, and she didn't even consider the alternatives. She would need to look into it. "A bike isn't a horse, Neil," she assured him, and she laughed a moment later, when he pulled a face about the rowing.
She didn't notice the fall of his gaze, too busy trying to remember who Cleopatra's lover was and completely not remembering the name. "Yeah, I don't know, that guy she was fucking," she finally said, a fuck-education grin and a laugh as he worked to figure out the oars. She went quiet after the reciprocal splashing, as if she was trying to figure out what she would do if he denied her about the shirt. It was a long silence, one that came with her fingers dragging in the water and notice of a few banked canoes along the way. She wondered if their passengers had gone to find privacy in the overgrown trees, or if they were just looking for some shade. Either way, it was really fucking easy to forget the rest of the world existed, and she finally looked back at him and gave him a grin that was all trouble. Yeah, sure, it was medicated, but it was still genuine. The canoe teetered as she sat forward, and then it settled as she crawled along the ample center to sit in front of him, between his thighs. "I'll ask nicely?" she suggested, a grin and a tug on the center of his shirt. "You're just going to get all fucking sweaty. It is the desert," she reminded him.
“Of course you get to pick,” he said cheerfully, all things considered. “Otherwise I’d just go for the most expensive, badass-looking one.” Which wasn’t really an exaggeration. Neil was somewhat more savvy when it came to cars, and while the same approach could probably be applied to motorcycles too, he thought appearance mattered more when it came to the latter. “You just have to let me at least pretend I know what I’m talking about when we go.” He laughed when she said a bike wasn’t a horse, and the look he gave her was undoubtedly fond. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He vaguely recalled learning something about Cleopatra back in his school days, but he was no closer to remembering the name of her lover than Sam was, so he simply shrugged. “Great, so you’re the Queen of the Nile, and I’m just that guy she was fucking,” he teased. The presence of other, albeit empty canoes only half-registered with him; out here, it was easy to feel as though they were alone. No crowded sidewalks, no loud voices, no crowds. Maybe that’s why she’d come up with this idea in the first place. Ever since the Marvel crap, he’d done his best to give her space, and he’d vowed not to push her farther than she wanted to go; he was too wary to do anything but let her set the pace. He watched as she crawled forward, keeping his hands on the oar and remaining still despite wanting to reach for her, but he couldn’t help a smile when she sat in front of him. “So ask nicely,” he said, eyebrows raised as he leaned towards her. “And maybe I’ll take it off.”
"If it's too big, I won't be able to keep the fucking thing upright," she said with a grin and, yeah, she didn't bother pretending that wasn't the plan. And that was the difference between bikes and cars. Bigger wasn't better, not when the fucking thing fell over. "But you can pretend all you want, baby. I'll even simper," she said, which sounded like a threat with the grin that accompanied it. Her grin turned a little sheepish when he turned that fond look on her, but it was a short lived thing in the face of crawling and ensuring the canoe didn't tip with the movement.
"Hey, that guy she was fucking got to sleep with the hottest chick in Egypt," she teased. She didn't know much about Cleopatra, but she knew that much. And, yeah, he wasn't far off about why she'd chosen the location. She could have gone with Lin's skating suggestion just as easily, but between the Xanax and the time that had passed, well, she wanted to see how she did alone with him. "I miss talking to you," she admitted. And she'd be lying if she didn't admit to wanting to see more of him, too. Fuck it; she wanted to go home. She couldn't, she knew, because what the fuck would happen to Joey if she did? But she wanted to, and she could almost pretend it would happen when they were alone like this. "That was me asking nicely," she finally added with mock outrage. There was hesitation when he leaned forward, but it was barely anything at all, and she tugged on the front of his shirt and used the hold to keep from losing her balance as she leaned and stretched to press an open-mouthed, testing kiss to his mouth. She licked her lips, considered, and then she did it again, a slow drag of teeth along his bottom lip as she sat back. "Better?"
“Okay, nothing big,” he agreed. “But nothing too small, either. It has to be a manly bike.” Neil put extra emphasis on the manliness of said motorcycle intentionally, all playful tease with the intention of coaxing a reaction out of her. He cocked his head to the side, mock thoughtful, when she said she’d even simper. “I’m not sure you could pull it off, but hell, I’d like to see you try,” he chuckled.
He laughed and shook his head, but some of his humor ebbed away when she admitted that she’d missed talking to him. With Joey in the picture, he’d all but given up hope that she would move back to the Aria, and he missed having her around. Ash was still there, but it just wasn’t the same. “I miss talking to you too,” he told her. “And I miss having you live with me.” Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but to hell with pretending, right? Even if she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come back, at least she’d know that he wanted her there. He was about to protest that she hadn’t asked nicely at all, but then she was tugging on his shirt, and she was closer than he’d ever expected her to be-- for awhile, at least. It took some effort to keep from pulling her closer when she kissed him, but instead he let his hands linger on her thighs, the touch barely there, and he let out a low sound of approval as he responded, slow and warm before he let her sit back. “Much better,” he teased, and set the oar aside in order to pull his t-shirt off and over his head.