Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-03-02 21:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman |
Who: Luke and Wren
What: Valentine anniversary. (1/2)
Where: Rumor Hotel.
When: Backdated to Valentine's day.
Warnings/Rating: None.
Like he’d told Evie, Luke had run through a lot of options for Valentine’s Day. There was dinner, but they’d done that last year. He could go with dancing, a party, some club somewhere, and yet none seemed right. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take her out, that he didn’t want to be in public with her; it was just that they hadn’t had a lot of time to themselves lately, not since Lia was born, and all he really wanted was one night where it was just the two of them. He thought she’d like the same, since hadn’t she said time and time again that she didn’t need anyone else? And it was their anniversary, after all. He just wanted to spend it with her. So he made some calls, spent hours browsing the Net, and in the end he went for a hotel off the Strip, the Rumor Hotel. The suites were… interesting, to say the least, but it was nice, wouldn’t bankrupt him, and they were willing to accommodate the extras he wanted without upping the price outrageously like a lot of the on-Strip hotels did.
He’d booked one of the mega suites, second floor, since he liked the idea of a private balcony. Dinner was prearranged to be brought to the room, he had music, and there was a little something extra he thought she’d get of a kick out of waiting too. With Evie and Jack taking care of the kids (and, okay, maybe he was hoping they’d get a little closer in the process too) he was only a little nervous about leaving them overnight, but considering the two people he trusted most were watching them, well, that was about as good as it was going to get. So he and Wren kissed them goodbye, Gus promised to be good for ‘Uncle Jack’ and ‘Aunt Evie’, and off they went.
As promised, he was wearing suspenders over his shirt. He was a man of his word, after all. And he’d managed, too, to keep his secret and not tell Wren where they were going, not even on the cab ride there, and since he’d already checked in beforehand he bypassed the front desk with only a smile for the man as he led her down the hallway, into the elevator, and out onto their floor, but he stopped just outside their room. “Okay," he told her, mock solemn. “You have to close your eyes. Please? Just humor me."
Wren had been busy with her own version of a surprise. It had taken weeks to decide on something, and she still wasn't sure if it was right. Maybe it wasn't right at all, but the time for worrying was done, and now she just needed to remember to breathe. She'd kissed her bebes goodnight, and she'd kept her coat closed tight over her dress, and she hadn't asked about anything, not the entire way to somewhere unknown. The curiosity made butterflies flap their wings in her belly, harder and harder, and she toyed with the pin-tight curls she'd spent hours perfecting, platinum blonde and they made her feel a little more secure. And it wasn't that she was scared, and it wasn't that she was anxious. But she was nerves and expectation, and she forced herself to keep her hands in her lap, to not push aside the suit jacket he wore in order to get a look at the suspenders he'd taunted her with for a week. And maybe she'd taunted too. Maybe she'd been taunting, but it didn't count when she did it, and she bit her lip and tasted cherries and lip gloss.
When the cab pulled into the hotel, she was all curiosity. She'd worked in a lot of Vegas hotels, but she'd never been inside this one. She glanced at him, a curious little smile on her lips when he didn't stop at the front desk, and she stopped in front of the door and regarded him. His mock solemnity made her smile, bright and lush and unreserved. "Bossy," she told him playfully, and she glanced at the closed door, and then back at him. She pretended to consider, pretended to vacillate, glove-covered fingers tracing the lines in the door's wood. She tried to peek in the peephole, tiptoes and heels off the ground, but it was all for play. There was no looking inside, and they both knew that. It was a game, one intended to make him more nervous, to make him stammer, and she leaned back against the closed door, shoulders against the wood and her grey gaze fixed on him with all due mock consideration.
She reached forward, and she tugged aside his lapels. Her fingers danced along his suspenders from shoulder to hip, and she snapped them at the bottom. She bit her lip around a smile, and she slid one of her hands along the front of his shirt, fingers dragging over the little buttons slowly. Finally, she nodded, acquiesced. "Okay. Oui," she said, all conviction, and she closed her eyes without moving where she was. If he wanted her to move, then he would need to move her, and she liked tormenting him a little. If she was going to have butterflies waging war with their tiny wings against her insides, then he could be a little bit nervous too; it was only fair, oui?
It probably should have occurred to him that she might be nervous too, but he was so wrapped up in impressing her that he didn’t even consider that she wanted to do the same. She looked beautiful, of course, even with the coat covering her dress, but that just fed into his worry that he’d gotten things entirely wrong. Evie had said that she’d like his idea, but what if she didn’t? What if she wanted to go somewhere fancy, somewhere crowded and expensive? He was trying really hard to stay cool and calm on the outside, but on the inside he was a bundle of nerves and mental fretting. “I’m not bossy,” he countered, teasing. “I said please, didn’t I?” His smile wavered a little as she studied the door, fingers brushing over the wood, trying to look in the peephole, and he bit down on his lower lip without realizing it. Part of him knew she’d never actually be disappointed, she’d never get angry like some women who expected the world, but he wanted her to feel special and amazing and all the things he told her she was but she had a hard time believing. He was the one putting pressure on himself, but he wasn’t introspective enough to realize it.
He found it really, really hard to stay still when she touched him, and even though he often said the boy from Seattle was dead that wasn’t quite true. He’d grown up a lot, lost most of his fear of hurting her, but part of Luke would always be that awkward, squirmy teenager who she could make blush and stammer so easily. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but he’d always been horrible at hiding the effect she had on him; his breath caught in his throat when she snapped his suspenders, and though he tried to cover it with a laugh he was pretty sure she’d notice. She always did. In that moment he felt every single day he’d had to wait, all the times she’d tormented him and left him wanting, and all that trying to remain calm was betrayed by the heat he could feel crawling up his neck. “Good,” he managed, clearing his throat as she closed her eyes, and he let out a long exhale once he was sure she wasn’t looking. Okay, right, it’d be fine, and he felt so very young as he slid the key in and pushed open the door. If she didn’t like it, if it wasn’t enough-- well, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do. Last-minute reservations someplace else would be impossible, but he‘d figure something out. Somehow.
His fingers entwined with hers and he tugged, pulling her forward into the suite. The color scheme was bold, red and black and white, soft music played in the background and there was an ice bucket waiting by the table near the balcony, two bottles of wine inside. A table was set for two in the room to the right, candles and a tablecloth and old-fashioned romance, and a blue box rested on one of the chairs. “Okay,” he said, attempting to keep the nervousness out of his voice, but he watched her face too carefully for a reaction. “You can open them.”
She could tell that he was having a hard time with stillness, even after that teasing insistence that he wasn't bossy. "Oui," she acknowledged of his saying please, and she brushed a cherry-gloss kiss to his cheek when his smile wavered a little. It was a quick thing, a lean, a reassurance, slow and linger-soft against his skin. His unsteady breathing just made her heart melt a little; all signs of that boy he had been made her heart melt a little. There was a little laugh, a little teasing thing of a laugh when his breath caught in his throat. And, no, that laugh couldn't cover it. She knew him too well. She knew nuisance. She knew tiny things that people who'd just met him would never notice. She loved those thing, because they were hers and not anyone elses. And maybe that possession was wrong and bad and a million things that other people wouldn't understand. But she didn't really care what the rest of the world thought, not just then, not while standing in that hallway and watching him as he tried to remember how to breathe.
Her smile went wider as her eyes closed, and there was pleasure in the way he cleared his throat, in that exhale that sounded like loudness with the temporary loss of vision. She listened to him move, listened to him slide the key in the lock, listened to the door open inward. All the sounds made her head tip to the side, corkscrew curls and a bite to her lower lip as she tried to figure things out by sound alone. The carpet under her heels, the creak underfoot, his hand in hers. She squeezed his fingers when he tugged, a reassuring little thing that said breathe without saying anything at all.
She didn't open her eyes right away, even though he said she could. She slid her fingers from his, and she smiled a crooked little smile at how nervous he sounded. But she didn't open her eyes. Instead, she stepped forward carefully, hands out so that she wouldn't knock anything over. She felt her way around the space closest to them. Little steps and little steps, and a hand to the wall, to a dresser, to a doorknob that led elsewhere in the suite. Eventually, to the ice bucket, which she lifted and dipped her fingers into, fingertips dancing against the cold. She tried to listen for him, to see if he was following her around during her sightless inspection of the space. She listened and she listened, and she finally turned in the direction of his footfalls. She opened her eyes then, bright and grey and a smile, and then she turned her attention back to the suite. She almost asked if they could afford it, and she almost asked how they could afford it. But she swallowed the words down in the end and let the worry fade. She walked toward the balcony, fingers tracing the tablecloth as she looked out, and then she looked down at the blue box that was sitting on one of the chairs. She dragged her fingers over that too, and then she looked back at him.
"Are you going to help me with my coat, monsieur Henry?" she asked, teasing and playful and young.
Somehow she managed to soothe his nerves and make him more nervous at the same time, which made no sense at all but was true all the same. The way she laughed just made him flush with deeper heat, because she knew what she was doing to him, of course she did. Sometimes he could pull off confidence but her approval was too important to him for him to manage it now. But he calmed down a little when she squeezed his fingers, and the way he watched her make her way around the room, eyes still closed, was more amused than apprehensive. He followed her like a shadow, a little bit of distance between them and his steps echoing hers. Maybe he wasn’t as nervous, but he still wanted to see her face the moment she opened her eyes, before she had a chance to think, to hide her disappointment if it was there.
He forgot to breathe, just for a second, when she opened her eyes. If she’d asked about the cost he would have reassured her that it was fine, it was okay; he’d sold his bike, since it wasn’t very practical anymore, and maybe he should have used the money for something else but it hadn’t really been that expensive. Not like the thousand-dollar-a-night hotels, the ones he could only wish he was able to afford. But she didn’t ask, and he didn’t see disappointment anywhere in her expression, not even as the seconds passed and she looked around. He wanted to explain why he’d chosen this. He wanted to tell her that they could do whatever they wanted; they could have dinner or not, they could dance or not, and that was the point. He wanted to, but he didn’t, and his face relaxed into a smile when she spoke.
“Uh-huh,” he said without thinking, and then he remembered himself and cleared his throat. “I mean, of course, mademoiselle Henry,” he corrected, and maybe it was madame? He had no idea. He didn’t think it mattered, though, and he moved behind her to slide off her coat, slow and lingering and breath against her neck as he leaned in. It was just a moment, a press against her back, before he stepped away and draped her coat over the back of the chair. “You look beautiful,” he told her, gaze warm and appreciative as he looked at her. “Are you hungry?”
She smiled at that little uh-huh, more boy than man and stirring so many memories from their slumber. And then she smiled brighter when he corrected himself incorrectly. There was made the barest hint of a fond laugh, and the coat slid off her shoulders and into his hands. She leaned back the tiniest bit, the sway in rhythm with the soft music that played. She could feel his warmth against her back; she wanted more of that warmth. But then he moved, and she made a small sound of protest. And maybe it was too early in the evening for that. Maybe, after a year, she should be able to feel his breath against the nape of her neck without it doing anything to her, but that wasn't the case. Bereft, and she turned to watch him drape the coat over the back of the chair with a smile. "Oui?" she asked of his compliment, her gloved hands on the sides of the soft dress and a tiny and girlish swish of fabric and vanilla and lavender. "Tu est tres beau," she added appreciatively, a coy glance down at what she could see of his suspenders accompanying the husky French compliment.
She glanced at the table when he asked if she was hungry. "I have to text your present first," she said, secrecy and a smile, and she pulled her cell from her clutch and sent a quick text, careful to block the screen from his view. And that done, she tucked the phone away and put the clutch on top of her discarded coat. "Et, oui, I'm hungry," she added, though her gaze said maybe, maybe she wasn't talking about food. That gaze lingered, warm and slow and full of promises, and then she turned toward the table with a tiny, teasing smile. "What did you make for us?" she asked, though she knew he hadn't, and she looked playfully at him over her shoulder, past platinum and curls. And she dragged her fingers over the blue box on the chair. "Do I get a hint?" she asked of its contents, before her fingers strayed away and she found the ice bucket again. "Maybe a glass of wine, bebe?" she asked, flitting from this to that with a bright smile reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning and too many presents to concentrate on just the one for very long.
She laughed at her own lack of focus, and she crossed back to him. Step, step, and she didn't stop until she was so close that she could feel the suspender's clasps against her belly. Stretch, and she pressed a slow-warm kiss to his mouth, linger and pleasure and a soft sound that was all exhale and longing. And then she rocked back and pushed at the lapels of his suit jacket in a silent request that he remove it. "S'il vous plait?"
He regretted moving back when she leaned against him, the warmth of her body still tangible even when there was distance between them. It wasn’t that he wanted to wait, or that he didn’t want her, but he was trying to at least pretend like weeks of waiting hadn’t left him as desperate as it actually had. And, admittedly, her sound of protest made it a little easier; he’d always liked knowing she wanted him, even in little ways. He nodded in confirmation that he’d meant his compliment, failing miserably at not staring. “Oui,” he agreed, and he didn’t need to have a perfect grasp of French to understand what she was saying. It was the combination of the language on her tongue and the way she looked at him that made him feel warmer than before, and he tried to go for a confident grin and ended up being halfway successful. “Merci,” he teased, not caring that his pronunciation was still nowhere near as good as hers.
His expression turned puzzled when she said she had to text his present, then curious, and yeah, he tried to get a look at the screen even though he knew she’d never let him. “Very secretive,” he said with a mock pout. Even though he’d told her that he didn’t need anything, he knew she wouldn’t listen. And he began to make some teasing remark about her being hungry but the words died on his lips, her warm gaze tying his tongue in knots and making it hard to think. Maybe he should have been able to talk without stammering or tripping over himself, maybe he should have been able to breathe properly when he looked at her, but all the growing up he’d done over the past five years hadn’t changed those things. He still wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone else, and she still made him feel like a teenager, now, too eager and a little awkward. “I--- good. I’m hungry too.” He wasn’t as good as it as she was, the whole smouldering look thing, but he tried. He was doing a whole lot of trying. “That depends on what you want,” he told her, a little more heat in his tone, more smirk than smile, and he didn’t correct her to point out that he hadn’t actually made anything. He shook his head, no, when she asked if she got a hint about the box, and he laughed aloud when she suggested a glass of wine only because she was going from topic to topic and he could barely keep up with all her teasing, much less the subject changes. “You know, we do have all night,” he pointed out with feigned innocence.
And then she was moving towards him, closer, and he couldn’t help leaning into her as she stretched against him. He sighed into the kiss, managing to follow her pace of slow warmth, but he had to bite back a whimper at her exhale and the longing he heard, and felt, in the sound. “Anything,” he breathed when she pushed at his lapels, not thinking, not hesitating. He’d always give her whatever she wanted, and he shrugged off his jacket obligingly and let it fall. He kissed her again because he was too close to not, and his fingers brushed over her sides. Wine, right, she’d wanted wine, but pulling back was so hard.
She didn't care about his pronounciation. Whenever he spoke French it made her breathless, and such a tiny thing to make every other thing fade. But it always reminded her of how good he was, how caring, how selfless, and how unbelievably lucky she was to have him. She watched her friends, watched their lovers and husbands be selfish or unkind, but he was never like that. Even when she thought back to New York, to those dark days of silence and fighting and dark shadows in corners. Even then, she'd known he adored her. Even then, she'd adored him. She'd made stupid, stupid mistakes, and she still thought his life would have been better without her in it, that he could fall for another girl, one that didn't still want to hurt men in order to help soothe the scabs overtop her soul. She still thought those things, but she had learned selfishness in the past year, despite his insistence that she was selfless. She had learned to want to keep him close and drag him in, and she wasn't fighting that anymore.
"Oui," was her response to his claim that she was secretive. Just this once, she was. But he'd been just as secretive with his suspenders and this suite set-up without her ever knowing. And when the words died on his lips, the beginning of a tease after that mock pout, she smiled lush warmth and pleasure. Pleasure, because she knew that look. She knew the look that said he wanted her, that he wasn't tired of her, that boredom hadn't factored in yet. She knew the look, and it made her warm all over, tingling from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers. He stammered, and she melted, and she her smiled turned into adoration that was soft and sweet and ever after. "I think it's too early in the night to tell you what I want," she teased, and she wasn't talking about food either, no, not at all. "I love that little smirk," she told him, voicing thought and hoping it would earn her a blush. He hadn't ever smirked when they were young, and it was just another one of the things that had changed during the past half-decade. And, as much as she'd loved the boy he'd been, she adored the changes in the man he was now.
When he shook his head in denial of a hint about the box, she pouted, and she lifted it to test the weight. But it was only a moment, and then he was feigning innocence, and then she was close, and then his lips were on hers. When he breathed that anything, she considered forgetting about everything but this. No wine, no blue box, no present that would soon come knocking on the door. Nothing but him, and the way he felt so close, and the way he bit back a whimper. And when he kissed her again, it was her turn to whimper, and she didn't bother swallowing down the sound or pretending she didn't want him. She swayed against him, his fingers against her sides and her hands wound in those suspenders that he'd been tormenting her with for days upon days. And it was just as hard for her to pull back. It was reluctance, and she slid off her heels and bit her lower lip. Her gaze was hooded, promises and things she was trying to keep in check just a little while longer, and then she moved away, away, and she slid past him toward the balcony wordlessly, letting him worry about the wine.
He knew she could read him better than anyone, but he didn’t care. He never had. Even when he tried to hide his reactions it was mostly teasing, rather than an actual desire to keep her from knowing how much he wanted her, or how he felt about her. He never wanted to keep those kinds of truths from her. She knew that he wanted her, she knew that she had him, whatever she wanted, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He pulled a face at her oui, that admission of secrecy, but admittedly he was equal parts curious and anticipatory in terms of what she had planned. She thought she was lucky, and he thought the same of himself. He’d probably never fully feel like he deserved her, and maybe she’d never fully feel the same way either, but they had each other, they loved each other, and that wouldn’t ever change. It was enough. It was more than enough. She wouldn’t ever let him go, and in turn he wouldn’t ever let her go either.
“I don’t think it’s too early,” he countered, his gaze going warmer and his smirk widening as he realized that, yeah, she definitely wasn’t talking about food. He managed to keep it intact when she said she liked it, but he couldn’t have kept himself from blushing even if he’d tried; that would have just made it more obvious. It was just a little heat, though, not like when he’d been younger, but then all of it was lost as he kissed her. He loved that whimper, loved knowing that she wanted him, and it was so easy to just forget about everything and focus on this. He didn’t want to wait, and his fingers pressed down, through the fabric of her dress, and he almost didn’t let her go. Almost. He knew he could have pulled her back and he considered it as he looked at her, his breaths coming a little heavier. But he let his hands fall, let her move away towards the balcony, and he let out a long, long exhale as he turned towards the ice bucket. Right. Okay. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, he was older now; he could wait a little longer.
Pouring the wine settled him a little, and he drank his down before refilling the glass and carrying both to where she stood. “For you,” he said gallantly, holding out one glass, and he figured even if she was going to make him wait he could still make it hard for her; maybe he wasn’t so good at words, but he knew how to look at her. He knew how to look at her like he wanted her, like she was the only thing in the world, and it was easy because it was true. His gaze was slow as it traveled along her body, from her feet up to her face, and he smiled.
"It's too early," she repeated coyly. And she had made him wait and wait, and she would make him wait longer. If she could manage it, she would make him wait through the evening, and only when he was mad with it would she give in. And it would be torture for her, agony and the sweet edge of a blade, but it would be worth it. And maybe she didn't feel things the way normal people did. Maybe she was blank, and maybe she was nothing, and she was willing to do things good and decent woman wouldn't. Maybe she really was a sociopath, as she feared she was, but he made her feel. And even the ache of holding out, of wanting him and not giving in, not right away, that ache was exquisite, and it was all worth it to see the heat and hunger in his eyes. He was the only man she'd ever wanted. In a lifetime of men, no one had ever quickened her as he did. Just him, and she liked to make it torture, just as much as she liked to make it sweet.
And she loved that blush, the color in his cheeks that was all lingering boy and uncertainty. "Do you remember the first time we were really together?" she asked after his kiss, a sway against the fingers that pressed against the fabric of her dress. She didn't mean that night in the icy cold of a nightmare. No, she meant the first time they'd really been together. "I touched you everywhere, and you didn't know what to make of me," she said fondly, remembering fingers and a bed and a scared and eager boy. And then he was pouring the wine and holding it out to her, and her lips were lush and her smile was happy, and she liked it when he tried to play her game. And even knowing what he was doing, it didn't dampen her reaction when he looked her over with that slow gaze. She didn't even try, because it would be like stopping an oncoming storm. She looked back, met his gaze with dark grey eyes, and then she took a long sip of the wine he had poured her, even as she held his gaze over the rim of the cup.
She licked her lips, the wine sweet and stain red. "I want you," she said, plain and raw and the words drowning in need. And then a knock came at the door, and she smiled. "Do you want to answer that, bebe?"
He gave her a look when she repeated her assertion that it was too early. There was no need to disagree again, not verbally, because they both knew this game well. She was better at it than he was; he was always the first to beg, to plead, to admit that he wanted her instead of pretending like he wasn’t affected at all. He knew she liked making him wait, and he knew she liked pushing him. She was just better at keeping her own want in check than he was, and while once he might have worried that it meant his feelings were stronger than hers, he didn’t anymore. He knew. It was still nice to be reminded, but he wasn’t afraid of her falling for somebody else these days.
Her question made him smile, a slow thing, turning into laughter as it really sank in. “Of course I remember,” he told her, pulling a mock frown as though insulted that she might have thought he didn’t. And he knew she wasn’t talking about the freezer, because that had been something else entirely. “I was nervous,” he admitted. “I thought I’d do something wrong, or I'd hurt you, but I was…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what the right word is. Excited, maybe? Or eager. Something like that.” The way she met his gaze made him falter a little, and while he didn’t want to look away it was hard to keep up his act when she stared like that. But he tried, he did, he held her gaze and he tipped his head to the side with a smile, warm and heady and saying more than he could ever actually put into words.
But all that effort went out the window when she said she wanted him. It wasn’t just the words but how she said them, and he tried to take a sip of wine to distract himself without success. “I want you too,” he began, taking a step forward, but then, then the knock at the door came. He sucked in a breath, frustrated, and turned to glance over his shoulder before looking back at her. “No, not really,” he sighed, shaking his head. “But I’m going to anyway.” He gave her another long look before turning and going back into the suite, setting his glass down on the table along the way, and when he reached the door he didn’t bother looking out to see who it was first. And, okay, maybe he was looking forward to finding out what she’d gotten him just a little. A second’s hesitation, just that, and then he opened the door.
That look made her smile, pleasure and mischief, and she couldn't imagine a life without this any more. Once, she'd thought she would never enjoy sex, never feel anything but blankness and nothing when a man climbed atop her. She'd thought that it was not for her, love and loving. But she'd been wrong about all of it, and now she couldn't imagine anyone but him, anything but this. That look made her a girl again, young and playful and all the things she'd never been before him, all the things she'd almost forgotten how to be during those five years apart.
And his smile, his laughter, that made her go sunshine bright. His mock frown made her laugh a little, a soft sound. She knew what he said was true, that he'd been nervous and scared and unsure and excited. He'd been so easy to read in some ways, emotions like adjectives writ on his face, and she'd been worried she would ruin him. But like all things with him, she'd been too selfish to leave him be. She'd always been selfish when it came to him. And he faltered, and that slight tip of his head made her move closer. Kiss and kiss, and all she wanted to do was kiss him. And the wine he raised to his lips stopped her, and his words rooted her. She could barely breathe, and then the knock came at the door, and she mentally cursed her gift a moment. Just one little moment.
But she smiled when he begrudgingly crossed the room. She was nervous, butterflies batting their wings against her ribs, and she bit her lower lip and clutched her fingers behind her back. Rock, tiptoes and heels, and the man at the door was familiar. He'd married them a year earlier at Harrahs, and he carried his book of vows, and he was dressed in somber black. She held her breath a little, and maybe renewed vows wasn't the most expensive gift, though she'd had to agree to work for the wedding chapel for free to pay for the money the preacher had lost in coming out on Valentine's evening. But she'd thought, and she'd thought, and she'd thought, and she hadn't been able to get the idea out of her mind. But now that the man was there, she was worried, and it showed on her face as she looked across the room, bare toes digging into the carpet.
He didn’t recognize the man at the door, not at first. The knock had been an interruption, one he’d been tempted to ignore, and he was still distracted, caught up in the way she smiled and laughed and looked at him. He regretted not staying, not moving closer instead of putting distance between them, and he marveled at the fact that she could still make him feel like a giddy teenager even after all these years. But he wasn’t surprised, really, because she was different. She always had been. No one else made him feel like she did and no one ever could. And so when he opened the door his cheeks were warm and the feeling of butterflies in his stomach, something only she could give him, was just beginning to settle, and he stared with a vaguely polite, puzzled smile at the preacher. “Hi,” he said, and then his gaze dropped to the book of vows he held and it clicked.
Since he was pretty sure Wren hadn’t gotten him a preacher as a literal present, he figured she’d arranged for them to renew their vows. He’d heard about people doing it, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t expensive; he loved that she’d thought of it regardless. A second later and the recognition kicked in, and he stepped back from the door. “Hi again,” he amended with a laugh. “Come in.” The preacher smiled politely and stepped inside, and he closed the door behind him before turning back towards the balcony. Even with the distance he could see the worry in her expression and his immediate instinct was to soothe her.
He crossed the room in seconds, and he took her hands in his once he’d reached her. “Baby, I love it,” he assured her, earnestly. “It’s-- it’s the most thoughtful-- I--” There were a million words he could have said but he kissed her instead, because he’d always been better at expressing himself that way.
Maybe she held her breath. Maybe she held it long enough to be lightheaded. Maybe she held it a little bit longer than that. It wasn't until he crossed the room that she exhaled, a puff of air against his lips before he kissed her. And then she was nervous laughter into that kiss, against his mouth, and a smile curving warmly. "Oui?" she asked shyly, almost a child that was afraid her present wouldn't be liked, and she didn't have much experience with gifts. Gifts from her maman had been random things, as strange as they were unexpected, a shell from the beach, a piece of discarded tinfoil in the shape of a tiny bird. And giving, giving had never been part of her life. There hadn't been anyone to give to, not until him, not really. She'd learned a little with Gus, but their son's little smiles were bought with stuffed lynxes and plastic giraffes. It was different than this, this vulnerability that came with picking something that wasn't material, that couldn't be blamed on a corporation if it was hated.
"You don't hate it?" she asked in a whisper, even as she looked around his shoulder and smiled at the man she'd already met with multiple times earlier in the week. She waved her fingers at him nervously, and she'd maybe been a little pushy to get him to come. She'd been really pushy with the manager at Harrahs, too, but she'd done a few shoots for them while she'd been there, and she'd forced them to look at her pictures, and maybe now she felt the tiniest bit guilty, but he was here, and Luke didn't look like he hated everything, and she bit her lip as the preacher motioned to the open door to the balcony. And the view was pretty outside, all neon lit and quiet dark and no sound carrying up and up, so she nodded. Her fingers closed around one of Luke's suspenders, and she gave a wordless little tug. She considered stepping back into her heels, but nerves made the potential delay feel like eternity, and so she stepped out onto the balcony in bare feet.
And then the preacher was talking, repeating words from precisely a year earlier, and she knew they would be done as quickly as they had been then. She leaned against Luke's side, and she swayed her hip against him, and her fingers wound tight, tight, tight in his. When the preacher asked if she wanted to say anything, she exhaled slowly, and the butterflies flurried. She'd memorized a poem, and the words stuck in her throat, frozen there and held in place by those butterfly wings. But, finally, she turned to him, and her voice was husky-shattered, and her eyes were drowned in tears. "I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you."
He loved her laugh. He loved her smile. He loved the way her voice sounded, shyness and French words that made him feel like he couldn’t breathe because he didn’t need to, because all he needed was her and everything else was insignificant. He loved her, but not even that was enough to describe the depths of his feelings. “Oui,” he repeated back at her, hushed warmth, and he kissed her again, quickly, before giving her enough space to get words out. His gaze was adoring, and he looked at her like there was nothing but her; he barely managed to remember that the preacher was in the room. “No, I don’t hate it. Not even a little. It’s perfect,” he assured her, and maybe it left him feeling a little inadequate. The suite, what was in the box; it was all material, and he’d just wanted to give her everything but none of it was as meaningful as what she’d planned. “I think you outdid me.” It was playful, mostly, teasing, but there was a hint of something uncertain in his gaze, a small fear that he hadn’t lived up to her expectations.
But he tried not to dwell on it, and the way she tugged on his suspenders was a good distraction. He glanced over his shoulder before relenting and letting her lead him out onto the balcony, and at least he’d gotten this right; it was nice, quiet, and the lights made it romantic. Her lack of shoes just made him smile, all fondness and nothing else. Little things like that were part of who she was, and he wouldn’t have her any other way. He listened to the preacher, he leaned against her when she leaned against him, let her entwine her fingers tightly with his and squeezed, reassuring, just to remind her. It brought back memories of a year before, of how it had felt to marry her, and he tugged on her fingers without thinking.
She didn’t actually need to say anything; the way she looked at him was enough. But Luke was patient, and he waited for her to find her voice. The words might not have been hers but that didn’t matter; what mattered was the meaning, how she sounded, and it was beautiful. He laughed because it gave him a chance to compose himself, and the sound was a hoarse, quiet thing, wrapped around a shaky smile. “I don’t have anything as eloquent as that to say, and I’m not very good with words,” he admitted, and took a breath. “I could spend the rest of my life trying to explain how I feel about you, and it wouldn’t be enough. You’re the best of me, my other half, my-- my everything. It’s.. it’s like I wasn’t really living until I met you.” He shook his head a little, sheepish, and entwined his fingers with hers. “You have my heart, now and forever.”
She shook her head when he said she'd outdone him. "Non," she said, heartfelt and earnest. "You gave me exactly what I wanted." And he had. Other men might rent limos, make dinner reservations, buy tickets for things or pay for entrance to this club or that club. But she didn't want any of those things. She wanted him, and she wanted only him, and he'd given her an entire evening of that. Between the kids, the hotel, and his job, that just didn't happen very much anymore. Their lives had become stolen minutes and hushed couplings, and there was nothing she wanted more than an evening of just them. Her expression said as much, and her gaze was adoration alight in grey. "I might get used to it, though," she added, a whisper that made it to the preacher's ears anyway, and she didn't really care. She didn't care at all.
The press of his fingers, that squeeze of fingertips that tangled with hers, made everything pinpoint, made everything else fade away entirely. And maybe she was a bad maman, but there weren't children, and even the preacher was a nonentity. There was only the touch of his hand, and the way his voice sounded when he spoke. There was only him, and the way he looked at her with that sheepish expression, earnestness pouring from his lips. He was everything, and she'd realized that long ago, back when she'd been just a girl, back when he'd been just a boy.
She cried, and she tugged on his fingers and stepped in front of him. She didn't care about the preacher, who followed a soft chuckle with a polite farewell and a blessing. The man could have stood there forever, and she wouldn't have cared, wouldn't have noticed. The preacher's footsteps retreated, and she pressed herself up on her tiptoes and kissed Luke. The kiss was slow and linger and warm. It was tear-damp, and it was desperate or all its slowness. It was a request that he kiss her back. It was a million requests beyond that. She whimpered, and pulling back was daunting. "I don't want to move," she confessed against his mouth. "Make me." And it was an order, a demand, because she wanted to drag this out. She needed this night to go on forever, to be endless.
Oh, how badly he wanted to believe her. They didn’t have as much time together as he would have liked, despite his best efforts, and all Luke had wanted was a night that was theirs and no one else’s. He thought she wanted the same but he worried, still, of course he did, he always worried about getting things right when it came to her. But she sounded sincere and as he looked at her, as he saw the adoration in her gaze, he knew she wasn’t lying just to appease him. He’d gotten better at reading her over the years, and he knew she couldn’t lie to his face, just like he couldn’t lie to hers. “Good,” he said, a shaky smile and a whisper. “That’s all I wanted. And I don’t mind if you get used to it. I like giving you what you want.” He didn’t care if the preacher heard; she was his world, and no one else had ever mattered more.
He was expecting her to cry; her tears didn’t make him panic as they once had. Not like this, not under these circumstances. He smiled, earnest and bright and fond, and he barely had a chance to glance in the preacher’s direction, much less say anything, before she was tugging on her fingers and bringing her lips to his. A wave of his hand, an indication for the man to let himself out, and then his arms went around her waist and he was lost. He kissed her back with want that turned into need, desperate and pent-up longing breaking free, and his breaths were short gasps against her mouth when she admitted that she didn’t want to move. But that demand, make me, was hard for him to deny and he kissed her again, frustration and a whine caught in his throat. “I don’t want to move either. I don’t,” he whimpered, but like her he wanted this to last, too, and it was with enormous effort and palpable reluctance that he pulled his hands away and stepped back.
For a long, long moment he stood there, chest rising and falling as he stared at her with badly concealed desire. His fingers brushed her jaw but he made himself step back, back, even though it was impossibly hard to do. “You didn’t finish your wine,” he managed, his voice a little raspy, “and you haven’t opened your present yet either.”
That shaky smile made her want to reassure him with her body. It made her want to make him understand how perfect this gift was. And she would, she would. But not yet, not yet, and she was glad when they were alone again, when the door closed behind the preacher and left them with only the quiet of the music and the evening wind. "You always give me what I want," she said, and it was true. He did. He never denied her anything at all, not really, not if it wasn't bad for her. "You're the most selfless person I've ever known. I never knew anyone could be like you." And she hadn't. Her maman, her clients, even her friends - they had never been like him. She didn't think there was anyone like him anywhere. And he was hers.
The desperation and need in the kiss made it harder to let go. His frustration was palpable, and that whine he swallowed down almost made her give in. She wanted to peel off his shirt right there, and she wanted to shove those suspenders out of her way, and his admission that he didn't want to move either was almost too much. She watched his chest rise and fall, and she looked up to see that desire in his eyes. His fingers against her jaw made her sway closer, and it was a good thing he stepped back; she wouldn't have been able to, regardless of her demand. "I didn't finish my wine," she echoed, using the words to steady herself, to remind herself that it would be sweeter if they waited. And she wanted to see that need on his face. She wanted to see him burn with it. That raspy tone of his, it wasn't enough. It made her swallow back her own whimper, but it wasn't enough. And she was really, really greedy where he was concerned.
"And I haven't opened my present," she finally managed, a belated and husky echo. She turned then, and she walked inside the suite, because a moment longer so very close to him and she would have reached for him again. The carpet beneath her toes gave her something to concentrate on, and she breathed, and she breathed, and then she turned to look at him, calmer. "Do I get a hint?" she asked, and she walked over to the blue box and looked down upon it. She dragged her fingers over the box again, the touch an intentional caress, slow and drag and the kind of touch that was meant for warm skin. Back and forth, and then she began to undo the ribbon just as slowly.
“I’m only selfless when it comes to you,” Luke said, and maybe that wasn’t entirely true, but to a degree it was. He didn’t sacrifice himself for strangers anymore. Only certain people, those he was close to, and even then she was the only one he would always put first, without question, no matter the cost to himself. “And I always give you what you want because I want to.” He wasn’t very good at explaining himself, but he really did want her to understand that it wasn’t a sense of obligation or duty that made him so willing to give; it was a simple, genuine desire to make her happy in any way he could. He’d give her the world and more if it was within his power to do so. He thought about trying to explain further, but then he decided maybe, maybe showing her was better.
It was so, so hard to stay still. He wanted to move closer, and he wanted to touch her, and he wanted to make her forget what he’d just said. His breath caught in his throat when she passed him, and he just managed to keep himself from reaching out and pulling her close. Breathe, he had to breathe, but the outside air did absolutely nothing to calm him and after a few seconds he gave up and turned to follow her back into the suite. “No hints,” he teased, and he poured himself more wine in an effort to distract himself. It wasn’t exactly successful, considering that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, and he stared blatantly over the glass as she dragged her fingers over the box and began to undo the ribbon. If someone had told him, all those years ago, that her unwrapping a present would turn him on he’d have laughed, but he was pretty sure she was putting on a show for him and if her intention was to drive him crazy, well, it was working.
Inside the box, nestled in paper, was birds, and suddenly the swooping feeling in his stomach had more to do with nerves than desire. “I thought it was cute,” he shrugged, because he always stammered and babbled when he was nervous, and he was worried that she’d think it was stupid. He shrugged again, taking a deep gulp of wine to keep himself from rambling further.
She gave him a look when he said he was only selfless when it came to her. The look was a knowing thing, disbelieving, and she knew better. She knew who he was, what he was, how he was; he was selfless in general. She remembered the little boy who had been willing to risk everything to save people, to help them. Strangers, and he didn't have any of her little selfish motivators. She wanted to help prostitutes, and she wanted to help children, and she wanted to hurt men who hurt women and girls, but it was all selfish. All those desires led back to her childhood, to the things she had been through, and to the people who hadn't helped her then. But he'd had a wonderful childhood, and his need to help came from something good and pure inside him, and she loved him for it. And she knew he gave her what she wanted because he wanted to. Maybe she should've realized how much that said about the ways in which their relationship had changed in the past two years, how far it had come. But she wasn't thinking about that. She wasn't really thinking about anything beyond her desire to make him understand that she understood.
"I know," she finally said. "I know why you do it." Just as every last thing she did for him was done to make him happier. She still felt that he could have done so much better than her, but she wasn't sure anyone could possibly love him more than she loved him. Obsessive sometimes, maybe unhealthy, but she would do anything for him. He could do anything he wanted to and with her, and she would let him. When he teased that he wouldn't give her a hint, she pouted, full lower lip the and blonde curls adding to the illusion of little-girl petulance. But her curiosity won out over the desire to play the game, at least for the moment, and she opened the box and carefully pulled out the item nestled within. She was smiling at the white lovebirds when he spoke, and she looked up to seeing him looking nervous, babble and shrug and that deep gulp of wine.
She didn't say anything immediately. She let him stammer. She let him shrug. She let him look nervous and worried. She turned the lovebirds over in her hands carefully, gently, a soft smile on her lips that she couldn't hide, not even to torment him a little. She looked at them a little bit longer, and then she carefully tucked the lovebirds into the box again.
She approached him once the lovebirds were back in their blue box. She was a slow sway of hips, deliberate and sensual, and she didn't say anything as she reached out and pushed the suspenders from his shoulders. Her fingers dragged against his arms, over his sleeves, and she stretched up to kiss him. Just once - just one kiss. "I love it," she told him of the present, tiptoes and her voice against his ear. And then she was moving back again, teeth worrying her lower lip and her hands reaching up to undo the button that held her dress at the neck. "No touching," she insisted, even as she began to pull the dress down her arms. She wore no bra beneath the soft fabric, no underwear at all. Instead, it was a cream beribboned garter belt and lace-topped thigh-highs that came into view, along with smooth pale-and-pink skin. "Can I have some more wine, please, bebe?" she asked, her smile warm and mischievous, her request ever so polite.