meaghan mccormack is a wrecking ball of love. (secretheart) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-08-29 00:47:00 |
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With Moody's reassurance that
Kirley would be safe while she was gone, she hadn't needed any more incentive
to get the hell out of her house, away from her journal, and away from dealing
with the fresh wave of fear she had to cope with every time someone in the
Order did something stupid to make themselves a target. It seemed to her that
the asylum was being run by the patients, and that, despite her hopes when
joining the Order, this really was a lost cause. She pushed all that aside and quickly walked down her block to her local, the warm and familiar air circling around her and into the cooler chill of the night. Still, despite the comforting familiarity, she paused at the door, her eyes focused on the worn wood of the bar that they had roamed over many a night before. This was the part where she drank until she couldn't form coherent thoughts and then passed out into a dreamless sleep. But the thought of drinking disgusted her. She had changed too much in the last months to go back to that Meaghan. She didn't want to be the person who dealt with every emotion, positive or negative, by blurring it with whatever she could get her hands on. A minute shake of her head--once, twice--and she spun on her heel, not looking back toward the bewildered face of the pub barman who had been so pleased a moment ago to see her back after her weeks away. Her steps carried her quickly to the nearest secluded spot, and then with a pop she was there in front of the red door, passed the familiar wisteria. A tentative knock, a fervent hope that he was home. Securing the Order's safe house had been an exercise in great patience, a virtue that had never been easy for Caradoc. He was a singular man, he liked to attack a project and see it through in an amount of time that seemed (to his own mind) comparable to the situation. But the Order's needs were specific and after selecting the small cottage on the canal, he was more than happy to leave it in more capable hands for decorating and making a home of it. He had done what he set out to do and, in the meantime, had again sequestered himself in the tiny flat. Tucked back against a wall, he sat with a pile of anthropology texts and a half-empty cup of tepid tea until the knock on his door sounded ... late. With few strides indeed he made it to the door and with hand in pocket (where his wand lay hidden), he opened it and then sighed bodily. Just - No, not just. Certainly not that. "Meaghan." "Caradoc." She replied, something akin to a shipwrecked man catching glimpse of a nearby shore in her voice. She looked like she had been sleeping more, if not rested, but her voice and movement lacked vitality. Still she couldn't control the light that sparked into her eyes when he opened the door, when she took in his familiar and still so mysterious form. "You're awake." She said, dumbly. "Am I...am I disturbing you?" "No - " with head bowed (he realised he was still holding a pencil and tucked it behind his ear), he backed up to give her room to enter.”C'mon in." She stepped into the space he created, her eyes taking in the pencil he quickly stashed and the piles of books scattered across the room. She stuck her hands into her pockets, feeling more unsure than she would have liked. She looked back over her shoulder at him, another apology on her lips. "Hello," she said in it's place, exchanging a proper greeting with him for once. With the inside of his lip bitten, he wondered what she thought she was here for. He wondered if she even knew. "Have a seat." If he had asked, the only answer she could have given him was sanity. She couldn't explain it any more than she could explain any part of the unsettling pull she felt, her strange desire to be around him more than almost anyone else in her life, more than people she had known for years. She sat, then, and looked at her knees, feeling wave after wave of confusing and conflicting emotions wash over her as they all did in his presence. God, she was like a child. "Thank you." Sinking back into the chair opposite her, he continued to wonder over her awkward behaviour (something that had, it seemed, more than flourished since their last meeting). He didn't know how to defuse what lay between them. A clearing of his throat, then, and "How are you?" It was the lack of definition that made her feel so awkward. The last time she saw him, when they kissed--it was like getting the wind knocked out of her, like there was a reality of how one could feel that no one had ever thought to clue her in on. She had never known it could be like that, and now it was all she wanted. But just because they had kissed, did that mean they were kissing? Could she kiss him anytime she wanted, or was that a one-shot deal? Could they more than kiss? She shook her head, trying to clear the images that thought sparked in her away. "Tired, I supposed. Pissed off at Sirius, and Marlene. Tired of worrying that they're going to get themselves killed because they can't keep their mouths shut." She shook her head again, rolling her eyes. "I just needed to get out of my house for awhile." Leaning forward, she extended her hand across the space between them, resting it lightly on his knee. "I hope you don't mind." She said, with many meanings intended. Every nerve in his knee flared up, scorching the skin beneath her light touch, furrowing its way up to his cheeks as he blushed. He blushed. Caradoc bloody </span> It was dim enough light in the apartment, that was for sure. And it was damn near unbelievable. But Caradoc Dearborn was blushing. Quite profusely and quite distinctly. Eyebrows shooting up in surprise, she didn't even attempt to hide the huge grin that suddenly sprang across her face, feeling suddenly more relieved than she had in her life. The possibility that he might just be as awkward as she was delighted her to no end as the playing field became instantly more level. Without a second though, she pushed herself away from the couch and stood over him, hands cupping his face as she bent to capture his mouth with her own, suddenly completely sure of herself. Instinct kicked in - a warm mouth, a pliable body and he forgot, for an instant, that he was in England and there were anthropology notes to go through (and this was an Order girl) and it was, furthermore, his house and ... "Meaghan," he managed, gently prying her from his mouth with the heels of his hands against her jaws. "What?" And...crashing back to reality. And she was, once again, horrible unsure of anything anymore. "What what?" "You keep doing that - why?" She rocked back onto her heels, arms crossing defensively over her chest. "Well, Mr. Anthropologist, some cultures actually consider that to be a pleasurable act for two adults to engage in." Taking the opportunity, using his weight and her balance, he grasped her firmly by the shoulders and shifted their positions. Now she sat in the chair and he was bent over her, his brow furrowed in the depths of concentration. "That's not what I meant. You're ..." taking a deep breath, he tried to gather his thoughts into some semblance of something to keep him from vomiting up something offensive. "Well." She cocked an eyebrow, at being manhandled so and at his seemingly meaningless observation. "I'm what?" "Are you turned on by despair?" "Not the last time I checked, no." "Then why in the bloody buggering hell do you continue to kiss me?" was soft, softer than he'd meant, full of wonder and the hint of conjecture. She mystified him. A long moment of stunned silence passed as she tried to comprehend what he was saying. It was hard for her to believe that someone could have built the foundation of their self-identity upon a tragedy, that they could believe that all people saw when they looked at them was their misery. Her grief was fresher, more raw than his, but she still didn't think of it as her defining characteristic. She knew that when people looked at her, they saw Meaghan and not Meaghan's dead mother. So that he could think all she saw when she looked at him, blushing at her so sweetly like a schoolboy, was his despair, it took her nearly a full minute of silence to work through. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" ... stunned silence reigned for several moments between them before he rose, straightening to his full height to smooth his wrinkled clothes back into a semblance of attractively rumpled. He ran his fingers through his hair, pointed at her, and then turned away with some measure of temper. "And what're you for kissing one." "Probably a fucking idiot as well." She stood back up, one hand on her hip as her temper began to rise as well. "I continue to kiss you because I like kissing you. I'm attracted to you. You're fit, you have nice parts, they go together well. I find you emotionally and intellectually stimulating and I would like to get your kit off and spend one to four hours in compromising positions. I'm not attracted to despair, you great git, I'm attracted to you." Well, no one had ever told him quite like that before. Indeed, since Her fingertips were massaging her temples before he got to the word 'heartache', and her whole face was covered by her hands around 'knickers.' She couldn't believe that people spoke like this outside of novels. "Damaged goods? You're not...you're not a table I want for my sitting room, Caradoc. You're not a radio missing the lead. You're a person. A person who has been terribly hurt and wallowing in despair for god knows how many years but you are also kind and witty and intelligent and caring and damn good looking and honestly, what are you going to do? Waste your whole life on being miserable? Never have a happy moment or a good relationship again? Who do you think you're honoring with eternal damnation in the valley of sadness? And just who do you think I am that you believe you need to look out for my feelings? I'm a grown woman, Caradoc. I know how to make my own, fully informed decisions." To hear his mental and emotional condition described so succinctly barred him from, it seemed, further commenting or venting his frustration with another barb that lay sharp on the tip of his tongue. It nearly crippled him right there as he bore down upon his desk, rending his way through the emotional baggage that separated him from what she defined as a person. She watched him, unable to say anything more. He was clearly a roiling storm inside himself, clearly wrestling with whatever malignant grief had eaten at him for so long. She dropped her hand from her waist, her body open and neutral. She waited for him, waited for him to be ready to say something to her. Whatever came next, she would accept it. If he asked her to go away forever, she would do so. Even if she could never comprehend resigning oneself to unending misery, she couldn't continue being the source of so much confusion and angst for him. Practically falling on his desk as he turned, not caring what papers were crumpled beneath his errant hands, he finally turned and looked at Meaghan. He beheld this girl who opened up so much of herself - and him, in the process - simply by not accepting no for an answer. "Come here." Still open, still tentative, she closed the distance between them. "You ...” with palms spread toward her, he grasped her waist and pulled her forward firmly. "Have to take it slow." A hard swallow, her face the picture of pleasant surprise as he touched her, pulled her toward him. Her hand came up to rest on his chest, steadying and restraining her. "How slow?" "Don't know," he admitted, locking his arms at the small of her back, his lips making a moist trail over the hollow of her neck. "Just ... space, time. I'm trying." Her breath came out in a little puff next to his ear, bent toward her lips. Her free hand curled at his waist. "Space. Time. Difficult to think about currently." She said, her voice soft and strained at the edges with the effort of controlling herself. "I don't want to hurt you." Tasting her soft skin was like nothing he'd ever remembered, not in the years he had attempted to drown in apathy and liquor. "I'm sorry," was merely a vibration upon her earlobe as he continued his exploration. "I've been hit by Bludgers worse than what you could do to me." She reassured him, both hands now tight fists, her hips pressing against his for the briefest moment before she stopped herself. "I'm not good with guessing limits. I'm too impulsive. You have to tell me what is and isn't okay. What I can and can't do." Her head tilted to the side, exposing a further expanse of her skin. " ... I'm not talking about your body," was a rumble deep in his chest as he leaned back to scan the plane of her pale, spectacular face. Such contrasts, highlighted by a bow of a mouth, wide porcelain-doll eyes and yet, a wit that could inure and teeth that could cut. He found himself intoxicated - more, and he feared he would lose control completely - it was better for him, for them both, that things developed organically. He didn't want another fuck - if he was going to gamble with Meaghan McCormack, he was going to endeavour to deserve her. "Neither am I." She said, her pale cheeks flushing delicately under his careful scrutiny. Resisting the urge to look down, away from the intensity of his eyes, she kept her gaze locked on his, her skin heated under his hands. Having him this close, having him willing, made it almost painful to keep a tight grasp on her control, but she knew that if she attacked him, if they fucked that night, than that would be the end of it. She also knew that she most certainly didn't want that to be the end of it. "I'm not fragile. I promise." The hand on his chest unclenched, fingers spreading to feel the pulse beating beneathe them. "Who's sayin' I'm not?" was a tease if there ever was one and with a slow stroke down her waist, he eased another kiss upon the bridge of her nose and smiled. "Well, I think you're thinking about my body, at any rate." She said, a smirk slowly spreading across her face. As he leaned forward, she tilted her head up to kiss him before he escaped. She curled her hand around the back of his neck, her mouth exploring his boldly for a long moment before she pulled back suddenly, keeping her body near his as she studied his face, her expression full of expectation and feigned nervousness. A smirk twitched at his lip as he slid from her grasp, perched again upon the edge of the couch. He felt full - like an overflowing cistern - the sensation was inexplicable. She let out a breath as he walked away, still smiling. "Oh good, I was bracing for the inevitable nervy fit that follows when I dare to kiss you." Walking over to the couch, she collapsed beside him, stretching out so that her legs hung over his lap, her eyebrow cocked in amusement. "I'm getting better, hmm?" was bemused as he let his arms flop over her legs. "Well that's a relief. I've always been an apt pupil." "Much better. I'm thinking I might kiss you again someday, you did so well." She wiggled her toes at him, nudging his stomach with her foot. "Have you?" "And I just might let you, so we both get passing marks for the evening." A wink. "Muggle and Wizarding levels to prove it - well, not so much the Wizarding levels." She groaned at the mention of Muggle schooling, remembering the tutors of her youth. "Well, I'll take the Wizard and you take the Muggle levels and we should be alright." Curling her legs underneathe herself, she sat up, lips and tongue seeking the skin of his throat. "Now, any idea on when that next kiss might be best scheduled?" Fingertips trailing through the ends of her heavy hair, he shook his head and laughed softly. "I could explode, you might not want to rock my world much further." Her eyes brimming with laughter, she trailed her mouth across his chin. "We wouldn't want that." Taking her chin in the palm of his hand, he steered her lips from his chin to his own lips, directing their final kiss before he dropped his grip upon her and threaded his hands across the base of his skull. She savored it while she could, still marveling at how kissing him felt different every time, like there were a million different characters to his mouth that she would never fully explore. When he released her, another wry smile emerged at his self-satisfied, sated pose. Don't look so comfortable. I haven't taught you the meaning of satisfied yet. "If I stayed here would you be able to control yourself?" "Absolutely not." "And they say I'm the impulsive one." |