miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-12 00:32:00 |
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January had started off strangely, homeless and pissed off and in need of a place to live that wouldn’t mean tripping all over his oversized little brother. Which is what eventually led to Miles standing in the middle of Damia Ravin’s room, surveying the bare-bones apartment. (It looked so very much like his own: no identifying marks, few personal trophies planted on shelves, no hint of a life and personality lived within its walls.) “Why, it’s as if I never left home,” he said. The comment rolled off the blonde in question, who still had yet to process what was yet to come: Miles staying with her for days, possibly weeks to come. She was two parts concerned, one part pleased, and a whole lot of distrustful. It had nothing to do with Miles himself— he’d proven to be one of the few she felt she could trust, but people typically didn’t stay with her. Fuck, people didn’t even stay the night. Allowing him to remain would be an exercise in self-restraint and getting used to seeing his stupidly handsome mug every morning (or night, whatever his damned schedule was), but she supposed she’d get used to it. Maybe. She brushed past him, shrugging out of her leather coat and tossing it carelessly on the couch. “Welcome to Castle Ravin,” she said drily, turning to face him. “We hope you’ll enjoy your stay.” St. Namorados evening had a pleasant ending, at least: the musician had checked his phone a while after midnight, mid-conversation with Colin, then beat a swift retreat towards the exit. He’d gone sauntering off with bag of gil and a stupid-looking top hat tilted askew on his head, bobbing and weaving slightly from the alcohol, his flute stuffed into his coat pocket. He had a date with a corsair—a text that summoned him in no uncertain terms back to her place, and he’d managed to scribble something back about clearing his calendar before pocketing the communicator and setting off with what was a visible bounce in his step. Before he was even halfway up the set of stairs in front of her shoddy apartment complex, the door swung open to reveal her, a vision in dark red. It was clear she’d made some effort — blonde hair swept and pinned over one shoulder, the deep cut of her blouse — but there was an element of casualness, in the way she leaned against the doorway, how her makeup kept from being too obscene, in the absence of a come-hither look. But she could afford a raise of her brows and a hand on her hip. In return, Miles tried not to ogle. “Please, don’t skimp on the ridiculous,” she offered, referring to the top hat, something of a smirk turning up the corner of her lips. “I had a gig,” he protested, “and how lucrative it was indeed.” He shook the change-purse, and the gil made a merry jingling noise as he slipped into Damia’s apartment around her arm, pausing to tug her back in with him, kisses pressed to her mouth, her cheek, her neck, as the money was eventually forgotten (and no small feat that was). He was a fucking terrible chef, but he could at least scramble eggs and bacon in the morning and bring it in to serve her breakfast in bed. But what might have seemed quaint and idyllic and domestic in one light soon dissipated as Miles yanked the curtains open, exposing blinding sunshine to the formerly-dark bedroom. “Wake up, you lazy clod,” Miles said brightly, wafting the plate towards the crumpled pile of blonde in the bed. The reaction was immediate: Damia groaned in a most unlady-like manner, sinking deeper into the sheets and pulling the comforter over her head. “Fuck off,” she shot back, voice muffled. “The fuck is a clod?” “A lump or mass, especially of earth or clay. A stupid person; blockhead; dolt. Earth or soil.” Miles recited the definition as clearly as if there were a dictionary hovering in front of him; it was a proud vestige, from years of practicing his letters and hard-won vocabulary while nuns scowled at him. But the man’s tone was warm and friendly, despite the insult, and so he settled onto the bed beside her, balancing the one large plate against his knee. She felt the mattress sink with his weight, but didn’t move, happy to remain where she was until such a time that she was ready to crawl out of bed. Instead, all the groggy corsair could manage was a petulant, “I’m not a clod.” And then, “Did you burn down my kitchen?” “No. It’s safe and pristine and soulless, as usual.” This was a small lie. Ever since his impromptu move-in, even after he’d moved back, the apartment had started filling out with hints and glimpses of actual inhabitance: Miles’ shoes scattered in the entryway, his toothpaste in the bathroom, the cabinets filling with food enough to feed two people, the counters gaining extra plates and cutlery, his scripts appearing on the coffeetable annotated in a messy scrawl. “Late night last night?” he asked. From beneath the covers, Damia stilled, falling silent for a short time. That late night he referred to had involved discussing sabotage and conspiracy with Cian in order to gain her ship back, a particular topic she had yet to breach with Miles. Only a select few knew about it, so maybe it was time she informed the man she shared her bed — and more — with. Trust was a difficult concept for her, and yet, with him, it felt a little easier. “I was plotting the demise of a man’s reputation,” she eventually admitted, drawing the sheet down to reveal messy blonde hair that she smoothed from her forehead. “I’m going to get my father’s ship back.” His eyebrow rose, impressed, as he looked at the bundle of disheveled corsair beside him. “Good,” Miles eventually said. “It’s about time. That bastard’s had the ship far too long.” The man himself was surprised to hear that vehemence slipping out on his tongue, a level which he hadn’t expected to care about this—but he did. He was clawing his way up the rungs, and meanwhile Damia had been working on her own ladder at the same time. He hoped, sincerely, that she would reach the top. She shifted her head against the pillow, watching him with some curiosity. How strange that this had become so normal, waking up to the sight of Miles. Falling silent for a moment, she reached out to grab a slice of bacon with her fingers, uncaring that it was too greasy, and bit into it. “I’ll turn cook him and turn him into bacon,” she joked, eyes soft. “Mind you, I don’t date cannibals,” he warned, dryly, snaring his own strip of meat. “It’s hell on the social reputation. Terribly awkward at dinner parties.” Her smirk was lazy. “Dinner parties, Mr. Baines? Sounds fancy. But if there’s no bacon,” she popped the last half of her strip into her mouth. “I’m out.” This time, the blonde pushed up into a seated position, twisting her knees toward Miles and pausing before saying, “You really better not have burned down my kitchen.” This was her way of saying thanks, as it were. His lips twitched into a baring of teeth, something like a grin. “How could you ever doubt my prowess? I am exceptionally talented in all things, cooking included.” Lie—a bare-faced lie, and she knew it. But Miles’ normal pride had ebbed down to low tide, and he seemed simply content (for once) to lie here and bask in the morning. After a ruminating pause which gave him enough time to pick at the eggs, he added, thoughtfully, “You’ll give him hell, I know it.” She was just that type. “I will,” Damia agreed, pausing with her fork and rapping it against the plate. “He deserves nothing less. My father would never have given her to someone so greedy. I’ll have help,” she added, “but he’s going to rot.” The thought, morbid though it was, made her smile— or maybe it was something else. “I hope you realize that once I get her back, she’s off limits to being robbed, because I’ll hang you upside down off the Mages’ Tower if anyone tries.” “Why would I ever?” Miles asked, his voice all sweetness and innocence. “In all honesty, I’ll probably just ask you for lifts instead. With Arabella out of town, we’ll need some other way of getting back and forth between jobs…” The corsair set down her fork. “Lifts I can do. Now,” she started again, tone changing, “put down the plate and come kiss me good morning for blinding me.” “Your word, my command,” he answered smoothly, and as quick as ever, the plate was set aside as he rolled over to comply (and never had Miles been quite so obedient), redirecting his attention to the rumpled blonde beside him. The food would be quite cool by the time they returned to it. His rehearsal schedule might not have been as stringent as Ari’s two-production madness, but it was still a big role, a prestigious accomplishment for Miles Baines the Actor (even as he scrabbled towards other rewards, the only ones that truly mattered in his mind: gil and trickery). He would swing by Damia’s apartment after some rehearsals—it was a convenient stop on the way to his own fixed-up apartment, and so he could easily pretend that it was no skin off his back, that it was a mere check-in, that it wasn’t out of his way at all. Sometimes the rap at the door would yield nothing, showing she wasn’t home, and he would go striding quickly off. Other times, it would open to a grinning mime and an eyeroll from the corsair (more and more feigned by the week) and he’d slip his way in, carrying a change of clothes and ready to pop into the shower to wash off the stage makeup. On those nights, Damia would occasionally keep her distance, allowing him his privacy even though she had earned the right to invade it, as long as he was here. They could keep their secrets, but a tumble into bed erased all possibility of secrecy when all they could focus on was the slide of limbs, of skin on skin, and the (surprising) softness of their kisses. When she wasn’t writing messages into the steam on the bathroom mirror, she would sneak in after he’d dressed, muss up his damp hair, playfully steal the socks from out of his hand. And when it ended with her laughter echoing off the walls, his arms secured around her waist, then she could truly accept this for what it was: safe. It occurred to him far too late—after the talk with Genevieve, which was guaranteed to put the fear of Faram into most men—that perhaps he ought to speak to Damia about this arrangement. It had all started moving so quickly, one small rolling pebble turning into an inevitable landslide as the scheme grew wings and flew on without him. Miles’ own jaw had dropped when he’d received an invitation to his own wedding, in all sorts of fancy calligraphy, on ridiculously heavy stationery. So he’d scheduled to meet Damia in the bazaar district, and stood jittering with something he swore up and down wasn’t nerves. This is a business relationship, she’d said once. You and I don’t do social calls. But then it had been four months and a bit since their first wholly social call, and it was starting to become unnervingly comfortable: certainly nothing compared to the lifetime spent with Loch, or the easygoing camaraderie he had with Aisling, but something had started shifting beneath his feet nonetheless. And he had the creeping suspicion that his current bedmate might not be very happy with him at the moment. It was an accurate assumption. Damia had assumed the invitation to be a joke, some practical thing Miles might’ve pulled on her to incite a particular reaction, but it came from the Countess, which meant one thing: it was real. Miles was getting married to Audrey. Logically, she knew it wasn’t really him, but his noble persona, but it didn’t change the fact or soothe her blossoming irritation that Miles was marrying Audrey. Of all the people in Emillion. Miles and Audrey. (Not ‘her Miles’, not yet— she didn’t want to be possessive, but she had a little bit of a fucking right at this point.) Her footsteps were surprisingly calm on the way up to him, boots hitting the wet cobblestone with precision. He listened to the steps like the countdown to an execution. She’d tucked both hands into her coat, eyes locked on him as she pulled to a slow stop just in front of him. “Darling,” she greeted without any warmth in her tone, leaning in to brush a chaste (cold) kiss over his cheekbone. “I got a lovely thing in the mail today, do you want to see?” “I thought the font choice could have been better,” Miles said, the joke strained, an attempt to keep the situation light. (It was doomed from the start, of course.) “Faram knows whoever the Countess uses as her on-call designer.” The smile she gave was sharp. “I think most of it was unnecessary,” she admitted, eyes still on his face. “But it will make good kindling when I rip it up and burn it.” Oh no, he thought. Miles was a man with a very, very keen self-preservation instinct; his eyes automatically, instinctively started drifting towards the escape routes, which he’d already mentally mapped out before planting himself on this street corner to wait. But he forced himself to stand there. “You know it’s not real, yes?” he said. “It’s another scheme. Like another bloody heist, or theft. We’re robbing her inheritance.” “How rude,” Damia purred, her smile made of glass still. “You’ve certainly gone to great lengths to make it seem real.” The invitation had been lovely, almost too lovely, and from where it sat tucked inside of her coat, it might as well have been made of stone from how heavily the implication of it hung. She tilted her head, crossing her arms. “Whose wonderful idea was it?” “Hers. Or possibly originally Albrecht’s, or Arielle’s—I don’t know who might have planted the idea in her head. Does it matter?” “No,” the blonde shot back, thinking on it. “It doesn’t.” It didn’t matter, she didn’t want it to matter, but secretly, just a little bit, she’d hope it was Audrey’s so that she didn’t have to be annoyed with Miles for doing something so public without asking her. It made her feel-- Used. Her mouth opened to say something that was incredibly stupid, and promptly closed, lips pressing into a thin, angry line. There was nothing to say; she’d already exhausted her patience. “You’ll see me there,” she said instead, moving to brush past him without any real destination. “Good,” he said as she passed, not making an effort to grab her. Few things could leave Miles Baines at a loss for words, and he recovered his composure quickly, all things considered. Before Damia could move entirely out of reach, however, he couldn’t resist one last try. “I was completely dosed up on painkillers when the scheme was dreamed up. Does that help?” There was some sly humour in the question; he couldn’t repress it, couldn’t banish that arch tone from his voice. It was ingrained, stamped as clearly as any of his habits. The anger that was slowly building up inside of Damia’s chest, like a pressure seeking release, was becoming more apparent, more physically irritating, but especially annoying when she realized the depth of it all. That she could become so upset with Miles fake marrying someone, Audrey or otherwise— She didn’t even pause as he addressed her, too angry now to look back. “It doesn’t. Congratulations for your happy day,” she returned, voice stained with bitterness, fingers drawing up into loose fists as she kept walking, his face the last thing she needed to see— but also the only thing she wanted to see. Feelings were ridiculous. Someone always ended up with the short end of the stick. The last time she’d allowed herself to feel something, anything for another person, it had ended with her dagger through his heart. Pathetic, Damia, she thought to herself, her fists tightening. Just pathetic. He let her go, without another try at reeling the woman back in—her heels strode down the pavement, his own shoulders knotting tighter and tighter, his eyes darkening into a glower. |