WHO: Marceline Cox & Hugh Christian WHEN: May 7/8, Late. WHERE: Pink Room, Bellowes Inn SUMMARY: Hugh returns to his room to find cute things asleep in his bed. WARNINGS: None.
Hugh had his earbuds in as he walked through the Inn lobby, the white lines down the front of his vest a visible symbol to anyone that he might meet that he was in no particular mood to talk. It had been a long day, and he'd put in a lot of emotional work in trying to do walk throughs and better understand what Cecelia wanted from him as he portrayed Danny. David. Davey, who wasn't Danny, exactly, but who also was. He climbed the steps to the second floor undisturbed, then the third, grateful as he reached in his pocket for his room key, that the Pink Room that was his was right at the top of the stairs.
The soundtrack he was listening to built into a dramatic crescendo as he opened the door into his room, quickly closing the door behind him, even though Espresso wasn't typically waiting for him by the door. Still, it was later than he'd been used to coming back since he'd started the film - still early for a theater stage night, but much later than his typical film night had been. The door clicked into place behind him, and he turned around, a smile springing to his lips as he caught a glimpse of his bed. Marceline lay still as the graves she coveted, on top of his duvet and under the flannel shirt he had let her steal, Espresso curled in the dip between her long legs. Her arms hugged the pillows that weren’t under her head, hair acting as a curtain over her face.
He pulled out one earbud, slid off both shoes by the door, and turned back, to slide the privacy lock into place, before pulling the other earbud out and sliding his phone quietly on to the desk, even though there was a temptation to take a photo. He pulled the waistcoat he'd been wearing off, laying it over the table and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, pulling out his tails, and he crossed the distance to the bed, leaning down to move hair back from face, then sliding his hand to Espresso, scratching the cat's ears. "I'm gonna shower," he whispered to both of them.
But there was no answer.
There wasn’t even as much of a movement from Marceline until the water from the shower had been running for a couple of minutes. There was a small sound, something whiny and disgruntled and lonely as her hand reached around the bed for any sign of a body.
None.
So instead her eyes opened, quickly spotting the small sliver of light that came from under the bathroom door.
And so she gathered her wits and groggily made her way towards the restroom, too impatient to wait for him to finish up.
Hugh dropped the container of shampoo, sending it swirling to the other end of the tub, as the door squeaked open and Marceline slumped inside with a gravel-y, “Huuugh?”
"The question I have right now," he spoke through the shower curtain, loud enough to be heard over the water. "Is whether or not you would prefer for me to be Hugh, or a Ghost showering in his bathroom." He retrieved the shampoo, sudsed up his hair, and moved to rinse. "I didn't mean to wake you Farmgirl, I was just going to come in and climb into bed with you."
“I’m too tired for this to be my first real encounter,” she protested earnestly as she moved to the bath and peeled back the curtain without much thought and leaning forward and up so that she might kiss him despite the risk of getting wet.
He caught sight of her as the curtain pulled past and he leaned forward, pressing wet lips to hers. "Give me about two minutes, and I'll be out," he told her, the smile on his face dancing all the way up to his eyes, and the delight of finding her here after the day having chased all previous exhaustion away - at least momentarily. "I'm sorry I was so late."
“Don’t be sorry. It’s cool.” Her smile was tired, but held the sort of warmth that could only be derived of being completely smitten. At the risk of being greedy, she leaned forward for another quick kiss before pulling away entirely and heading back out towards his bed, where Hugh followed about three minutes later, running a towel over his hair and leaving his curls damp and loose before he folded up the towel to leave over the back of the chair.
"Sorry, baby, they kept me forever," he put a knee on the bed, and leaned forward so that he could drop a kiss on her lips again, before laying down beside her and stretching. He was tired, but now that Marce was here, he was pretty certain he could stay awake for at least a little while longer. He reached for her hair to brush back from her face again, as he asked: "How long have you been here?"
“I donno. I think I got here around… eight? Nine? Somewhere in between then? I brought you a snack, but I… will have to get you another one.” Marceline inched her body closer to his, deciding that putting up with his damp body was worth it. She shook her head a little, purposefully putting her hair back in her face so he’d have to brush it back again.
He smirked, reaching up, intentionally and purposely pushing it back, and wondering how long they'd keep playing this back and forth. "Don't worry about it," he gazed at her, sliding his fingers over along her waist. He was still damp and warm and should probably let himself dry off a little, but he wanted to touch her. "I can absolutely live on coming back and finding you and Espresso curled up in my bed for at least the rest of the night. I've already forgotten the last five hours of torture."
“You prob’ly couldn’t live on that alone, but you could sure as hell try.” Her fingers raked through her mess of curls, made messier by the fact that the day had done its work on her, at let it fall where it may. It may being over her face.
"I could live on it alone for a while," he persisted, ridiculous and romantic, he knew, but it felt true and that was all that really mattered. "Should I let you go back to sleep?" He murmured, half wanting to talk, and yet not wanting to keep her from sleep. It felt as if they might have both been short-changing it a little the past week. Who needed sleep when you had a girlfriend?
“No.” As if to make a point (or perhaps to better wake herself up), Marceline sat up, folding her legs underneath her and pushing her own hair back in one fell swoop. “No. C’mon, let’s--” She didn’t have the energy for much. Despite this, her fingertips claws at him, trying to pull him up with her. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Hugh propped himself up on one elbow and looked up at her, smile on his face as he did so. He was pretty certain he was never going to get used to this and sometimes still half-feared that something was going to drop out the other side, and leave him without this. Marce in his bed, just here, because… she could be. "Oh?" A beat, and he seemed to decide that this was worth sitting up for, so he did, leaning back against the headboard, and sticking his legs under the covers cause he was a little cold now that the heat from the shower started to wear off. Marceline followed him, sticking her bare legs under the sheets now that the only thing she had around her was his flannel shirt. "Well I'm here, you can talk to me."
“So, uh.” Immediately she knew that probably wasn’t the best way to start. Oh well. “I told my folks about you? Or my family, I guess. It was a group text. Just… so you know… They know. That you’re my boyfriend now.” The words felt thick and weird, like they didn’t quite belong in her mouth despite the fact that she was glad for it to be out.
Hugh blinked, what had he been expecting? Perhaps he'd been too tired for 'I wanted to talk to you' to trigger as maybe something that was kind of a big deal -- which this kind of was. He looked over at her, tilted his head, and then reached up to push his hair back from his face. "Oh. Um. Good." He stopped, looking over to try to read her expression and decode how she was feeling about this and when he was uncertain the answer, he swallowed. "Good?"
It was her turn to reach for his hair now, plucking her favorite strand from the top of his head so that she could pull it down-- an unspoken way of reassuring him, that yes. It was, “Good, yeah. Dad says I can bring you around the farm… Asked if that meant I was gonna bring you around more often, which… well.. Yeah?” She paused, trying to gauge his reaction, “Right?”
Hugh breathed out, and immediately reached for her hand, sliding fingers through hers so that instead of anxiety he could focus on everything that was good about this. Marce's family didn't seem to hate him, it was good, they were okay with him being around. "I'd like that," he nodded. "A lot, honestly, yeah, I mean, yeah. I want to get to know your family. And the Farm. And all of it. I just," he breathed in and then breathed out again. "They're okay with me, and us, I mean… I guess if your Dad's saying I can come around, that's good."
He was rambling without poise, and it prompted a crocodile grin from Marceline, who squeezed his fingers with her own. “Hugh Christian, are you nervous?” she spoke, slick and smooth, as if trying to bait him in with gently smiling jaws.
Hugh laughed, and leaned forward and kissed her rather than answer. He could get in front of hundreds of people, yell, cry, dance, sing, break hearts, and hardly blink at doing so, but the whole notion of her family, of trying to fit into this place where he very much knew he didn't really fit, was uncertainty that bubbled up in the pit of his stomach, and every speck of insecurity about who he was, and what he was like, flared. He wasn't much like her father, nor her brother, as best he could tell. He wouldn't have been surprised if either of them didn't like him much.
"I don't get nervous," he protested although she was on to him. "I mean, you texted them, should I be nervous?"
Her reptilian grin grew wider still, though her eyes spoke volumes: kind and soft, warmed by the embers that smoldered behind her eyes. She shook her head, leaning in as if to kiss him, but instead she only whispered, “don’t be nervous.”
He brought both hands up to either side of her face, pressing his forehead into hers, taking a moment to breathe, his eyes closed as he just focused on the presence of her, leaning into this particular moment. She'd told her family: This was real.
He opened his mouth, words sitting at the back of his throat unsaid for the thousandth time. He loved her, and he wanted to say it so badly, but he wanted it to be right. Was this the moment that was right? Emojis and glances and nights spent together aside, did she feel the same way? He finally decided on: "I won't be nervous."
Perfect was a night under the stars, or a date in a restaurant, or with her wrapped in his arms so he could whisper it in her ears while they swayed to a slow song. There was time to build that moment. It would come.