Who: Adam and Daryl What: A date that leads to jail Where: A restaurant > Bathos > Jail When: Saturday, 12/11 Warnings: Mood whiplash, angst
Though their meals had arrived long enough ago to be lukewarm, both Mr. Morgenstern and Daryl had half-finished plates. It wasn’t that the food was bad, in any way. In fact, it was quite good. It was just very, very difficult to talk and eat at the same time. The first time Daryl tried chewing on a bite of chicken while scolding her dinner companion, she nearly ended up with the meat nestling in her lungs. Ever since, they had stopped trying to multitask, allowing themselves to be fully distracted by one another.
“While they are good for posture, heels can create problems in the muscles and tendons of the lower extremities when worn for a prolonged period of time.” She picked up her glass of wine, taking a small sip. Why Mr. Morgenstern seemed to be such a proponent of wine at meals, she wasn’t sure. But his taste was strangely appealing. She hadn’t recoiled with disgust at the beverage yet, which was an accomplishment.
“Walking on the flat of the foot is also in line with evolution. The human female hasn’t prepared structurally for the task of wearing high heeled shoes.” As Daryl rattled off reasons why heels were bad, why they were terrible, why they should likely be lit on fire and used as kindling, Adam studied his plate. He nibbled on the chicken breast and spun the pasta around the tines of his fork, watching the oil clump and bubble. Daryl’s arguments passed through his ear, registered, and were then discarded. He didn’t discard them because he discounted them, though; it was merely a matter of interest, and he wasn’t interested in arguing with her about shoes.
Much.
“They’re a way to appeal to a mate,” he said casually, lifting a brow and looking at her as he placed a small bite of pasta on his tongue. “They emphasize the bust and buttocks, implying sexual maturity. The more well rounded a woman, the more fertile she is perceived to be.” He wanted to take a dig at her and imply she had nothing to offer, but that would be too cruel, even for him. And they were just playing.
Flashing her a bright smile, he took a sip of his wine. “And even you wear heels, poppet. Are you sure you aren’t trying to convince me to be your partner in bearing children? We’d make such wonderful ones.” Wonderful? They’d be walking nightmares. But cute and smart walking nightmares. Damn him for being so intelligent. “While I agree, the need to appeal to a mate is not constant. High heels in that context could be used sparingly, but they are not necessary at all times. And, as I mentioned before, they can be detrimental to muscle function later on in life.”
However, he was quite astute to point out her hypocrisy. Her gaze ventured south below the edge of their table, falling on her low-heeled boots. They were far from fancy, just a pair of practical boots. But even Daryl noticed the way they boosted her frame and adjusted her posture. Looking back at Mr. Morgenstern, she took another sip of wine. She practically choked at his insinuation, eyes wide. “I am not,” she hissed quickly, fixing him with a look that could set ice on fire. “Any offspring we created together would be an abomination. I doubt that we would be able to do so anyway - human beings and gorillas have a different number of chromosomes.” Smirking devilishly, she placed a piece of chicken in her mouth and chewed slowly. He laughed, the sound filled with mirth. She would say something like that. Sometimes, he thought it was just a way for her to guard her own heart against the big scary emotions he required her to feel. Sometimes, it was just amusing. Either way, he enjoyed it, perhaps more than he should.
“Any offspring we created would be geniuses.” Or completely brain dead. He had seen that happen. “And gorgeous.” He leaned part of the way across the table, swirling his wine in his glass with an idle hand. “I’ve never been bothered by the fact that you drag your knuckles when you walk, poppet.” Daryl knew more than anyone that intelligence was finicky in bloodlines. Her mind went to a particularly ugly place that she soon left, nose wrinkling just slightly as she straightened in her seat. “They would be insane,” she deadpanned.
At his retort about her knuckles, she hesitated, looking down at her hands for a moment before glancing to him. “When I walk, Mr. Morgenstern, I am sure that you do not pay attention to my knuckles.” She shifted a bit, uncomfortable, but Jane had encouraged her. And Jane was quite knowledgeable in these matters. Surely, following her advice in this field would be fruitful. Her nose wrinkled. His lips twitched as he suppressed the urge to frown. Something he had said bothered her. He wasn’t sure for a moment, and then he remembered the memory of her sister, the one he hadn’t told her about. That had been a mistake. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the right moment for it, so he placed the thought aside. He’d bring it up some point in the future, when she wouldn’t hate him for not having mentioned it.
“Insanely amazing,” he returned cheerfully. Leaning across the table, he stole a bite of food off her plate, a teasing smile on his face. “Then what do you pay attention to? The gradation of the pavement? The proximity of the plebeians around you?” His words could have been cruel, easily, but they were tempered by the teasing tone in his voice. As he speared a piece of food form her plate, Daryl gasped softly. It wasn’t so much that he was eating her food - she didn’t quite mind that - but that he had snatched it right out from under her nose. Without shame. As she pondered his questions, she returned the favor. Her fork lashed out, spearing a chunk of pasta and retracting quickly. She moved like a hunter, and like a satisfied leopard she chewed her stolen food with immense satisfaction.
“I pay attention to details,” she said simply. “Not necessarily the proximity of people to me, but certainly to each other. How their bodies face, how they mesh, how they sync.” As if remembering something, she quickly changed the way she was seating - uncrossing her legs and crossing them the other way, shifting her hips to the side, and straightening her back until it was uncomfortably rigid. “Those details that most miss, that is what I specialize in.” Devil woman. He hadn’t been expecting the return strike, but now he was anticipating it. She moved quickly, decisively, like a cat. He followed her retreat, slipping his fork into her space in a quick strike, like a cobra, darting in and then retreating. Satisfaction curled his lips in a smile. She might move like a lioness, but she was a delectable gazelle.
He watched her body shift and change, and he remembered their conversation from Brandon’s dinner. Mirroring. She was mirroring him again. Out of spite, he shifted as well until his body mirrored hers. “Do you?” He was sad that he’d only been able to hold that mirror pose for all of ten seconds, but it couldn’t be helped. Sliding from the seat, he stood and offered her his hand. “Then your dance skills have likely improved, poppet.” Though she knew this was childish, Daryl couldn’t stand to see him take two bites from her plate while she took only one from his. They had to be even. She struck again, darting in and out, and chewing with a very determined expression on her face. No, she was not going to be outdone this time. Not in this, not in anything.
As he changed his position to mirror hers, she hesitated, only satisfied when his posture fell apart. It was uncomfortable, but she held, stubbornly determined to not be imitated. However, she shifted a bit as he stood, walking over to her and extending a hand. She stared at the hand a moment, unsure of how to react. She had taken direction from Detective Warda in the past, and Mr. Morgenstern seemed to be intent on her forcibly learning how to dance. With a sigh, she took his hand very carefully. “I suppose we shall see if that is the case,” she said smoothly as she stood. With a satisfied smile, Adam swept her onto the dance floor. He liked this restaurant for the hardwood floor set aside for dancing, and for the live music. A four-man band was on the small stage, playing a simple tune. Drawing her close, Adam lifted his brows. “Do you know the basic steps for a tango?” He didn’t wait for a reply, he took her hands in his and started moving their bodies. Being pulled onto the dance floor was both disorienting and unnerving. She could feel foreign eyes on them, spectators that watched as he pulled her from their table and pulled her close. Even the musicians were glancing their way, albeit briefly, and it was enough to make her skin crawl. However, she did know the basics of the tango. And she was going to ensure that he was fully aware of her knowledge.
As he began to move, she stepped ahead of his lead, hand on his becoming demanding and controlling. Back rigid, she began to lead even while moving backwards, struggling against his command to move him. “You could have just told me you know the steps,” Adam said dryly as he let her lead to her heart’s content in lieu of tripping them up and into other dancers. If she faltered too much, he’d take over, but he’d let her have her pride. For now. It was amusing how she tried to snatch control away from him.
“Don’t stand so rigidly,” he told her, stroking his hand over her back once, like he might with a puppy or a kitten. “And ruin the chance of a demonstration?” she replied. Her voice was terse and distant, mind clearly on other things. She was focused on the other dances, on the way she was standing, on where her feet went. Her attention was only caught when his fingers played over her back, gentle yet reprimanding. She hesitated, looking up at him fiercely. “It is important to retain proper form in dance,” she replied with false authority. “You don’t have proper form,” he told her mildly. “You look like you’ve got a pole shoved up your ass.” Deliberately, he moved into her space to set her off balance, and when she faltered, he assumed control of their dance. He drew her close, moving her with deliberate, measured steps, keeping her close as he studied her face. “You look distracted, poppet. What’s on your mind?” The notion that her form in anything wasn’t proper made her gasp in shock. “I don’t,” she hissed at his accusation. However, she wasn’t able to hold her ground. As he leaned into her, she lost control, stumbling slightly and finding herself being forced into line behind him as he recovered for them both. Huffing with annoyance, she followed his lead. She didn’t want to admit that her steps were smoother and more purposeful when she was following after him.
At his question, she hesitated. She was very distracted. Weeks of collecting evidence and dragging the police behind her had finally paid off. She now had the evidence necessary to have him arrested. But should she tell him here? Now? On the dance floor? No. It would be cruel. However, if she lied outright, he’d know. So she decided to go for a half-truth. “I was simply having...difficulty maintaining control while focusing on my steps.” Her pride ached at the admission, but it was marginally better than informing him of this game-changing news in public. Their dance became easier, and he was less concerned about where his feet were going now that he was leading. The simple steps were a soothing rhythm, and it was easy to follow them mindlessly. He saw no reason to add any complicated motions into their dance.
His gaze shifted to her face, studying her as she hesitated. He wondered at the hesitation, but she didn’t lie to him, so he didn’t pursue it. “Don’t think about them too much,” he told her, the hand on her waist squeezing slightly. “You’ll become too self-conscious.” He took a step back from her and spun her once, smiling. “And that’s when you’ll make mistakes.” As much as she hated to admit it, they began to work better the moment he took charge. Her steps were a bit more confident, a bit surer, with him guiding her. Though she didn’t trust him in the least, she did trust his expertise. So far, they hadn’t crashed and burned, and the steps were simple enough to keep up.
The squeeze at her waist teased a gasp from her lips. “I am not,” she replied stubbornly at the accusation that she could become too self-conscious. But the spin took her entirely by surprise, and she squealed as she whirled in place. Once he caught and righted her, she looked up at him with wide eyes. “I don’t make mistakes, either.” Laughing at her squeal of surprise, he drew her back, a little closer than a tango warranted, but he wasn’t going to say anything if she didn’t. “You make mistakes from time to time, poppet. We all do.” He arched a brow. “You’re only human after all.” The closeness brought a dim redness to her cheeks, though she dismissed the warm sensation as a side effect of exerting herself after drinking wine. “Perhaps,” she said with a snotty tone, tilting her chin up in defiance. “However, I make very few mistakes. If any at all. I’m very careful.” With a smug smile, he took held her firmly and dipped her back, his mouth inches from hers, their noses brushing. “So am I,” he returned. She hadn’t asked about Paris, which both pleased an annoyed him, and she had no idea he was the one responsible for the Picasso thefts. He was quite proud of himself. Being dipped was an unnerving feeling. She instinctively grabbed at his shoulder, form and poise be damned, as if she feared he’d drop her. Every muscle in her body tensed, revealing how clearly uncomfortable she was. But she held still, feeling his nose press gently against hers while his breath warmed her lips. “I know,” she whispered. Slowly, he lifted her, one of his hands closing over the hand she placed on his shoulder. Distantly, he heard the song ending, but he didn’t take them from the dance floor. He stood there, in the center, studying her face for a long moment, looking for something. He didn’t know what, or why, but he had a niggling feeling of discomfort, as though something was going on behind his back.
He touched her cheek with the pads of his fingers, a light caress. His intense expression melting into a boyish grin, he stepped back and tucked her arm around his. “It’s getting late. We should head home.” As he pulled her to her feet, Daryl let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Once she was standing upright, she relaxed just slightly. The touch to her cheek was met with the slightest lean into it, a very slight acceptance. “Yes,” she said softly. “We should.” The less time they wasted, the sooner she could cut to the ugly chase. Adam flagged their waiter as he helped Daryl into her jacket and told the man to put their dinner on his tab. He walked her to his car, chatting idly with her about the weather and how much he didn’t like it. The drive back to the apartments was quick and uneventful, their conversation lagging in an odd way toward the end.
By the time he parked, Adam was sure something was going on. He didn’t know what, specifically, the issue was, but he knew there was one. Daryl was acting cagey in a way that didn’t suit her, and it was putting him on edge in a way that left him irascible. As he walked her toward the stairs, he pressed his lips together in a thin line, wondering what the hell was going on and if he ought to ask about it. “Poppet...” He trailed off. No, he shouldn’t ask. “I had an enjoyable evening.” Even to himself, the words sounded tense. The car ride was awkward, even though they were chatting. Mr. Morgensten was very intelligent, and acting as if he weren’t was just an insult. But Daryl had to wait. There was a timing she had to get right, because simply throwing this information at him was no good. Were she in a different position, she’d have wondered why this timing was so important to her - it never had been in the past. But she had to dismiss that thought, had to just push on.
Pausing on the steps, she looked to him as he spoke. “I did as well,” she said, voice a bit more honest than it had been in the past. “I had never danced the tango like that before.” Looking to him briefly, she lead them both up the stairs to her apartment, hesitating at her door. It was a Saturday night - Jane was out. She could tell that just by touching the doorknob with bare fingers. So inside the apartment, safe, would be the best place for this.
As she fished for her key, she looked up to him, expression mildly urgent. “Would you like to come inside for a few moments?” Her invitation took him off guard. After a second’s hesitation spent weighing the pros and cons of the situation, he nodded. Catching the door with the tips of his fingers, he held it open for her as she entered, and he followed after. The apartment was impeccable, a result of Daryl’s neurosis no doubt, and they were greeted by an enthusiastic puppy that climbed all over his legs, sniffing, until he pushed it away with his knee and it turned its attention to Daryl.
Without asking, Adam made his way to the kitchen, intent on a glass of water. “Would you like anything to drink?” he called over his shoulder. So, perhaps, in a way, he was asking. But not permission. Permission was assumed. As he fetched two glasses, he noticed something laying on the table. Quirking a brow, he pushed aside a few sheets of paper and found himself staring at a precisely designed chart detailing his relationship with Daryl.
Laughing, he held it up. “Trying to figure me out, poppet?” he asked, his tone filled with amusement. The second the door was open, Toby scrambled to meet them. Daryl was used to his greetings by now, reaching down to trail her fingers over his head as he swarmed her legs after deeming Mr. Morgenstern boring. “Yes, water would be acceptable.” As her guest went into the kitchen, she took the time to go to her bedroom, fetching a briefcase that she had filled with files pertaining to the Picasso case. Within that briefcase was enough to catch three of the four thieves, along with Morgenstern himself.
As he called to her from the kitchen, she flushed, quickly shuffling out of her room with the briefcase held stiffly in her hand. “Always,” she said as she entered, though she choked slightly as her gaze fell on the chart he had uncovered. “Ah. You have found that.” He noticed the briefcase, but discarded any thought of paying attention to it in favor of the woman in front of him. She was red, flushed and lovely, and the look of surprised horror amused him to no end. Setting the chart down, he scanned it, his amusement growing when he read the notes about their states of dress. “Your opinions on the Seattle Times as a gossip rag are endlessly amusing,” he told her, grinning.
Pushing that chart aside, he looked at a few of the others on the table, wondering if any more pertained to him. “I’m glad to know this is what you do with your time when I’m not around to entertain you.” He picked up a chart detailing Toby’s eating habits. “These are endlessly amusing.” “They aren’t amusing,” she hissed defensively, taking tentative steps towards him. “They’re true observations. The Seattle Times is a cesspool.” Her tone was the slightest bit sulking as she leaned over the table, watching him uncover chart by chart.
At the implication that this was what she did when he “wasn’t around,” she huffed. “I have plenty of things to do in the absence of your presence, as my time does not revolve around you.” Just to prove it, she put the briefcase down beside a chair, picking up a metal ball at the far corner of the table and holding it up. It was the Isis I, one of the puzzles that Mr. Pecker had sent her. “I’ve started on physical puzzles as well.” “They’re amusing to me,” he returned, but he didn’t pursue the issue further. Instead, he plucked the puzzle from her hands, turning it over in his own. He looked at the ball, listening to it rattle. Then, with the glee of a five year old tormenting ants, he began to undo all the work she had done, twisting the pieces around and around until solving the puzzle would be even more of a tangle. At least this one of those puzzles that was always a challenge, even after you’d solved it once.
With a wicked smile, he handed the puzzle back to her. “Who’d that come from?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. The damn puzzle cost a fortune. He knew. He’d seen it on his boss’s desk. The man claimed to be able to solve it, but the look of awe on his face when Adam popped the key out in a half hour had been priceless. Adam neglected to tell the other man he’d solved the puzzle before and knew the way of it. She should have known he was going to destroy it. Eyes wide, Daryl let out a hiss of displeasure as he began to undo all her work, reaching out for the puzzle as he destroyed it. But she was too late. He expertly undid all of her work in seconds, handing her back his horrific handiwork. Jaw clenched, Daryl stared at the metal ball with contempt. It had all been undone. She could still get back to where she was, but he had undid a great deal of concentrated time and effort. And really, it was just infuriating.
As he asked about the puzzle’s origin, she held it protectively in her hands as if afraid he’d set it on fire if she put it down. “Another art enthusiast like yourself,” she said, tone the slightest bit biting. “He had been sending me riddles for quite some time, but when they all proved to be inadequate at entertaining my intelligence, he provided me with several real challenges.” Someone had been sending her riddles? The thought created a reaction in him so confusing that he ignored it. It would need to be sorted through in the future because he simply couldn’t comprehend the irritation, the annoyance, and the outrage anger he felt at the thought that someone might entice her away from him with puzzles. Children’s puzzles in his mind. “He must be well off to purchase this as a casual gift. Who was it?” he asked in a tone of fleeting interest, settling into a chair at the table.
He lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip, his gaze straying to the briefcase. “What’s that for?” he inquired, much more interest in his voice. Though Mr. Morgenstern did well to disguise his interest in the puzzle giver’s identity, Daryl could tell that he wanted to know. As he sat, she took a seat across from him, gently setting the puzzle aside. “Someone you don’t know,” she said. That much she had learned.
As his attention turned to the briefcase, she hesitated. It was like a steel ball had dropped into her stomach. “Oh, that,” she said thinly, reaching for it. She placed the briefcase on the table between them, looking across at him with tension in her face. “This briefcase contains something of utmost interest to both of us.” She hesitated, looking down at its clasps. “In it I have compiled all the information I have gathered concerning the recent theft of three Picasso pieces from the Seattle Art Museum. I have enough evidence to implicate four known individuals.” Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. Adrenaline raced through his body, creating an odd, fluttering sensation in his chest and stomach, like he had consumed one too many cups of coffee. Keeping his face blank was an effort, and it was a blankness he was sure Daryl would recognize, the kind he only wore when he knew he was screwed but didn’t want anyone else to know.
“Is it really?” he asked, trying to sound blase. He took another sip of his water, unable to hide the slight tremor in his hand. She wouldn’t tell him this if she wasn’t sure she he was behind it. And he was. Which meant he was likely going to jail. Smoldering fury pushed his nerves aside, but he was angry at himself, not her. The change in him was something she recognized. He knew what was wrong. A part of her almost wished she could turn back time and prevent herself from showing him this, but that was ridiculous. She had him in a corner, and she had to play her hand. Months ago, she was sure she’d have been thrilled during this. She thought she’d be full of glee and excitement, anticipating the look on his face when he realized she had beaten him.
This was all wrong.
“Yes,” she said softly. “It is.” Chest tight, she opened the briefcase. The top file was labeled “Samuel Hicks.” She held it up, gesturing to it. “Samuel Hicks. Arrested for an art theft in 2002. He was involved.” Setting the file aside, she picked up another labeled “Jeremy Small.” “Jeremy Small. He has arthritis in his right knee that began after he was injured in a fight in early 1998. He, too, was involved.” As she put that file aside, a third labeled “Andrew Fuller” was visible. She picked it up, gesturing to it. “Andrew Fuller. No criminal record, but his bank account benefited six days after the theft. He also went to college with Hicks.” She put it aside, revealing a final folder labeled “Mr. E.”
Her hands trembled as she lifted the folder, looking at it and not his face. “Mr. E,” she said quietly, voice choked. “This was a name found in Andrew Fuller’s address book on his cellular telephone. It had a phone number attached.” She opened the folder, revealing one large piece of computer paper with ten numbers written on it. Without saying a word, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Utterly still, he watched her place the files on the table, recognizing the names. This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t a slip up. He had made an enormous error in judgment. This passed bad and went right to terrible.
Dread clawing its way up his spine, he watched he place the final folder on the table. Mr. E., Hicks’ stupid name for him. And when Daryl dialed the alien number on that slip of paper, he was already reaching for his phone. No sense in denying it now. There was no way around it. When his phone rang, he accepted the call and lifted it to his ear. “Hello, poppet,” he said, exhaling the words with his eyes locked on hers.
She had done it. She had beaten him. She had done just what he had always wanted her to do because he was too much of a coward to do it himself. Hearing his phone ring, she tensed. Taking a sharp breath, she pressed the phone to her ear. She couldn’t bear to look at him. Her eyes were on the table, gaze low and avoidant. “Hello,” she whispered, feeling her insides clench. “Mr. Fuller had this number in his phone under the moniker “Mr. E,”” she said slowly, still looking at the table. “This makes you an accomplice. Further investigation will find more on your involvement, but this is enough to hold you.”
She hesitated, taking another breath as if it would be her last. “I would like for you to go to the Seattle Police Station with me. There will be no officers outside the station, no one to make a public arrest. Your reputation will be preserved, and you will not be publicly humiliated.” Lowering his phone, he ended the call.
He rose a moment later, bring his glass to the sink. He emptied the water down the drain and set the glass on the counter. He turned and walked back to Daryl, feeling strangely empty. “Anything,” he said in monotone, “for you, sweetheart.” Hearing those words said in such a dry monotone pierced her heart. “This isn’t for me,” she said simply, standing. “This is for you.” She wanted to continue, to tell him that this was for his benefit that she didn’t call the police to her apartment. But there was nothing left. “But...we should go.”
When they reached the parking lot, she was the one that took the wheel. It was a long and silent drive, and though Daryl wanted to speak, she couldn’t. Finally, they reached the station, and she parked. Looking over at the passenger’s seat, she stayed silent for several seconds. “Let’s go inside,” she finally said, biting her lower lip. “The press won’t know.” “They’ll know,” Adam said, intending every word he spoke to be a knife cutting through her. He didn’t look at her as he walked into the station, and he stood idly by when an officer approached them. If she wanted to have him arrested, that was well and good. He wouldn’t offer any resistance, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to help her. She was going to do all of it. As they approached the building, she felt her insides turn. The first officer that approached them looked to her, a man by the name of Harold Kraus. He had been involved in her investigation, greeting her as she approached. “Officer Kraus, this is Mr. Morgenstern. He is...” She hesitated, looking down at her shoes. “To be arrested for involvement in a theft. Conspiracy.”
Officer Kraus nodded. “Of course,” he said.
Though the officer lead them down to the holding cells, Daryl followed. The other man didn’t question her presence - he had grown accustomed to it. After he sealed Mr. Morgenstern in the cell, he left, certain that Daryl could handle herself. Adam stepped into the cell without hesitation. His movements weren’t calculated; he wore no assessing expression on his face. He stood behind the bars as Kraus locked him in, his hands laced loosely behind his back. The cell was empty except for him, but it wouldn’t have mattered if there were people in it. He would have owned it either way.
The officer stepped back and began to read him his rights. With an upraised hand, Adam cut him off. “I do not need an attorney, Officer, nor will I submit to questioning at this time. I will remain in my cell until I am provided with my phone call and until the judge posts my bail.” He shifted his gaze from the officer to Daryl. “Congratulations.” There was nothing celebratory in his tone. Watching Mr. Morgenstern acquiesce to the procedure put upon him made her stomach drop. This wasn’t what she had wanted. She wanted victory, and this wasn’t it. As Officer Kraus pulled back and left, Daryl looked to the prisoner with a weary expression. “I know,” she said in response to his congratulations. “You’ve been caught.” She hesitated, wrapping both her hands around the bars of the grate that separated them.
“Come here,” she said blankly, resting her chin on a horizontal bar. Adam approached the bars, and for the first time since they left the apartment complex, emotion flickered across his face. Disdain, irritation, annoyance. One flowed into the other in rapid succession, and by the time he was standing before the bars, his face was a neutral mask once more. He looked down at Daryl, trying to decide how he should feel about her. This was what he wanted. He should be ecstatic.
“Yes?” She noticed the change in his face. It shifted from emotion to emotion before settling into nothing, and she knew she should have been thrilled. But she couldn’t will herself to feel that way. As he drew close, she looked up at him, gray eyes filled with emotions she would never give voice to.
Without saying a word, she rose up on her tiptoes, lips finding his easily. The kiss was neither chaste nor wanton, walking the line between the two. After several seconds, she pulled back, pressing her lips together thinly. “I...should go. If you need aid in reaching anyone, just...let me know.”
Face red, pride on the floor, she turned away. She should have been thrilled about this. And yet she was morose. But it was wrong. Everything was wrong. Her mouth on his was a shock. Heat lanced through him, and to keep himself from touching her, he curled his hands around the cell bars. He didn’t want to touch her. He couldn’t stomach the thought of touching her. Except that he really did want to, more than anything, and it made him sick to his stomach.
He didn’t return the kiss, and when she pulled back, he watched her without saying anything.
He should be happy. He should be pleased. He kept reminding himself of those things, but no matter how often he repeated it in his head, he couldn’t believe it.