sam. (samson) wrote in caged, @ 2013-08-24 17:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 97-08, [ log ], samson capper, ursula flint |
WHO: Samson Capper and Ursula Flint
WHEN: 3 o'clock in the morning, August 24th
WHERE: Sully's kitchen.
SUMMARY: Samson and Ursula have a tense conversation.
RATING: PG-13
STATUS: Completed Log
It had been hours and hours since the firewhiskey and the champagne - even more hours since the five course dinner and the dancing and the ice swan sculpture, and all was quiet in the Burke house in the wee hours of the morning, despite a cluster of teenagers sleeping in upstairs bedrooms, on couches and guest beds and Ursula thought she may have stepped over someone as she rubbed her eyes and made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was a somewhat familiar house to her, having had time to get to know it while Opal was staying with her cousin, and as she padded barefoot through the hallway, hair mussed and eyes still full of sleep, it was with familiarity that she stepped onto the tiles and opened the cabinet where the casual glasses were kept. Water had halfway filled the glass before someone spoke behind her, and Ursula jumped, eyes darting up-- and then relaxed half a second later despite her heartbeat still going like a rabbit. Samson hadn't planned on this. Not exactly. But Ursula's earlier dismissal of him had gotten him thinking. Despite the fact that they were meant to only be friends, there was a part of him that wanted more and had wanted it for months now. But there seemed to be a hesitation on her part that he didn't understand. He wanted to. He wanted to know if there really was any chance or not. Was she playing coy, or did she truly not want anything more from him? He wasn't planning on any grand gestures that night. He had never planned out any and he didn't know that he ever would. All that he wanted was to know what was going inside her mind. And, plagued with those thoughts, it had been difficult to sleep. It was difficult, too, because somebody was snoring and although he had originally gotten to sleep thanks to the buzz of firewhiskey, something had woken him earlier and then he had sat in half sleepfulness for a good half hour. He had planned on just staying there until dawn came, but then a figure moved in the darkness. It was short and moved like Ursula, so he was confident that it was her even though he hadn't fully made her out. The figure moved swiftly. Ursula, definitely. He took his time walking knowing that his larger frame would cause more creaking in the floors than she did. That was why she had made it to the kitchen and begun getting a drink while he made his way into the room. "Sorry," he said, holding up a hand. "I didn't realize I'd startle you. I just… Wanted some water too." “Merlin,” came her immediate response, holding a hand to her chest as if measuring her heartbeat, though the look on her face was relief mingled with amusement. “You scared me half to death, you prat,” although it was said lightly; though it had been hours ago that they’d been drinking, the combination of sleep and alcohol had given Ursula a deliberate reprieve from worrying about the way he had looked at her earlier in regards to getting inside her head. She had been joking when she mentioned needing champagne and mutually assured destruction, but not because she was plagued by any thoughts of romanticism or worries about buried feelings. As far as she was concerned, at this point in time, Tilly and Samson were an item: maybe not yet, maybe not officially, but her friend was very much into him, and her? Well. Sure, Samson was fit, and Samson was sweet, and they got on well. It didn’t matter, though: it wouldn’t do to think about it. For that matter, she’d have dragged Max off at some point during the festivities if she hadn’t thought it’d make a scene. She had mostly been concerned about her own walls, the ones she carefully put up to keep things to herself, when they’d been referring to secrets. Pulling the glass out from under the faucet, she shut off the flow even as she raised the glass to her lips, noting as if joking with him, “You can use my glass in a minute, if you’d like. Otherwise they’re up there,” and motioned to the cabinet where she’d gotten hers from, then took three long swallows of water, cradling the glass in both hands and lifting it high as she drank, eyes closed for those brief moments. "Sorry," he said again. "Next time I'll thunder like an elephant," he joked. But it was lame and he knew it. He leaned into a cabinet, his hand draping down to dangle along the edge of the wood. He took a deep breath and watched her. The alcohol buzz was gone from his head but that didn't mean that he still didn't have courage that came along with the drink. But not enough, really, to do much with it. Maybe just a little thing here or there. "I'll wait," he said. "Less for the house elf to clean." And he wouldn't do anything stupid like put his lips where hers had been. In fact, he'd be sure to avoid such a thing. He looked away from her, staring at the floor instead. "It was nice dancing with you," he said. He might have said that to anyone--Lilith, Charlotte. But he wanted to make sure he said it to her. She had downed the entire glass before she came up for air again, inhaling sharply and then exhaling with a laugh at his comment about the elephant. “No need,” she said wryly, with a twitch at the corners of her mouth that meant she was trying to avoid smiling. “I don’t imagine there’ll be a lot of times you’ll be sneaking into a room after me at four in the morning. Here,” she offered the glass to him, then, when he took it, pressed her hands into the side of the counter and lifted herself up onto it with a little hop, the bend in her knees over the edge of said counter. Having settled her gaze on the floor as well, mind drifting back to thoughts of bed and the morning to follow and the slight headache still buzzing around her temples when he broke the silence, she looked up at him in slight surprise. Automatically, she responded with a tone of self-mocking, she answered, “Well, I am an excellent dancer, the boys all say so.” But there was an awkward pause immediately following: a pause in which they both knew she said it to create distance, and they both knew he’d said it to do the opposite. She refused to meet his eyes, though, having dropped them to the floor again uncertainly; she didn’t know why she’d done it, exactly, said it like that, didn’t know why she always did it. Her mind on awkward encounters and keeping even close friendships still at a safe distance, she had no idea that there was that particular subtext to the conversation: that entire realm was roped off in her head. Off limits. "No, I don't think so. I doubt we'll be around each other much at night anyway. Tonight's just an exciting change," he took the glass and filled it before taking a drink. Wondering if that sounded stupid. Well, it was too late for explanations now. He took another drink. Unlike Ursula he kept his eyes open as he drank, the brown going back and forth between looking at her, the floor, the counter. He didn't really know where to look. She was still in that beautiful dress and while he knew nothing of fashion he did know that she looked good in it. Without the heels it had surprised him that she was able to lift herself up on the counter, but he liked her being on it. They were close to each other's heights. Not that he minded that she was short. "Yeah, well, I bet they do," he said. He noted the pause, but he wasn't very good at reading cues of any sort like that. If they were on the pitch, yes, he would be in his element and working diligently to sort out everything and he'd manage it. But here, in a kitchen at three o'clock in the morning, he was not at his element. He didn't even have a goal, which would have made everything all the easier. The glass was half full, and he ran his thumb over the lip. "Secrets," he said. "Before you ditched me you were talking about secrets." Immediately, shoulders already tense, she began as if she were ready for it, “I didn’t ditch you, I just--” Her eyes still cast at the floor, refusing to look over at him as if that would somehow make this easier, as if it would allow her to use her jokes and her mocking rather than her candidness, a tool she only permitted herself when absolutely necessary (or occasionally when unexpected). As if it would let them go back to a few hours ago when there wasn’t a weird tension in the air getting a glass of water at four in the morning. She stared intently at a single spot on the floor before exhaling audibly and going on, as if it were a struggle, “I just didn’t know what I was supposed to say. I wasn’t serious, not really. I don’t-- I don’t have a list entitled Secrets of Ursula Flint and guard it jealously, I didn’t know what you wanted, and it’s--” Falling silent, she shrugged, letting the moment hang and swinging her feet awkwardly, uncertainly, before finally raising her eyes to look over at him and her water glass. "It's what?" he asked. He walked over to her, leaning forward. "I don't know what I wanted either. I just thought that maybe we were the sort of friends who didn't have much in the way of secrets. Maybe I'm wrong, I won't begrudge you for it if I am." Honestly, he didn't know what secrets he had to offer up either. He didn't know that there were many he'd hide from her. He lived his life quite openly. Except for the things he wasn't open about, obviously. He put his hand on the counter, a hand's space away from her own. "You could ask me anything, you know," he said. She tried not to let the slight alarm show as he walked over to her - not because she feared him or anything, but because she feared the closeness it represented, the being forced to confront something she spent much of her time avoiding. Even in friendships, relationships, she was (and probably always would be, she had accepted) deliberately distant, using humor and flattery and whatnot to distract from a keen desire to keep things casual. To only reveal what she felt like revealing. So she watched him walk over to her, the hairs on the back of her neck pricking up, and lifted her hands, placing them in her lap even as she watched. And didn’t speak, for another few seconds - she opened her mouth as if to say something, then hesitated, before finally saying, “I don’t lie. I just-- don’t always answer.” Shrugging weakly, as if she knew that wasn’t exactly the way most friendships operated, she went on, a little helplessly, as if she weren’t sure if this would cause a point of contention in their friendship, “But you can ask me anything, too.” Well, he had the green light. But as Samson smiled at her the gears in his head were turning as he tried to think of a sensible question to ask. Even a nonsensible one. He cleared his throat and took another drink to give him more time to think. "So," he said. "What do you think of me? Really think of me." Her immediate response was a cautious glance up at him, then returning her eyes to a fixed point on the tiles of the floor; when she spoke after a few moments of silence, it was hotly, as if she were being forced to be honest against her will and she wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. “What do you mean, what do I think of you?” Her voice had hints of frustration, uncertainty, but above all, a thread of vulnerability that hardly ever ran through her normal interactions. “I think you’re brilliant. I-- I appreciate that you believe in me, that you helped me with Quidditch. That you’re my mate, for whatever reason. That you--” she swallowed hard, then went on as if there had been no pause, throwing a hand to the side as if unable to vocalize what she was trying to communicate, “lift things off shelves for me and whatnot.” She raised a hand to her hair frustratedly, mussing it up, looking up at him with brows pulled together. “I think you’re brilliant. I thought you knew that.” He eased back a little physically as he caught the frustration in her voice. He wanted to say something but he didn't want to interrupt her so he let her say her piece. He wondered if this had been a bad question to ask but he had thought it would be funny for them. And knowing her teasing nature, he expected that he would just get a retort along those lines. But she was talking earnestly and after a pause of having leaned away, he leaned back in. Samson gave a huffy sort of laugh at the comment about him getting things for her. With a goofy sort of smile he opened the shelf above her head as though to prove that he could, in fact, do that. But his smile faded away a little as she finished and he saw the look on her face. He wanted to catch her hand and keep her from raking her fingers through her hair but he didn't. Instead he just studied her. "Well, I knew you didn't object to my company," he said. Eyebrows still knitted together, she looked up at him as if utterly confused by his last statement. “Of course I don’t object to your company,” she retorted, then cut herself off immediately with a barely audible sound of disgust, not at him but at herself, not sure why she was so hostile when all he was doing was talking to her, asking her questions, perfectly reasonable questions. It was just that it was three in the morning and he was looking at her and there was something she couldn’t put her finger on that was odd about all this, something that had her unbalanced. “I don’t--” she started, again frustrated, but quieter, softer, with an undertone of confusion more than irritation, “I don’t understand what you’re asking me, then.” "Okay, okay," said Samson, holding his hands up. He felt a twisting in his gut. He didn't know what it was that was upsetting her. Maybe he needed to just leave her alone and let her have another drink of water and go off to bed. "Forget I said anything," he said, sitting the glass of water on the counter. "I can tell I'm upsetting you and that was the last thing I wanted to do." She opened her mouth, a look something along the lines of helpless coming over her face, crossing her arms loosely across her chest such that her hands were tucked under her arms as if she were clutching herself. Still with a little frustration in her voice, though her brown eyes were wide (well-- as wide as they went) with confusion, she went on heatedly, “I’m not upset, I just want to know what you’re talking about.” Leaning back as a thought occurred to her, her brows furrowed again as she asked, almost incredulously, “Did you think I didn’t like you or something?” Brain moving a million miles an hour, she went on, a bit louder than was absolutely necessary, “That I was using you to get on the team or something?” "What?" The word hung in the air as he stared at her incredulously. It took him awhile to recover, and then he shook his head slowly, his brow puckered. "Are you mad? Why would I think that? Especially--to get on the team? Ursula, bloody hell," he shook his head again. "I'm not talking about anything. I just asked a question. You said I could, and so I did. What did you want me to ask? Something like what colour pants you're wearing? We're just friends, that's it." He turned to go and then whirled back around. "You're mad," he said, and not meaning that she was angry. Somewhere around ‘what colour pants’, she burst out right over his rant, out and out furious and confused and, in a truly magnificently effort to keep from shouting, “There is some--” and she lowered her voice, remembering that although all the way upstairs, there were sleeping people in this house, but went on just as fiercely, “something that feels off and I’m trying to figure out what it is, whether you’re just pissed that I ditched you earlier or what, and you just--” Disgustedly, staring at him with tears pricking at her eyes that she refused to acknowledge and refused to let spill over, she went on, snapping, “No, I don’t want you to ask what colour pants I’m wearing, you bloody prat. I just want to understand.” Then, bitterly, “But fine. I’m mad. Luckily, you have the option of not dealing with it.” And then, after a clear hand gesture of dismissal toward the door that led back to the bedrooms, she reached down and gripped the counter hard with both hands, staring with clenched jaw at the tiles and exhaling shakily. He reached for her wrist. "Sula," he said, his frustration from earlier abating quickly as he saw how upset she was. "Come on." He tugged her gently, his grip loose enough that she could pull free easily if she wished, but tight enough so that it was clear he didn't want to let go. "Take a deep breath. There's no reason for us to get upset at each other." Samson didn't want the simple act of following her to unravel their friendship. And at that moment he was afraid that he had done that very thing. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t look up at him either - her fingers released their grip on the counter as he tugged at her hand, and she let him have it, eyes fixed on the tile until he stepped forward, blocking it from her vantage point, and she found herself staring at a point on his chest as she breathed in and out, let herself calm down, let her eyes grow shiny rather than distinctly wet and relax her now one-handed grip on the counter before she finally looked up at him again and said firmly, with a fair amount of tension in her voice, as if it were more of a question than a statement, “I am not mad.” "You sound mad," he said. "Angry, I mean. I'm sorry. What I said… That was stupid. I'm not the brightest claw in the kettle," he said. He could tell that there was something going on that he missed, so he gently tipped her chin up. In doing so, he could see the wetness in her eyes. "Little Bird," he said. "What did I do?" She just shook her head. Just closed her eyes and shook her head almost imperceptibly and exhaled, because the fact that he was awake at the same moment she was to go get water, and the fact that he’d taken her to get champagne to find out her secrets and the tension in the air when he asked - it must be that he was angry that she’d ditched him, angry that she couldn’t just say it then or somewhat. There was something that was odd. When she opened her eyes again, they were clear and weary and she looked up at him, his hand under her chin, and just said, tiredly, “Something’s just off. Maybe it’s me.” And her hands rested loosely in her lap, and her mussed hair fell in waves and she exhaled the softest sigh. "What's off?" he asked. He wanted the air cleared. Slowly he moved his finger away from her chin and settled them into his pockets. Samson felt different here with her, alone, but that didn't have to mean anything. He wasn't try to get a confession out of her. He wasn't even going to make one of his own. He didn't know that he wanted to anyway. He just wanted to be with her. He wanted to know her better and he wanted that even enough that he was willing to keep pushing through bullshit. “I don’t know,” she admitted tiredly. “I was trying to figure it out and then you got pissed. I’ve no idea, I just thought I was missing something.” Reaching up, she scrubbed at one of her eyes as if to clear it of any potential tears that might be lingering, then went on, too weary to be frustrated, “I told you. I may not answer, but I don’t lie. So I thought you asked because you thought I’d been avoiding saying something I didn’t like about you, which wasn’t true, which made me worry, and made me try to figure out what I was doing wrong, and-- just--” She shook her head again and exhaled heavily and just looked up at him, shoulders fallen. “I have secrets. They usually stay that way.” His hands slipped from his pockets to rest on her shoulders. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said. He was confused. Why would she think that? "I'm the one who did something wrong. I don't know what it is but you could probably tell me." He took a deep breath. "We're tired. We're hungover. I won't press you for secrets if you don't want." Helplessly, she laughed, almost abruptly but in that way where there seems to be nothing else to do, saying, “I don’t know! I don’t know what you did wrong. I don’t know what I did wrong.” Throwing her hands up, she shook her head for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last five minutes, and looked up at him, meeting his brown eyes with her own, and said with a sigh, “It doesn’t even matter, does it?” Then, exhaling once more, she shrugged. “You can ask me whatever you like.” Then, with a weak attempt at a smile and a hint at her usual humor, though it was strained, “Except what colour pants I’m wearing.” "I guess it doesn't," said Samson. "So long as you're not mad at me anymore. Are you?" He needed to know that. He wasn't going to let her go if she was going to be fuming about him as she tried to sleep. And if he didn't know that he was forgiven for whatever trespass he had made, he was going to struggle to sleep himself. "No pants questions, got it," he said. "I didn't want to know anyway." But he was glad to see her humor. He resisted the urge to touch her chin again, and instead nudged her shoulder with his elbow. "No more questions tonight, though. I think." “No,” she said simply, watching him carefully as she asked the same question in return, the tiniest hint of uncertainty, vulnerability in her features as she did. “Do you still think I’m mad?” She sat still there, his hands warm over her shoulders, the counter cool against her bare calves, trying not to let on that this answer mattered, for whatever reason. “I’d be offended by your lack of interest if I weren’t so tired,” came her retort, with more spring in her step than the previous. “As it is, I’m offended on principle.” Then she extended one foot to nudge at his leg repeatedly, more in a camaraderie way than to get his attention. "No, you're not mad," he said. "Not that mad at least." He gave her one of his goofy smiles. It occurred to him, suddenly, as her foot nudged his leg, that this would be a perfect way to kiss her. Not that he was going to do it. They couldn't even talk about her feelings for him without getting into a row. Probably, they would never kiss. It was frustrating sometimes, to almost be of age and to have still never kissed somebody. He would, he decided, kiss someone. Maybe Tilly, then. If he asked nicely and she said yes. He grasped her ankle to keep her from kicking him and gave her a tug to get her almost off the counter. "Well if you ever want to tell me I wouldn't mind hearing it," he teased. With a little yelp as he pulled her toward the edge, she then dissolved into laughter, shaking her head at him and pushing ineffectually at his chest. “You say that now,” she started wryly, “but once I start updating you every day and you realize just how frequently I wear the ones patterned with Snitches, you’ll regret that statement.” Lost to Samson’s inner turmoil, she held her arms up like a child waiting to be picked up, instead wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug when he did lean forward. She squeezed him tight for just a moment, a pulse of comfort to finish their midnight water excursion and the few minutes of tumult, before she gave a soft sigh and moved to pull back. Samson threw his head back with a laugh. "Snitches, huh?" He said. He tried not to think about it. But it was hard not to when she gave such a vibrant visual. "Alright, noted. Snitches. Now. Onto other topics," he said. If he talked too much about her underwear he was going to get a bit uncomfortable. He was surprised when she lifted her arms up, but who was he to deny his Little Bird? He leaned forward and hugged her back with a sigh, too, and pulled back when she did without hesitation. He offered her his arms again, though, to help her hop down from the counter. “I’ve got Bludgers and Quaffles as well,” came her wry remark, “but they get switched out with the rest.” Completely unbothered by the discussion, she half-laughed when he made it very clear that they were going to change the subject now, but she made no protest: he was, after all, the one who’d brought it up in the first place, and it had given her a chance to relax and ease back into her typical mockery. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said, adapting a posh accent and tipping an imaginary hat before sliding forward into his arms and settling back to the ground. Reaching down, she straightened the hem of her dress, then dignifiedly looked back at him and offered him her arm, noting, “Escort me back to my bed?” "Ha, ha," he said. No, he was not going to think about it. Nope. Nope nope nope. He didn't even look at her. Not even when he helped her down. Instead, he took his arm and took her with him, starting up the stairs to the place that everyone was crashing. "As you wish, m'lady." |