Lia Valencia | Aphrodite (philommeides) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-01-26 16:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | aphrodite, ares |
On the Range
Who: Lia and Samuel
What: Lia and Samuel go on their much-delayed first date
Where: The firing range, then lunch, then the hospital, naturally! :D
When: late morning, January 22, 2011
Warnings: A little kissing, a little eating, a little bloodletting - not in that order! :D
It had been a hectic few months as the holidays always were for Lia. Despite her many friends and connections in SoCal, her professional successes had provided her with the ability to travel extensively during the holiday season. Of course there were no Christmas or New Year's shows, and it was to her benefit that both fell on Fridays this year - but she'd even wriggled out of doing her show the Friday after Thanksgiving, which meant she'd spent nearly half of November and most of December in New York, visiting family, ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza, and generally enjoying the beginnings of a winter she'd become a bit too thin-blooded for (even if she ignored this fact).
This left little time for her and Samuel to have make their promised dates, although teasing little texts were sent, along with messages and phone calls. She had the strong sense he'd wanted their conversations to go in a more scandalous direction, but she laughingly told him that phone sex was also off the menu until the third date. He seemed to be a good enough sport about it.
But she was back in Anaheim now, her routines re-established, and her tan rejuvenated by an appropriate amount of beach time. She and Samuel had finally set up their first, very belated, real date, and they were going to the shooting range.
For the occasion, Lia chose her clothes carefully - it was important to be practical, but also to turn heads - one in particular. And so she wore an off-the-shoulder, comfortably loose white top over jeans that could have been painted on, paired with boots with enough of a heel to entice, but not enough to result in injury if the kickback on whatever she was shooting proved more than she could handle. Her hair was pulled up, though a few escaped tendrils and a pair of dangly earrings prevented her from looking too severe. Lips glossed, eyes subtly accented with liner and mascara, she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled.
Perfect.
Convention demanded he pick her up -- even if they lived in the same building, even if his apartment was on the way downstairs from hers. One day, she might make a concession about this, but for the first date? Absolutely not.
There were always a few last minute preparations to make, because it wouldn't do to be ready and waiting when he arrived - but she did hum as she made them, still smiling.
For his own part, Samuel had faced a significant quandary. He knew well that no matter when he arrived, Lia would, like as not, still be completing her all-important rituals of preening. He had actually gone so far as to estimate just how late she might be, and grant them both more time to arrive at the range by outright lying to her about their appointment. They had a full hour longer than he intended to let her know, leaving him with a comfortable cushion in case of traffic, mascara mishaps, wardrobe changes, and any other unforeseen occurrences or acts of god. This knowledge left him in no rush at all to scurry to her apartment, and in no fear of losing their spot at the range, often quite crowded on the weekends. The damnable thing, though, was how childishly enthusiastic he was to see her again, and how deeply that conflicted with his desire to appear unaffected by the time and space that had kept them apart. Their limited communication had done nothing for his long-neglected libido, for one, but perhaps more distressing was Samuel's reluctant realization that he had simply missed her company. There was something familiar in the friendly barbs they traded, the looks that passed so easily between them, the sparks of blissful tension that reappeared with every meeting, that he had found with no-one else.
So in spite of all his worst intentions, Samuel arrived at her door a mere ten minutes late, still tugging at the corner of his black button-up. Beneath it was a worn PT shirt, a faded shade of black a few degrees lighter than the other. He raised a hand to her door, rapping at its surface. After a moment's contemplation he pulled his mobile from his pocket, pulling her name up on its little screen.
You're late, he sent.
She laughed, sliding the belt she'd finally decided on through its buckle as she read the text. Rather than answer his text, she answered the door, opening it to him with the chuckle still on her lips. "I'm on Latino Standard Time, guapo," she told him, leaning up to kiss his cheek. In spite of the welcome show of affection, he could not resist a dramatic rolling of his eyes. "By my calculations, I'm twenty minutes early." Once she'd closed the door and locked it behind him, she finished buckling her belt, then took his hand to lead him into the living room. It was a little thing - maybe too familiar - but it felt so right. Just touching him again felt good. She had missed him while she'd been gone, and for a moment, felt a twinge of regret that they hadn't spent New Year's Eve together. Even so, she pushed that thought aside, glad just to be near him again. Some part of her could acknowledge that she probably should have been appalled how nearly giddy she felt just having him in the same room, but the larger part of her didn't care - and was trying to silence yet another part that thought they should forgo the date completely and spend the afternoon in bed.
Now she laughed at herself.
"So did you find it OK?" she teased as she released his hand to take out her earrings, having decided that a pair of faux diamond studs would suit better. "I mean, we do try to keep the entrance secret from people on the lower floors."
"Not hard enough, apparently. No retinal scan, pressure plates or anything." He shook his head, feigning disappointment. "Seems like anyone can just waltz right up here. If you can stand the rarefied air, I mean." Emboldened by her easy touch, he slipped a hand around her waist, drawing her back toward him. He stole a nipping little kiss to her earlobe as she pulled one earring free. "Or maybe it was easy because you remember what a great house guest I've been before. I'll take whatever I can get."
He moved away before he could court any real danger from the liberties he took. It seemed wise to assume he had plenty of time to kill, so he circled the living room, lowering himself into the nearest, most comfortable-seeming chair.
His cheek was rewarded with an arch of her brow - though the effect of it was diminished by the little grin that curved the corners of her mouth. "I may have put in a good word for you with security," she told him over her shoulder as she took out the other earring and moved toward her bedroom. He gave a vague, self-satisfied sound in answer. Once she'd put away the dangling pair and retrieved the studs, she returned to the living room in short order, sliding one of the earrings into her earlobe.
"I'm actually looking forward to this, you know," she told him, that little smile lingering on her lips. "I've never really thought of learning to shoot before." She tipped her head to the other side as she slid the other glimmering stud into her other earlobe. "How old were you when you first learned?"
He rose from his lackadaisical slouch when she re-entered the room, as eager to leave for their little adventure as he was for the opportunity to ogle her again. He took a step toward the door, hoping to encourage her in that direction. "Seven. My dad and my older brother considered it a rite of passage." He flashed a broad grin, laughing as he did. "If you're tall enough to hold it and not tip over, you're old enough to learn to do it right. Always sounded fair to me." He bowed in the general vicinity of the door, one arm gallantly outstretched. "Lia, are you ready to become a woman?"
Narrowing her eyes at him, her smile curved into a smirk, she walked over and pushed her finger into the middle of his chest, sashaying close enough to brush against him in several places. "Our rites of passage are a little different where I come from," she damn near purred. "Trust me, you've never seen this much woman before." With that, she leaned up, pecked his lips, then sashayed away before he could get too grabby. It was a fair concession, his inclination to such behavior clearly written on his smiling face. Once she reached the door, she waited, looking at him with an arch of her brow, her face the portrait of patient expectation - the effect was only slightly tainted by the curve of her lips she couldn't quite hide.
Undaunted, Samuel slid closely past her, his arm brushing against her as he pulled his keys from his jeans pocket. "Alright then, eager beaver. I've brought my own service weapon and backup," he said, his voice dropping to a more discreet volume once they were in the corridor. "You're welcome to try those out, or start with a smaller twenty-two caliber. You might be more comfortable with that at first." He turned back to her as she locked the door, an impish grin brightening his features. "Of course, since you're so much woman and all, if you'd rather start with bigger toys, I'll be very amused - interested, I mean - to watch. As long as you keep aiming at the targets and not me, today's itinerary is really up to you."
Lightly, she slapped his chest as she passed by him, pushing at him just a little as she moved toward the elevator. "Not to worry, Sam. I do know how to take things slow and build up to a big finish," she assured him as they reached the elevator doors and she pressed the down button. "I'm plenty of woman, but size isn't my strong suit," she smiled innocently at him and stepped into the elevator as the doors opened. His brow lifted to a sharp arch, an unvoiced laugh playing on his lips. "I make no promises about my aim, though." She grinned. Once he was inside with her, she noted, "And toys? Isn't there some part of this process where you assure me that they're not toys, and I have to respect the weapon, or something like that?"
"Shit, no." He laughed aloud, leaning back against the wall of the elevator. "You want obvious, spoon-fed advice like that, find an actual instructor. Personally I think you're smart enough not to act like a semiautomatic pistol is a paintball gun, but if I oughta rethink that stance, you should really tell me now." His brow quirked higher, a teasing smile curving at the corner of his mouth.
At that, she could only laugh, shaking her head at him. "I think I might be able to draw the distinction," she assured him. "I'll do my best, anyway."
The elevator doors opened; with a hand fitted close at the small of her back Samuel guided her out into the lobby a short step before him. "As for your aim, don't worry about that. Have a little patience and we'll get you where you need to be." As they reached the door he stretched out one arm, pushing the door open ahead of her in a surprisingly gallant gesture. "You're not sayin' you're nervous, are you?"
The courtesy didn't go unnoticed - in fact, the smile she gave him before responding to him was decidedly sweet before it quirked into something a bit more punchy. "Nervous? Me?" she laughed. "Never. Well, not for this, at least," she amended honestly. She took a moment to enjoy his hand on her, staying a touch closer to him than was entirely necessary. "I mean, I'm sure I'm in good hands, right?" she smiled at him as they walked through the parking lot and approached his truck. "And besides, if I don't do well, it's more a reflection on you as a teacher than me as a student, I think." With that, she grinned broadly at him.
"You're in excellent hands," he laughed, "but there's nothing I can do for your attention span. If you don't listen to me, how would that be my fault?" He paused at the truck's broad door, pulling it open for her. "Only way I know to fix a problem like that would be teaching you while naked, and I'm pretty sure that violates a few safety regulations." Lia burst out with laughter at that as she near-swung herself into the truck.
"Well," she said, as she settled into the seat, "that and you might be putting some important parts of yourself in danger."
He closed the door behind her, circling the truck, toying idly with the surf rack on the tailgate as he passed. When he slipped into the driver's side, he was still smirking at his own joke. "It's too bad, really. Strip target practice would probably be a great motivator."
Chuckling at him, Lia stretched her legs and watched the road as they pulled out of the lot and got on the road. "It's easy to see you naked, though," she told him. He nodded, shrugging amicably, both unable and unwilling to contradict her. "And you've already seen me in the nude," she observed. "Though I don't know how much you remember of that." She set her bag down next to her, between them on the bench seat. Watching the road as it passed under them, she asked, "So how far away is this place? Is this where you usually go to practice?" she asked.
"Just fifteen minutes or so," he said. His eyes flicked down to the speedometer; at the rate they were going, fifteen minutes was a generous overestimation. "Closer than the station, so whenever I'm off I come out here, yeah." He threw a mischievous glance her way, the smirk that crept across his face nothing short of lecherous. "And trust me, Lia, I remember plenty. Not a detail escaped me. Which is very helpful considering how often I go back over it in my head."
At that, she gave him a pleased little smile, brushing a loose tendril of hair from her face. "It's so nice to hear you think of me often. I'll be glad to hear more about it on our third date."
In what seemed a short time they drew up to the building, a nondescript and unassuming structure whose lot was already half full. Samuel leaned over to the glove box, retrieving a holstered Kel-Tec 9mm from within. That done, he led her inside, stopping to consult with the range master just long enough to reassure them both of their standing arrangement. He gestured briefly back to Lia. In a moment he was back at her side, earmuffs and safety glasses in hand. These he handed to her, leading the way to the indoor range. "We're not supposed to have anything but their pistols in here, but I think that's a stupid rule. So just keep that in mind if you come back on your own. For now, though, you're okay."
Lia nodded agreeably enough and followed where he led. "So when I come as your guest, I get to shoot with an AK-47?" she asked innocently as she fitted the earmuffs over her ears, only to shift one to the side so she could still hear him. As they arrived at the spot Samuel had reserved, she put on the glasses. "How do I look?" she asked with a grin, putting a hand on her hip and striking a glamorous little pose. Maintaining it was more than she could manage: she laughed merrily at herself and him, then looped her arm through his, her fingers inching toward the 9mm. "So is this what you normally use at work?" she asked, her fingers skimming over his wrist. "What's it called?"
"First of all, no AK-47s for you, as entertaining as that'd be," he said, laughing. He slipped his own earmuffs around his neck, donning his less than stylish safety glasses. She grinned at him winningly. "Second, you look sexy as hell." This earned him an even wider grin, and she gave his arm a little squeeze even as his hand tipped upward beneath the pass of her slim fingers, raising the pistol just out of reach. "And this is a Kel-Tec PF-9. It's a backup, not my primary. I keep it in the truck cos it's reliable and cheap, so if it gets stolen I'm not out thirteen hundred bucks."
He shifted closer, brushing up against her side. "We can start with this one. If you don't like it or it kicks too much, we'll get you the twenty-two instead." He lifted his free hand, staying as close to her as he could while still providing a few necessary pointers. "The slide might be a little hard to pull back at first, but you'll get it. Test it a couple of times if you want, but there's already a round chambered, so it'll be more for your benefit than anything practical. When you're aiming, get the top of the front sight in line with the two rear sights." He pointed to the white dots sunk into the raised sights, clearly visible even in their shadow. "The recoil will lift your hands at least a bit, so make sure you're lined up again before you fire." He quirked a brow, looking back down to her with a boyish smile. "Questions?"
Her head cocked to one side to better hear him, she settled into her grip with him standing close to her. "I'm not sure yet," she told him with a laugh. Putting her palm on the gun, she pulled back the slide as he instructed - and it was trickier than she thought it would be, despite his warning. After a few tries, she'd seemed to have gotten something like the hang of it, so she aimed the weapon carefully. "So," she said, "how much recoil can I expect? Is this going to knock me back?" She edged closer to him even as she adjusted her grip - both hands - on the piece. "Is there some special way to shoot it? Pull the trigger, don't squeeze it, or something?" She squinted one eye shut, lining up the sights. "It seems like there are a lot of parts to this process."
"Nah, don't worry so much." He smiled, taking a step away, positioning himself more behind her than beside. "It'll have a little kick, but it's not a fifty-cal or anything. You'll keep a grip on it just fine. Now look." He edged behind her, his chest pressed to her back. He could easily see over her shoulder, peering down to the sights. By slow degrees they had inched to the center of their lane; their target hung at the end of the lane. "Lift the pistol and aim at the target. Close one eye, then the other. Your dominant eye is the one you'd not have to move the pistol to realign for the shot. Try it a couple of times til you've found a comfortable grip, and you feel like the sights are lined up, okay?"
Slowly, she nodded, then moved her earmuff back over her ear. She did as he instructed, testing her eyes and her grip, lining up the shot carefully. It would have been nice to say it was comforting to have him there behind her, but in fact, it was more exhilarating than anything. With a secret little smile, she shifted back against him, adjusting her stance to press a little closer to him, then took her shot.
It was loud - much louder than she'd expected, and she started at the sound, despite the gunshots going off all around them. The recoil was more than she'd imagined, too, the force of it pushing her arms up just as he'd said it would - though she held them steadier than she would have had he not warned her. It wasn't a bad shot; she'd been aiming for the heart, but instead got the shoulder. She laughed and turned around, pressing close to him. "Hey, look at that!" she grinned at him, holding the gun tightly, undeniable excitement and adrenaline rushing through her. "Not too bad for my first time, hmm?"
Her pleased reaction was fuel to the fire; already this easily counted among his best - and most unusual - dates, and he was more pleased than he had imagined that she'd been game to try. He nodded in answer, his grin broad and entirely sincere. "That's cos you've got such a damn good teacher," he teased. "Next time, aim a little lower than what you want to hit. You're still looking to line up the sights, but you're kind of planning for the recoil." His hands slid high and close along her arms, turning her against him. With her slight frame fitted close to his chest, he raised the pistol in her hands, easing her grip to something a bit more relaxed. He was far closer than he had any need to be, and certainly took more time than she likely required, but for a number of reasons, this was something Samuel was in no mood to rush. "When I step back, take your time, but take three or four shots in succession. Remember it'll kick up a bit with each one, so if you need to stop and get realigned, do." He slipped his earmuffs back into place, giving her hip a soft, suggestive little squeeze as he did.
She turned her head to give him a saucy little smile over her shoulder before she turned back around, carefully lining up her next shot as he'd instructed. The first went a bit wide; the next, a bit high. The third, though, was more centered and focused, and the fourth was just inside the innermost line - a little low, but the closest she'd come to a bullseye. She turned around with another bright smile and gave a little curtsy. Shooting was far more fun than she'd imagined, and she'd started out with a decent impression of it. Still holding the gun, she slid the earmuffs down around her neck, then sidled up to him and did the same for him.
"I think you are a pretty good teacher, Sam," she told him with a little grin. "How often do you practice?"
"Three or four times a week. More or less." He gave a nonchalant shrug, smiling down at her. His single step toward her, small though it was, put him flush with her body. That earned him a little lift of her brow and an arch cast to her little grin. "Depends on how much I'm working and how much I need the stress relief. You can probably imagine what a help this can be." He looked up, one brow arched as he looked at her grouping - somewhat scattered, but certainly respectable. "You aren't half a bad student," he said, chuckling quietly. "You'll get the hang of it yet, you keep listening to my sound advice." Glancing down to the pistol, he studied the comfortable line of her hand on the grip, pleased with the decidedly attractive picture it made. "Four more shots, if you want 'em."
"I think it's safe to say I'm an excellent student," she told him cheekily, pressing her palm to his chest, just over his heart. "And I can see it as a stress relief option," she agreed, shifting against him to turn around, though not moving away just yet. "Though I know some other methods, too." She grinned at him over her shoulder again. "Can't wait to teach you some of them." With a little laugh, she slid his earmuffs back into place, then turned her focus back to the range before sliding her own earmuffs back on. He shook his head, his lips curved in an earnest smile. "I'll take my shots though." And she did - they were just a touch closer together as she held her arms out properly, and tried to compensate for the recoil - two a bit low this time, one a bit high, and the last one more centered, but a bit wide. "I like this. This is even more fun than I expected," she told him, taking the earmuffs off again as she examined her work. Turning a bit, she asked him,
"Are you gonna give it a go?"
He was nodding when she looked back, pleased to see the growing confidence her shots exhibited. He held the smaller handgun's holster out to her, turning the PF-9 over to her moderately capable hands. She took it, putting the pistol away. "Sure," he said, "but I brought my own." He lifted the hem of his shirt, the black matte holster peeking out from its perch on his hip. "You can give it a try if you want. The first pull is the hardest; it takes about twice the pressure of the shots on the Kel-Tec you just fired." He dropped the hem of his shirt, striding up toward the near side of their lane. He thumbed a small switch alongside the lane, sending her pockmarked target winding down the ceiling toward them. Carefully he switched the used target for a new one, repositioned it, and brought her poster-sized souvenir over to her. "Something to mark the occasion," he said, chuckling. "Pretty decent, newbie." At that, she grinned at him, eyeing the target as she accepted it.
He slipped his favored sidearm from its holster, smiling content at its weight in his hand. His eyes flicked up to hers, glinting with unveiled joy. "It won't be as comfortable a fit for you, but if you're up for it..."
"Well that doesn't sound like anything but a challenge," she told him with a laugh, setting aside her memento and the smaller gun in its holster. "I'll give it a shot," she told him, taking the Sig from him, weighing it in her own palm. "Hmm," she said, moving to face the newly replaced target. It was a bit heavier than the PF-9, and she was curious about the pull on it. When she lined up the shot, then pulled the trigger, it took much more force - so much so that when she succeeded, it took her by surprise. She gasped, her eyes popping wide as her wrists snapped up. The shot went quite high, missing the man-shaped silhouette on the target entirely. "Oh!" she said, then laughed. "That is different." With a sheepish little grin over her shoulder at him, she lined up another shot, this one significantly better, if not perfect. She turned to him and asked, "So when do I get to see you in action, Sergeant?"
"I like the way you ask that, so right now if you want." Samuel stuck out his hand, beckoning for the weapon with a crook of one finger. With an innocent look, she shrugged her shoulders at him until impatient, he edged closer to her, plucking the pistol from her hands. His hands curved around the grip, close and firm but clearly at ease. In a single smooth motion he drew the Sig level with the target, hesitating only a fraction of a second before sending three bullets tearing through the narrow bullseye marking the heart. The fourth went high, though it was unclear if this was his intention - its path cut straight through the silhouette's throat. He looked back to Lia, his stance relaxing somewhat as he lowered the Sig. His expression was one of more boyishness than arrogance, his enthusiasm utterly contagious. "Satisfied? There's fifteen more in the clip, if not."
Without her having fully realized it, Lia's lips had parted into a small "o" as Samuel rapidly hit his targets; she blinked when the other bullet seemed to go astray, until she realized where the fourth had passed through the target. When he turned to her, it took her a split second before she laughed, then shook her head. "No, no," she said, sliding her earmuffs around her neck, then taking the protective glasses off. "I'm very well impressed," she told him, walking toward him. She could admit to herself at least that seeing him firing the pistol was a revelation; he'd seemed perfectly in his element, his movements sure and absolutely graceful, his body in perfect tune with the weapon, as though it were an extension of him. She shook her head, looping her arm through his. Even that small contact sent a little frisson of pleasant tension through her before she looked up at him.
"So are you going to teach me how to shoot like that?" she asked with a little grin.
"Sugar, nobody can teach that." He looked down to her, eyes glinting as he flashed a broad and wolfish grin of his own. His arm tightened on hers, giving it a gentle squeeze before he drew away. Holstering the pistol, he threw a mischievous glance back to her. "But I like a good challenge, too. You wanna come out and practice, you just let me know." He pressed the button near the lane, drawing his mutilated target down toward him. "So what now?" he asked, pulling the earmuffs down around his neck. "I know it's hard to top a performance like that." He gestured to the target, smiling as he rolled it up. "Maybe we should just call it a day and go eat, huh?"
Arching a brow, she looked at him with a half-smirk. "Aw, and here I was, ready to spend the afternoon letting you impress me," she told him as she followed his lead and rolled up her own target, then collected the pistol he'd loaned her. "I could eat though," she told him with a beatific smile before leaning up to kiss his cheek, then sashaying away to return her glasses and earmuffs.
Once they'd returned their equipment, the ride to the restaurant was short and sweet - more teasing, more banter, and the realization that the sense of familiarity she felt with him was as constant as the underlying - and lately, genuinely enjoyable - tension between them. It was something of a surprise, the way his cocksure swagger appealed to her. It was only once they'd settled into the restaurant, their drinks served, their meals ordered, she told him so - in a manner of speaking.
"You know, Sergeant," she told him, taking a sip of her pale ale, "you're not really what I'd usually consider my type."
"That so?" Samuel tried to look surprised, but was far too preoccupied with grinning at the rim of his glass to meet with any success. After a pleasantly long draught of his beer he lowered the mug, extending it slightly to her as if in toast. "I'm glad you've seen the light." She met his toast with a little one of her own, despite a laugh and a shake of her head.
He settled back in his chair, looking more smugly self satisfied than he had any right on a first date. "This is where I'm supposed to ask what is your usual type," he said, an amused note in his voice. In truth he was interested, much to his own dismay; he chalked this up to morbid curiosity, refusing to give way to even the slightest modicum of groundless, irrational jealousy. "So by all means." He gestured toward her, beckoning for answer. "Enlighten me."
"Oh, I hate to be predictable!" she laughed, shaking her head. "It was more an opener to talk about you than one to talk about the sort of men I usually date. Though I can understand why you'd be interested," she gave him a little grin of her own, then took a sip of her beer. "I guess it would have been more accurate to say that I don't normally date men like you," she told him. "Musicians, entrepreneurs, the occasional criminal, business executives... once I even dated an actor," she confided. "Though I won't make that mistake again."
As the waitress set down their plates, she smiled up at her and thanked her before turning back to Samuel. "I think it's a warrior thing. You're a literal, professional warrior. Also, you are the cockiest bastard I've ever slept with, which I think may be saying something," she said, picking up a perfectly made french fry from her plate and pointing it at him before taking a delicate bite with a grin.
Samuel's brow had sharply arched at 'musicians,' and even now it showed no signs of lowering. Jealous or no, he was glad to not be counted among the number she listed off; he even found himself making a slight but noticeable snort of disdain at the mention of an actor. Unsurprisingly he took her comments as compliments, beaming brightly at each in its turn. "Thanks," he said, quite sincerely. "Is it really still considered cockiness when it's totally deserved?" His head tipped to a curious angle, as if in serious contemplation of the question. He gave her ample time to provide an answer of her own, tucking contentedly into his obscenely rare, shamelessly thick prime rib sandwich.
"Now don't get me wrong," he added, after another long pull of his beer. "I don't mind talking about me, and I'm probably way more interesting than those guys. So forgive me. I didn't mean to interrupt you."
Laughter was bubbling from her when suddenly she was cut off. With a slight jerk, it seemed she was struck back in her seat; her brow furrowed, then her eyes widened, and she blinked at him, her lips still slightly parted. For a moment there was only confusion as a poppy red bloom appeared on the white fabric of her shirt over her left shoulder, rapidly expanding as she gasped. "Sam?" there was genuine confusion in her voice as the pain registered, and she bit her lip, pressing back in her chair, her left arm hanging limply at her side, her right hand clenched into a fist. "What's happening?" she asked, her eyes welling up, the searing pain throbbing through her with every breath she took.
So quickly his self satisfied smile disappeared, replaced by a deep crease in his brow, his jaw set in a tight, hard line. Samuel rose to his feet, his chair squealing against the tiled floor as it was shoved roughly backward. He said nothing before he took a hasty assessment of the apparent injury, bleeding as quickly as it was; no-one had walked behind her, and there had been not the slightest sound to indicate an attack of any sort. Samuel decided he had had his fill of the inexplicable, but this was a thought for another time. He circled the table, drawing close to her side, one hand slipping gentle but firm around her uninjured arm. "C'mon," he said, his voice low and rough. As he lifted her from her seat he felt a sharp pain shoot through his thigh. He felt the warm, thick trickle of blood before he saw it. He bit his tongue against a curse. "We're going to the hospital." He shoved his free hand into his jeans pocket, somehow fishing a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and tossing it to the table even as he steadied Lia on her feet. He lead her to his truck, maneuvering them carefully into their respective seats.
As they drove, she held her shoulder, blood blossoming between her fingers. She seemed to fade in and out of awareness, reality seeming surreal somehow - bright and hazy - as her breath came shallow and the road blurred together, a strange, surreal backdrop for them. When she turned to look at him, the world swam before her for just a second before she saw the dark, spreading stain on his jeans. It took a few moments for it to register in her mind what it must be, and it made her stomach lurch and her body feel detached and afraid. "Sam," she asked as they tore down the road toward the nearest hospital, "are you all right?" Her voice sounded weak and dim and distant even to her own ears. Somewhere in her detached mind she realized they were getting closer to a hospital, and that that was a good thing. "What happened?" she repeated.
"I don't know." He turned over countless possibilities in his mind, discarding each as quickly as it came. To say the wound in his thigh had seemed to open of its own volition was absurd. He could blame old injuries, but that hardly explained the blood, and it did nothing to lend any sort of reason to why her own shoulder was bleeding. Judging by the expression on her face, Samuel found it difficult to believe Lia had experienced anything that came close to this pain. He pressed harder on the accelerator, his hazard lights flashing as they wheeled beneath the awning marking the emergency room's front door. He swung out of the cab perhaps too hard, landing roughly on his bleeding leg. But the sharp stab of pain centered him in a way, hastening his steps as he moved to Lia's side. Briefly he contemplated carrying her, but she found her feet admirably. After a hurried flashing of his badge to the nearest attendant, the two found themselves in capable hands, the subject of more than a few curious stares from nurses and physicians alike.
Samuel answered what questions he could, long used to the routine of ER admissions and outpatient surgeries. There was, however, no getting around the fact that their wounds appeared to have occurred spontaneously, appearing as strikes from blades of significant heft and edge, with no weapon to account for it.
The confusion might have been the worst part for Lia; everything seemed to move so quickly, from the emergency room to some other room. A wound in the shoulder, it seemed, could be very serious, and it certainly felt like it to her. She tried not to complain or make much sound at all, except for when Samuel was taken away from her. Then, she looked at him in panic and desperation, calling out his name, though they were rolling her away too quickly. From there, everything was a blur. She awakened in a hospital bed, confused and thirsty, and the nurse would only give her ice chips. By the time they'd taken her to a room where she waited for her release papers, she was a little steadier, but was unable to get any information about Samuel.
The nurse had helped her get dressed (Lia had fortunately brought a tank top in her purse, though that had been in case of getting her shirt dirty at the range) and she was seated in a wheelchair as she awkwardly tapped out a text to Samuel one-handed, asking if he was all right.
In spite of all the best intentions of his own attendants and the rather bullying insistence of a sizable orderly, Samuel had been impossible to keep abed. A number of stitches had been required to close up his wound, but he had refused - via remarkably loud, obscenity-laden monologuing - all but local anesthetic, as well as anything remotely resembling a full checkup. By the time he received Lia's text he had refused a wheelchair as well, only reluctantly snatching a single crutch from a wide-eyed, clearly frightened intern in a effort to appease his captors. He paused in the hallway upon reading his message.
Fine. What room? he sent back.
Not waiting for an answer, Samuel paused at a nurse's station, singling out a nurse with a particularly pretty, particularly naive expression. A few flirtatious smiles later he left her blinking confusedly at his back, Lia's room number procured, his own information still happily unshared.
He shouldered her door open, wincing as he took a wrong step, his weight landing uncomfortably on his leg. He twisted his pained frown into a smile. "Hey, sugar. Some first date, huh?"
She blinked at him, her mind still clouded from the anesthetic, unable to quite put together how he'd gotten there. She looked down at her phone, wondering if she'd forgotten she'd texted him her room number, but she hadn't yet. Regardless, she was glad he was there - even more so than she'd anticipated. Awkwardly, she tried to roll over to him, but in trying to do so one-handed, only ended up going in a circle. Her brow furrowed, a little frown at her lips, she stopped and reached out for his hand. "I've had worse ones," she said a second or two later than she might have under different circumstances. She looked at his thigh, then back up at him.
"Are you sure you're OK? Should you be walking?"
Almost dreamily, and certainly slowly, she rose from her own wheelchair with hardly any trouble at all.
"Do you want to sit?"
"Fuck no." He wrinkled his nose, his look of disgust open and unabashed. "I've sat and been poked and prodded and lectured about all I can take. Right now I just want to go home and drink." He took a step closer to her, leaning over as best he could given the crutch pressing hard beneath his arm. His free hand stretched out, touching high along her uninjured arm. Though it did little to steady her, he liked the proximity and wordless comfort the gesture granted them. He looked her over, his eyes passing over her for once without even a hint of lechery. They had tended well to her shoulder's bizarre wound, as best he could tell, though some part of him desperately wanted to demand more information: her long term prognosis, physical therapy needs, and a dozen other things experience had told him would now be a concern. "You sure you're feelin' okay, though? We can stay longer if you need."
With a little shifting, she took his hand in hers and gave him a smile. "I think I'm all right," she told him. "You're pretty tall, aren't you," she said, blinking as she looked up at him. Then, still holding his hand, she sat back down in her wheelchair, exhaling softly as she did. "I just want to go home. I feel -" she shook her head. "These drugs they gave me are something else," she told him. He nodded understanding, letting her settle in as she needed. Absently, her thumb stroked the skin of his hand, and she lightly rested her head on his arm as she looked up at him.
Just then, the nurse came into the room with Lia's discharge papers, and after a few signatures and instructions, the nurse handed Lia a plastic bag with her personal effects in it. Once she'd gone, Lia looked up at Samuel again, then at his leg. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked. "Should we get a cab home?"
"And leave my truck here for just anybody's pawing? Fuck that." He straightened up, asserting his health and independence in his own silent, petulant way. His fingers stretched out to reach into his pocket for his keyring, wrested from the grasp of an orderly as he'd stormed from his own coldly lit room. "Takes more than a scratch to put me down." With that, he tossed his crutch aside, letting it fall against the unmade hospital bed. Though he instantly, deeply regretted the action he did not let it show. Her eyes widened at him as he limped over to her wheelchair, tightly grasping the handles to wheel her outside. It was slow going, but going all the same, and he was pleased to leave the ward behind even at such a pace.
Once in the parking lot, however, it was a more difficult thing to maneuver his date back into the truck's high cab. Lia tried to help the process as best she could, though the painkillers they'd given her had made her clumsy, and she definitely couldn't swing herself into the cab the way she had just a few hours ago. Still, at no point did Samuel regret not availing himself of the orderlies' offer of assistance, instead feeling a marked degree of pride at managing quite well, all things considered. "Okay, you hang on," he said, pushing her now vacant wheelchair back toward the waiting porter. "I'll drive slow and you'll be fine by the time we get home. Alright?"
"Alright," she agreed, watching him move back. She bit her lip - his leg couldn't be completely alright - though at least the porter seemed to want to meet him halfway. She breathed a sigh of relief once he was in the truck as well, and she was very impressed at how easily he seemed to get there. Over the course of the drive home, her hand slid over his, and then at some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder. Once they were back at Pax, she did her best to get out of the truck on her own, but it was a bit too difficult with only one arm at her disposal - the cab was a little far off the ground, it seemed to her. Fortunately, Samuel helped her come down from the truck, and soon enough they were on their way up to his apartment, her purse clutched in her free hand. Once they were there, she leaned her head on his shoulder again, lolling just slightly before she blinked herself back into the moment, and started working on taking off her boots - a task that seemed monumental all of a sudden. She decided the wisest course would be to sit on the floor to do it. Her face was a study of concentration as she valiantly tried to remove the first boot one-handed.
"How's your leg, papi?" she asked him, pronounced tones of Spanish and New York creeping into her words as she tugged at the boot.
"Still fine." He turned to face her, having locked and deadbolted the door behind him. His eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen, though, and in a moment of silence he pondered the wisdom of a double shot of whiskey to ease the very real pain he yet refused to acknowledge. Sighing, he limped to the couch rather than to his freezer. "Let me help you with that." He dropped unceremoniously to the couch, his stitched thigh kept carefully outstretched in an effort to lessen the pain of the jolt. He would rather have knelt or sat beside her on the floor, but that, for the moment, was entirely out of the question. So he reached out his hand, leaning over, taking her small foot in his hand and bringing it to rest on his uninjured leg. "Keep your balance, now," he said, chuckling quietly. "You fall over and it's gonna really sting." With a sheepish grin, she nodded up at him, balancing herself on her good hand while he tended to her.
In this somewhat unusual position he unlaced each boot in turn, sliding her shoes and socks off and setting them beneath the coffee table. His own he merely toed off, kicking them alongside hers. "Now c'mon up here," he said, patting the couch cushion beside him, his hand moving to take hers. "Can I get you anything? Whiskey... water... both?" He looked her over, unable to suppress a sudden, earnest smile. "Y'did good today, you know. You deserve a little treat if you want it, meds or not."
It would have been far more awkward to get up from her position had she not slipped her hand into his; as it was, the medication they'd given her at the hospital wasn't helping her coordination. Thankfully, though, she had taken his offered hand, at once grateful and warmed by the way they fit together. This way, they got her to her feet with little enough trouble, though once she was standing, it took a few blinks and a shake of her head before she was ready to move. She didn't release his hand, though - instead, she sat down next to him and laced her fingers through his, then impetuously turned her head to press a kiss to his shoulder.
"I think I'm all right, thanks," she replied to his offer, her thumb stroking over his hand. Then she smiled back at him, sweet and open in a way men rarely saw from her these days. "I already have a treat," she told him, then grinned a little at her own goofiness. To avoid the embarrassment or whatever witty thing he might have said in reply to that, she leaned up and gave him a kiss, her hand lightly squeezing his.
Her kiss put his smirking lips to far better use, and for his part, Samuel had no complaints. He leaned into her, careful not to jostle her against the cushions. His fingers tightened between hers, returning that slight gesture. In spite of how well their date had gone, he knew this was as much as he could expect for now; he was determined to make the most of it. He smiled at the thought, drawing his tongue over the swell of her lower lip. The motion earned him a little sigh that parted her lips in her own smile, and her hand untangled from his to slide up his chest, then to his neck, as their date concluded somewhat differently than she'd expected, but no less pleasantly.