Plan B (cont.) Who: Lia & Samuel. What: The morning after. Where: Out & about, and D3. When: 1 Nov, after all this. Warnings: Surprise! Language and sexual references. Notes: Part two, continued from here.
There was a moment, then, when he considered staying where he was. He could take her at her word, believing her quiet apathy, awaiting her return from this uncomfortable errand. But the thought had barely crossed his mind before he found himself stepping out into the parking lot, locking the doors as he circled the cab, falling into step close beside her. He resisted the urge to reach out to her, to let his arm slip around her back and gather her near to him. He told himself it was ridiculous to play the couple now, to feign some kind of connection they did not have, and that one of them, at least, certainly appeared not to even want.
But as they walked into the building his resolve seemed to wane: His fingertips skimmed softly over her arm, and consciously or otherwise, he leaned closer toward her. He wondered what he was meant to say now. He wondered what he might have said, were he not so plagued by the memory of the prior night's sentiment. "Seems like we're doing this a bit backward," he said. "Maybe next time we can try a date and then a pregnancy scare."
When she felt his touch on her arm, she didn't flinch away; rather, she moved closer to him. At his words, she smiled slightly, looking down. Then, she reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his. Something inside her rejoiced at this, but instead of her heart beating more rapidly or her anxiety increasing, she was comforted by his presence, consoled by it, and glad he'd come after all.
"Yeah," she said with a little laugh. "That sounds much better."
The walk to the pharmacy counter seemed shorter than it might have been without him, and she asked for the pill. The pharmacist was friendly enough, and went to the back to find the medication. Lia was quiet for a time, then pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.
"Thanks for coming," she said finally, casting a look up at him.
He regarded her a moment, as if carefully weighing the many and varied ways he might respond. A mere month before he would have cast some verbal barb, preferably at her expense, defusing the situation and all the weight it brought to bear. But now that seemed silly and trite - and more, contrary to how he felt, to how he earnestly wanted to respond. Though he smirked when he answered her, his thinned lips twisting into a sharp little smile, there was no malice in his tone; only an unexpected warmth whose origin he did not fully understand. "Thanks for not taking my keys and running me over," he said, chuckling quietly. He gave her hand a small, tight squeeze, thoughtlessly sliding his thumb over her skin. "That grill's pretty expensive to replace."
Lia bit her lip before giving in to a laugh, then looking up at him sidelong. That little touch was somehow priceless; just the thing she needed just then. It would have been ridiculous for him to put his arm around her or coo at her - ridiculous and hard to believe, at least at this early stage. But this - just her hand in his, that little stroke of his thumb - it was worth more than she could have expected. She returned his little squeeze, and gave him a little grin. "Well, I wouldn't have run you over," she said. "Keying cars is more my style." The little grin that accompanied that admission was laden with mischief. He pursed his lips against a grin, nodding knowingly. Just then, though, the pharmacist came back to the counter with a bag.
"Can I see your ID, miss?"
"Thank you," Lila told the white-coated man. She showed him her license, signed for the little package, then turned back to Samuel.
"Well," she said, "I guess I'd better get home and put some cookie pants on."
"Cookie pants?" His brow lifted with the corner of his mouth, amusement plainly written on his face. He toyed with his keys, at last - with some regret - sliding his hand free of hers. He kept close beside her as they moved toward the door, his steps noticeably slowed as their impromptu outing drew nearer to its inevitable end. At the exit he reached over her shoulder, shoving the door open in front of her. "Do you still want your car first, or do cookie pants take precedence?"
"Cookie pants," she confirmed, passing through the door. She tried to maintain some semblance of seriousness, but ended up smiling wryly. "It's a Scrubs thing. Pants you wear to accommodate a stomach expanded by cookies." He gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head in quiet amusement. It was strange, this sort of friendly comfort they'd reached, the familiar feeling seeping into their interaction almost effortlessly. It led her thoughts to the night before beyond just the physical. A new sense of him had seeped into her consciousness, as though maybe they had known each other far longer than the few months they'd been at Pax. Instead of shaking off the feeling, she let it be, and said, "Well... if you wouldn't mind, it might be nice to go home. I kind of just want to lounge a little bit. I can get a cab back to my car or something at some point."
He nodded, unlocking the truck as they approached. "I don't mind," he said, his tone guarded once more. If he felt some niggling sense of disappointment, he refused to give it voice. He considered inviting himself to her apartment, bullishly insinuating himself in the privacy and comfort of her home, perhaps under the thin pretext of further delving into what had happened to them. Uncertain of her response to this, he made an offer he could not envision withholding; it would give him a chance, at least, to see her again, to sort out this new ground they seemed to be tenuously exploring, whether they broached their dissociative encounter or not. "You change your mind later, I'll drive you over to get it. I'm off today, so no sense in you paying for a cab."
She looked at him and gave him a warm, genuine, maybe even slightly shy smile. "Thanks, Sam. That's really sweet."
He narrowed his eyes in a valiant - if failed - effort to discredit her assertion. Then, after the most fleeting of consideration, he set aside his uncomfortable, uncharacteristic waffling. He looked over to her as they stepped up into the truck, flashing her a shadow of his old, familiar grin. "Oh, fuck it. I might as well come over, really. Who knows when you might need something?" A hint of playful predation crept into his smile. "It'd be a shame for me to be all the way downstairs, unable to respond to... well, whatever you might want me to do."
At that, she gave a wry, cautious little grin. "Listen," she warned him. "It's not going to be exciting. It's going to be me in a pair of drawstring pants, just hanging out on my couch, probably looking kind of like hell most of the time." Even after that caveat, though, she wanted him to insist, she wanted him to come over and laugh with her at the stupid parts of television, and let her lean on him when she felt sick and awful. Not that he had any reason to want to do that, but the idea of sitting with him on her couch, tucked close together, maybe her head on his shoulder - the image was more comforting than she might have admitted. Even so, after a slight pause, she turned her gaze back to him and said tentatively, "But, you know. If you wanted to... it'd be nice to have some company."
"Remember that later when you're ready to throw me out." His teasing grin only deepened; every quirk at the corner of his mouth, every unvoiced laugh hidden in his eyes, restored his old expression, made him feel again that missing equilibrium. He may have felt softer toward her, more comfortable in ways he could not precisely explain, but the strange connection that lingered yet between them - unexplained, uncertain, seemingly old beyond reason or measure - assured him that complacency was still a distant concern, one that for the foreseeable future, at least, neither of them need fear. "Besides," he said, quickly shearing off this line of thought before it could grow further. "I already know you look damn good when you're looking like hell. And if it's just drawstring pants..." He shrugged, glancing over to her. "I'm just saying I think we can reach a compromise here."
With one hand, she gave him a light shove as she watched the road. She lowered her sunglasses over her eyes with the other, though there was a sincere enough smirk of her own curving her mouth. "Sorry, Sam," she told him as they turned into Pax's parking lot. "If ever there were a possibility of me fulfilling whatever weird pyjama fetish you might have, it's definitely not happening today." As they rolled past the gate and into a spot close to the building, she cast a little half-smile at him. "All you get is cookie pants and an old Yankees t-shirt." Once the truck was parked, she shifted in her seat, then said, "Aren't you going to open the door for me? I thought you were supposed to be a Southern gentleman."
"Open the door for you?" He quirked a brow; his tone, however, remained utterly flat. "For a Yankees t-shirt and sweats? My gentility usually goes for more than that." At that, Lia couldn't help but laugh as she nodded firmly.
All the same, he slid from the drivers' seat, pushing the door shut behind him, keys in hand. His long strides carried him quickly to her door, which he opened with perhaps more vigor than was necessary. "Ma'am," he drawled, extending a hand to hers. The grin he earned with his accent shifted to a smile as his fingers slid gently beneath her soft palm, brushing past the pulse point of her wrist as he led her from the truck. He shut her door, locking it behind them, and moved close to her side for the short walk indoors. The door to the lobby he held open as well, guiding her a step before him as they reached the marble floors. "Should I carry you upstairs, too," he teased, "or is this enough chivalry for now? I've only got so much in me, y'know."
"Probably," she said airily as she pressed the button for the elevator, "but I'll excuse you from that duty for now." The gravity of the situation seemed less heavy now; something in her was nearly giddy at the closeness of their contact, and she kept flashing back to images from the night before. Not even the sex - well, of course the sex, but beside the sex, the little lighthearted moments, the laughing, the holding each other - and before that: flashes of some Mediterranean paradise where he was him-but-not-him, where he was -
As the elevator doors opened, she cut that train of thought off too, before the name entered her consciousness. Taking a soft breath, she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and stepped into the elevator. She was surprised and grateful at how much better he was making her feel, and how untroubled she was by the events of last night - shortsighted lack of protection aside. Though the impulse was strong to reach for his hand, she didn't. Instead, she plucked at the sleeve of his shirt and said, "You're not so bad when you're being a gentleman, you know."
"So I hear." He stepped in close at her side, casting a hurried glance back out into the lobby as he did. He wondered if any of their neighbors might see them now, and if they would wonder at the seemingly overnight change in circumstances. As the doors slid shut, Samuel realized how much the prospect appealed to him. Still, the grin he gave her was sharp and predatory - an impressive, if ultimately insufficient, attempt at undermining her well intentioned compliment. "That's why I can't do it often. Sets a precedent. Creates unreasonable expectations." He pressed the button for her floor. "So if you'd not go around spreading dirty rumors about me opening doors and ferrying you around," he added, brow arched, "I'd really appreciate it."
Lia rolled her eyes but gave him a smile and pressed the button for her floor. "You've got it, Sergeant. But it'll cost you," she assured him as the elevator zipped up through the building. "God forbid anybody figure out that you're a decent guy," she smirked. When they arrived at her floor, she stepped off the elevator, lingering a little to make sure he was at her side, then withdrew her keys from her bag. Once she'd unlocked the door, she led him inside, suddenly realizing she was famished. "Hey," she said once she'd locked the door behind them and laid her keys on the little table near the door. "Are you hungry? I'm not sure if I'm supposed to eat before I take this, but you must be starving. Look at the size of you," she gave him a little grin, then took the little pharmacy bag out of her purse to look over the instructions.
"I could eat," he said. He openly surveyed the room, curious as to the state of it, her choices in decor. It was the first time he had seen the flat in its natural form, unaltered by the building's industrious staff. Briefly it occurred to him that perhaps that shift in environs had been no practical joke, but something far more dangerous and true; something deep within him - though not so buried as before - acknowledged the practicality of the thought, and though he tried, Samuel could not entirely stifle its low, insistent hum. He could, however, admit to the simple pleasure of being here, of having been invited, of being at ease in her presence after such an awkward and unplanned-for morning. Inwardly, at least. His outward demeanor remained unchanged, clinging to the comfortable flirtatious teasing they had so easily fallen back into.
"But between food and your silence, what kind of tab are we talkin' about me running up?" He turned back to her, shrugging innocently. "I am a man of modest means, Lia," he said, his tone edged with amusement.
That little grin reappeared at his question as she skimmed the pages of tiny type that had accompanied the little package. She didn't respond, though, until she found the answer she'd been seeking. That done, she arched her brow at him, though her grin lingered. "Listen, Samuel," she drew out his full name, the act faintly emphasizing her nigh-undetectable accent, "if you want to be with a girl like me, bribery and breakfast are the bare minimum." With that, she led him further into the open, airy apartment. White abounded, though large, recessed sections of the walls were a pale aquamarine, giving a sense of sea and sky and open air. The tall windows faced the ocean; the couches were white, and fetchingly curved, and beautiful. Art graced the walls, and a reasonably sized flat screen television graced the one opposite the largest sofa. Lia was glad, then, that the apartment was especially immaculate today, but still, she hoped, inviting. "Come on, have a seat," she said, going momentarily to the open kitchen to retrieve a menu from a drawer. "I know a great breakfast place that delivers."
There had been a snide remark at the tip of his tongue, a barbed little witticism concerning the precise nature of his desire to 'be with' someone like her. But even as he thought it, it felt disingenuous and uncalled for even to him, and it died before he could give it voice. He felt a sort of relief at putting this childishness behind him - for now - and simply enjoying the moment, and whatever tenuous connection they seemed to share. He found a place on the sofa across from the window, more intrigued by the broad expanse of crisp, clear glass than the sizable television close at hand.
Though he'd kept a civil tongue, he did manage to make himself far more at home than many others might in so short a time. He settled back against the cushions, kicking off his flip flops and toeing them a few inches away. "Are you ordering for me," he called, "or are we not quite to that point yet?" He stretched one arm across the back of the couch, peering toward the kitchen. "Just so you know, if I hear any unidentifiable ingredients in what you order, or anything with soy, or fake eggs, or turkey bacon, I'm throwing it down the elevator shaft."
That earned him a laugh as she emerged from the kitchen, menu in hand. Once again her brow arched this time at how at home he'd made himself. Though from any other man the familiarity might have made her purse her lips or even frown slightly, in him, it seemed just right. It even brought a little half smile to her lips as she set her purse down on a table near the door. Once she'd plucked her cell from the bag, she walked to the couch and sat next to him. "I don't deal in fake anything," she said, dropping the menu in his lap, shifting a little closer to him to see it. Granted, she knew it practically by heart, but maybe she'd overlooked something. "They have pretty much everything breakfast related, even real dead pig bacon, so you can eat your big manly breakfast to your heart's content," she told him, nudging him with her elbow.
"So thoughtful," he said. His perusal of the menu lasted all of forty-five seconds. He shifted somewhat unnecessarily closer to her as he pushed the little paper over, tapping distractedly at one number on the page. Its description listed his precious 'real dead pig bacon' as well as pancakes and breakfast potatoes, a rather ridiculous portion of food he wasn't entirely sure he would even eat. "I'd love a biscuit right now," he mused, "but nobody in California knows how to make them right." Shouldering into her he plucked the menu from his lap, dropping it into hers. His arm briefly lifted, as if it might slip around her, but at the last minute he held back. "You getting anything, or is that against the rules?"
Sliding off her own flip-flops, she drew her legs up onto the couch as she picked up the menu. "Now why would me getting breakfast be against the rules? I'm starving," she told him. "Besides, I'm not supposed to take the pill on an empty stomach." He took her at her word, nodding distractedly. Being disinclined to share information that might reflect poorly on him, Samuel felt no need to inform her he had rarely been present for scares such as these, and in truth had no knowledge of whatsoever their workings.
Giving the menu a quick once over, she hummed thoughtfully, then said as she noted the lack of fluffy southern carby treats, "And no, you trade biscuits for bikinis out here. Also, anything remotely resembling decent pizza," she sighed, then was quiet for a moment as she turned his last comment over in her mind. She couldn't quite tell if he was offering to pay or not - and it was better to err on the side of caution in these matters, she found. "I don't really have any rules about breakfast," she said, shrugging one shoulder. "We can go dutch."
"Nah, no need." He tipped his head back to where her purse lay, wordlessly indicating the fruits of their little pharmacy run. "You already footed one bill, I can at least get this one." It seemed foolish, at this juncture, to even teasingly name this a date; the thought did, however, cross his mind, bringing a pleasant little smirk to the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Corpus Christi has bikinis and biscuits," he said. "No reason any man should have to choose between them. Fuckin' inhumane."
Lia laughed, then, suddenly comfortable again, glad that they were acting now, at least, as though they'd been on a date. She liked the idea - maybe more than was wise - but that insistent, excited little voice inside her wouldn't let her dismiss it. Though she did set it aside. "Hmmm... bikinis and biscuits, sure, but what else? Besides rifles and cowboy hats," she grinned, nudging him again. Their thighs were practically flush now, and she was so close there were few places his arm could likely go beside the back of the couch around her. She looked at the menu and hummed. "I think I'll have an egg white veggie omelette with turkey sausage and a little cheddar," she decided. "Fruit salad instead of hash browns, and an orange juice. You should really get some, they squeeze it fresh there." Normally, she'd have gotten a coffee, but she wasn't sure how it would react with the pill. She offered him her phone. "Do you want to call?" she asked with a little smile.
"Why not." He plucked the phone from her hand, a thin but pleasant smirk shaping his lips. Close as she was now it was easy - natural, even - to slip his arm across the cushion above her shoulders, to lean further into the slender, comfortable shape of her. There was a strange sort of ease in the moment, a kind of deja vu in going through these prosaic little motions; it felt right to be there with her, even in so mundane and utterly normal a setting. When he ended the call, Samuel found it oddly easy to pick up the thread of conversation where it had been left off, personal as the topic could potentially get.
He made a vague noise of consideration. "Bikinis, carbs, rifles and cowboy hats," he said. "What else does there need to be, Lia? Really, that's all there is to life. Oh, and surfboards. And coeds on spring break." He quirked a brow. "What do you miss about home, then? Aside from the pizza, apparently."
Just as instinctively and easily, she settled against him, aware on some level of how perfectly she fit against his side. Under the pretense of retrieving her phone, she reached for his hand and took the device from it. She leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table, only to shift back to her place, nestling a little closer this time. Almost petulantly, she told herself she didn't care what it looked like; there was something infinitely comforting about being next to him - something reassuring in the size and strength and solidity of him. But it wasn't just that - it was him. Something more, essential. Something about last night, maybe, translated to the light of day. Either way, she pushed those thoughts aside and smiled at his question, looking at him.
"Snow," she said. "Snow and seasons. Ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Not having to drive if I didn't want to. Crazy cabbies. The museums on a Wednesday morning, when it was quiet and slow and it felt like you could have the whole place to yourself," she sighed, then laughed. "And you know, the late nights. It really doesn't ever sleep," she told him. "Have you ever been?"
"Couple of times." His shoulder lifted in a lazy shrug, brushing his fingertips lightly past her arm. "Either it's not my style or I've not had the right tour guides." He cut her an amused look, nudging her suggestively. She laughed. "That seems likely," she told him, nudging him back.
"So what now?" he asked. His hand curved against his own thigh, patting at his jeans merely to keep from reaching for her. He found he regretted the loss of her touch, and wished he had held on to the mobile long enough to coax just a bit more of that small intimacy. "We've got a half hour or so before the food's here. You feel like watching something?" His green gaze flicked down to her, lit by a noticeably teasing glint. "Or we could argue over where to go on our first date." He flashed a bright grin. "I'll let you pick the date and time."
A slow smile spread across her face, and she looked back at him. For just a fraction of a moment, she was utterly taken with his handsomeness; the glimmer of his bright eyes, his truly exceptional smile. He wasn't pretty the way some of the men she'd been with were, but he was certainly beautiful. But before that moment could lapse into an embarrassing silence, she came back to their banter, leaning back though she slid her hands around his arm and laced her fingers together. "Does that mean you're asking me on a date, Sam?" she arched her brow, then separated her hands to slide one hand teasingly up his arm. "A real live date?" She walked her fingers along his broad shoulder. The idea of a real date with him gave her an unexpected flutter in her stomach - a sensation she hadn't felt since she could barely remember when. Her fingers tickled at his neck briefly before she slid her hand along his nape, then a little lower, rubbing the very top of his back. "What are you proposing? I mean, I probably need to know what I'm arguing against." She grinned.
"I am. And your hand where it is isn't much of an argument," he teased. All the same, he made no move to pull away; in truth, might have even made the slightest shift toward her touch. "But I'm sure you'll get back into the swing of things soon enough." His lips thinned, then, to a mock line of deep contemplation. "We could do dinner and argue over cuisine," he offered helpfully. She mimicked his thoughtful expression, though she pursed her lips instead of thinning them as she furrowed her brow. "Or look for concerts and argue about bands." His eyes narrowed; he cut a playfully suspicious glance in her direction. "I have a feeling that debate could get pretty heated." At that, she couldn't help but laugh, certain he was right. The serious look broke completely as his next, likely ill advised, idea came to mind. "We could go to the beach, re-enact our first meeting. Although it's slightly more difficult to ogle me in a wetsuit as in board shorts, so that's something to consider."
"Oh, I think the wetsuit will do just fine," she said with a little grin. "I think skintight will suit you." As though remembering to behave herself, though, she gave his neck one last rub, a little scratch, then withdrew her hand, placing it chastely in her lap. Even so, didn't move to create any space between them, instead tucking her hair behind her ear as she settled back more comfortably against the cushions. "I think," she said, in part just to be especially contrary, "that instead of any of those, you should teach me how to shoot a gun." Her eyes were lit with mischief and enthusiasm as she warmed to the idea. "And I can teach you how to do something..." she chuckled. "Though I'm not sure what I could teach you to do. Well," she equivocated, "I bet there are a few things, but those'll have to wait for the third date."
Samuel's brow shaped a positively dangerous arch; he could not suppress his laughter in the least. "That a fact," he said. "You sure there's anything left to show me? I do remember quite a bit from last night, y'know." He paused meaningfully then, sighing deep and contented, as much to tease her as from the sincere pleasure of the memory. His broad, bright grin returned, his hand squeezing playfully at her thigh. It was a liberty, of course, but one he could not help but take. "There's really no losing with an offer like that, though, so I'm game. If you handle a pistol half as well as you handle everything else, you oughta be fun to teach."
Lia arched her brow to an equal degree and smirked, only to laugh at his grand sigh. "That is a fact. If I weren't a lady, I'd let you know that one night is nowhere near enough to show everything I know," she informed him as her expression widened to a grin. Her own hand slid over his, but instead of moving it away, she traced her fingers over each of his, then the back of his hand, the tan skin, before giving his thigh a little pinch to return the favor. "Well thank you very much," she smiled genuinely. "And I think what I'll teach you is yoga," she grinned. "It's very good for athletic people and will help you with flexibility and strength," she told him, then gave his bicep a little pinch. "How often do you stretch?"
"When I feel a cramp," he quipped. He thought a moment, though his contemplation was largely on the subject of Lia in yoga pants rather than on the question itself. When he spoke again some moments later, his distraction was quite deliberately evident in his tone. "And fairly often when I do any weight training. I doubt it's the same degree of stretching you're talking about." He quirked a sharp little grin. "You're welcome to demonstrate so I know what I'm getting into," he offered helpfully, gesturing to the open floor before them. "I think we've got time before the food gets here. Although if the delivery guy gets here while you're in the midst of something interesting, that might serve in place of a tip."
At that, she gave his arm a smack. "You're completely incorrigible, aren't you?" she asked, then shook her head, laughing. "You could probably benefit from some work on your flexibility, Sam," she told him, poking at his arm now as he sharply raised a brow. "Besides helping you with your core strength, it'll also make you quicker." She gave him a little smirk, settling back against the cushions, then stretching her legs out in front of her. "So," she said, "why do you act like such a dick sometimes when you're really like this?" She waved her hand in the general direction of their morning. "I mean, last night was..." she paused only because there were no words that came to mind that could do it justice. She settled for inadequacy. "Great. Really great. But you didn't have to do all this. Not that I don't appreciate it," she noted. "I do."
"Oh, it's no act," he said, his lips twisting into an insincere and flimsy frown. "I really am a dick, at least sometimes. Probably more. You can call my brothers for references." He looked back up to her from where his gaze had lingered on her legs, remembering too well their smooth length around his waist, over his shoulders, sliding tangled with his own. Joking aside, her point was a difficult one to counter. There seemed no answer for it but one damnable truth or another: That he felt it his responsibility to do so, and worse, that he was beginning, against all logic and his own initial desires, to earnestly care for her. So he settled for what he believed to be a respectable middle ground, hoping it would be enough. Shrugging, he said, "I know I didn't have to. But this is as much my doing as yours." He grinned, breaking the sudden serious tension. "Besides, what else was I gonna do with my day off, play Fallout?"
Undeterred, she thoughtfully pointed and flexed her feet, looking down the length of her legs at them as she did so. To him she responded, "You could have slept some more. You could have gone to the gym. You could have played Fallout, I'm guessing, though I don't know exactly what that is." Turning her head, she looked at him, then said, "I get the wanting people to perceive you as a dick thing. I even get that you are kind of a dick sometimes, brothers notwithstanding," she grinned. "But this is... I really appreciate it," she repeated. With that, she leaned over and up to press a kiss to his cheek, then his shoulder. Just then, the buzzer rang, indicating that their breakfast was below, and the delivery guy was waiting to be admitted to the elevator to come up to her floor. "Mmm... good. I'm starving." She rose from the couch and walked over to the intercom; once it had been determined that it was, indeed, their breakfast, she let him up, then turned to Samuel.
"You know," she said, "I think I like you."
The confession went a long way to softening the blow of her unexpected insight. Vague though it had been, it had still hit too close to the mark. With some regret Samuel realized he would be well advised to play things closer to the vest; Brighid had long since guessed his true intent where Lia was concerned, and foolishly he had told Pia outright. He raked a hand through his close cropped hair, cursing his own loose tongue. But now there was nothing to be gained from playing games, no benefit to acting like he was anything less than pleased. He smiled, rising from the couch and wending his way to the door. "I think I like you, too," he said, laughing at the sheer simplicity of the statement. "We both know I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
Hastily he signed his receipt when it came, leaving Lia to deal with the food itself. He dismissed the delivery boy with a fairly generous tip, some consolation for shoving the door shut in his face a moment later. "Anything I can help with?" he called, padding toward the kitchen.
"Sure," she said. She was already in the process of transferring his breakfast to a large plate; another sat nearby. "Do you want to want to take our drinks to the table?" She nodded toward a vintage 60s dinette set that managed to work well with the rest of the decor as it sat in front of the tall, wide windows, offering an uninhibited view of the ocean. "Also, some silverware? It's in that drawer right next to your hip," she noted. Once she'd finished transferring their respective meals to nicer plates, she brought them and a few napkins over to the table. Then, she retrieved the little pack she'd taken from the pharmacy bag, took the pill out of it, and set it next to her plate with a little sigh. Then, she smiled at him. "Thank you," she said.
He gave a clipped little nod, uncomfortable with gratitude he felt at least slightly misplaced. He ignored as well the unexpected domesticity of the moment, setting down his small burden between their plates, arranging silverware at each place setting with an unceremonious push of his fingertips. "No problem," he said at last, plucking from his plate a long awaited slice of bacon. This he dispatched before even bothering to sit, shamelessly sucking the grease from his fingers. "Not bad," he declared.
That made her laugh as she sat down to eat. "How bad could it be?" she asked as she delicately cut a small piece of her omelette with her fork. "Isn't bacon pretty consistent across the board?" As she watched him, awaiting his response, she took that delicate bite of omelette only to hum contently as it seemed to melt in her mouth. She hadn't realized quite how hungry she was. When she swallowed, she cut herself another, rather larger bite. "Anyway, when were we going to have this amazing first date of ours? And what kind of gun are you going to teach me to shoot?" she asked before taking that next bite.
"First off," he said, punctuating this first bullet point with a wave of his scrambled egg, speared at the end of his fork, "bacon is not consistent anywhere. There's far more nuance to it than anyone dares admit." At that, she made a sternly attentive face, nodding gravely as she chewed, then took a sip of her orange juice.
Her other questions were more difficult points to address. It had been years since Samuel had attempted to teach anyone how to fire a gun, and that foray into tutoring had been more ill advised than he ever might have guessed. In the intervening years, he had limited himself strictly to providing only additional practice to those already familiar with the workings of handguns and rifles; until that very moment, it had seemed an entirely viable course of action, and one unlikely to change. He shifted in his seat, downing a few bites more of pancakes and eggs before hazarding a response. "Revolvers are heavy, but pretty good for training," he said. "Less likely to jam and all that. So I don't know. I have a Colt that'd work, unless you're set on something else. As for when." He grinned, shaking his head. "That's on you. Last time I asked I was very accommodating, and you shot me down."
Lia rolled her eyes and smirked at him. "First of all, it's hard for me to remember you ever asking me on a real date when you always seemed to have your hands all over me before I could check my schedule," she said, her fork poised pointedly toward him. His lips pursed on a thin, sly smile; he shrugged unabashed agreement. "Second of all, I really have no idea about guns at all, so if you say a Colt would be good, that sounds fine." But she'd seen that shift in his seat, in his posture, and she speared a fresh, ripe strawberry with her utensil. "But really, we don't have to do shooting if you'd rather not. I'm game for most things. Though not video games," she noted emphatically. "It takes at least a few dates to get me to sit down in front of a console with a man."
"You baited me," he said. "But I'll teach you to shoot. That's no problem. Just listen to me and smart off as little as you can manage - I know it'll be tough - and we'll be good." She cast him her most innocent look, blinking almost doeishly at the accusation, pressing her hand to her chest. He shook his head, with the tines of his fork pushing a bit of egg around his plate. "And honestly, Lia, as long as you don't try to steal my PS3, or bitch nonstop about my playing, I'll consider myself lucky. You don't even have to think about picking up a controller. Unless you want to, and then I'll gladly kick your ass."
With a laugh, Lia shook her head, then took a sip of her juice. "I never try to separate a man from his passions, whatever they are," she told him. "And you're welcome to try to kick my ass. After the third date." With half of her omelette and a bit of her fruit salad left on her plate, she reached for the little package that had been sitting to her right, where she'd been comfortably ignoring it. Pushing her plate away from her, she opened the box and pulled the cardstock envelope out. "They're smaller than I expected," she remarked as she popped the first pill out of the foil that held it. After just a moment's hesitation, she put it in her mouth and washed it down with a swallow of orange juice and shrugged with a small smile.
"I guess we're halfway there."
Samuel released a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. With a smirk he lifted one hand, fingers crossed. After a few bites more he had dispelled what appetite he'd had; he set his fork aside, downing half his drink in a single drought. "So what now," he asked, considerably less than his usual taunt lingering in that quiet tone. "I'll go ahead and tell you I'm not watching any shitty romantic comedies. I'm trying to do the right thing here, but I have my limits." He shifted back in his seat, reaching for his drink. "And you do still have to tell me when we'll go to the range." He grinned, wolfishly toothy and broad. "I'll pick next time. Yoga. Do you offer any nude classes, or is that just a myth spread around to get men into boring, uncomfortable Pilates sessions?"
"First of all, I don't watch anything shitty," she said with faux snootiness. "Second, we're not going to watch war movies or anything starring Steven Segal or Sylvester Stallone or Jean Claude Van Damme, either." She stood and collected their plates. For a moment, she paused, dithering in front of her place setting.
"Seriously though," she said, watching his features attentively. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to. It's no big deal." The idea of being considered an obligation or a responsibility rubbed her entirely the wrong way. It was too soon for this; he wasn't her boyfriend, it wasn't as though he'd have spent a day with her doing little but watching television and tending to her if they hadn't forgotten the condoms last night. The thought got her going; she walked to the kitchen and got out a plastic container. "There's really not going to be much interesting going on."
"Now I didn't say I didn't want to." He rose close behind her, plucking napkins and glasses from the table and following her to the kitchen. He dropped off his small burden in the places he thought they should go, carefully avoiding brushing too closely to her, uncertain now if his presence was in any way wanted. Confrontational he might be; stupid he was not. "I was just making a polite request. Expressing my viewing preferences, as you did." He leaned against the counter opposite her, his smile softer now, without that sharply teasing edge. "If you're trying to throw me out, you'll have to try harder than that."
That eased her mind a little, and she nodded, a smile emerging on her lips as she slid the remains of her omelette into the container. "No, I'm not trying to throw you out," she told him as she pressed the container closed, then looked at him, that little smile still lingering. "This is kind of nice. Circumstances notwithstanding," she qualified as she cleared his plate - not that there was much to clear - into the sink, then ran the garbage disposal. As she rinsed the dish and put it in the dishwasher, she asked, "So what do you want to watch? Aside from Steel Magnolias, which, unfortunately, I don't have." She gave him a grin.
"'Unfortunately', huh," he mused, a decidedly suspicious note marking his tone. "I'd love to watch some of that yoga of yours, but I don't guess you'll be up to a demonstration." He laughed, pleased with his own joke - and moreso with the mental image that accompanied it. "Since I can't have that, why don't we just go sit and channel surf til we find something interesting? If you're feeling particularly generous you can let me have the remote."
With a shake of her head, she put her dish in the machine, then their glasses and utensils. "I don't know if I'm ready to trust you with that yet," she told him, pouring detergent in its proper compartments. "I don't know if I feel like watching Spike TV all day." With a little smirk, she stowed the dishwashing liquid under the sink, then shut the door, though she didn't start it. "And no, I doubt I'll feel much like yoga today, nude or otherwise. Though you're welcome to try without me if you want." With that, she started moving toward the living room, waving for him to follow. Plucking the remote from the coffee table, she took a seat on the couch and settled in. "So what do you want to watch?"
"Daytime television sucks." He dropped to the couch beside her, nuzzling back against the cushions. This time, it took far less consideration and still less time before his arm slipped around her slim shoulders. For a moment Samuel considered using the motion as a convenient distraction as he reached for the remote. But this seemed somehow unwise, or at least a fight whose loss he did not care to contemplate - hours of vengeful Oxygen-channel watching seemed one likely option - and so his free hand remained at his own side. "Any good reruns on? The League or Sons of Anarchy would be totally acceptable."
Settling comfortably into the circle of his arm, she laughed at him. "I don't think they're legally allowed to put either of those on this early," she told him. "But we can see what's on demand, if you like. But nothing scary or stomach churning, please. So The Human Centipede is out, thankyouverymuch." She shuddered at that, nestling closer to him even as he laughed. After a moment, she tipped her head to look up at him, considering him. He was not at all what she'd expected - and it wasn't often that Lia misjudged people. And really, she hadn't - but he was much more than what he'd seemed at first. And then there was last night, that undeniable connection, that closeness they'd felt that even now let her feel at ease and safe in his arms. Her hand went to rest on her stomach, a chaste gesture as the first wave of soreness began to pulse through her and she rested her head on his chest. At that, she gave him the remote, and settled in for the day.