InsaneJournal

you're as close as it gets without touching me
Who: Samuel, Viola
What: Person A brings Person B consumable C.
Where: Apartment 707
When: February 14, 2011; 7:45pm
Warnings: None
Notes: Could it wait for a bit? I'm in the middle of some calibrations.

Viola had not thought of the man she'd encountered in the stairwell since their original meeting. It had taken a full second session of her usual yoga routine to expel the tension that had coiled taut within her, the exchange recounted step by step, every word reviewed, but in the end she had come to terms with the rather unpleasant experience. It had subsequently been dismissed by her brain, set aside and catalogued but otherwise irrelevant in her daily life in which the stranger had no real bearing until their paths crossed again and she would reevaluate the situation. Viola simply hadn't expected that to happen so soon thereafter, and with so meagre grounds for incitement. For if she was being forthright - and Viola usually was - she had only glimpsed the man in the parking lot of their shared apartment complex for a second.

But this was all it had taken to lodge him firmly back into her mind, the lines of his countenance etched clearly into her memory that she found she could conjure it quite easily to assess (and ultimately admire) the strong definition of his bone structure. Indeed, she could acknowledge some degree of attractiveness in the man, a mere observation documented by an impartial eye. People came with both strengths and faults. Yet, she was far more reticent to admit her thoughts no longer retained their initial repulsion that she had felt upon the stranger's rudeness. Though she recognized the objectivity time could bring, and often preferred to take advantage of this particular tendency when it came to making a decision, Viola wondered if it was solely responsible for the new light with which she regarded their brief history. Something raced through her when she thought of him, akin to that flare of ill-temperament ignited during their first meeting, that froze her breath in place and excelled the once resting pitter-patter of her thrumming pulse. It still twisted some unseen part within her, the irritation tempered with another feeling she could not immediately place.

It invaded her thoughts throughout the day like an undercurrent, as she listened to the direction of her supervisor, and went on the early rounds of the general medical ward. Even as she discussed the more interesting nuances of an otherwise routine shift in the hospital with the other first year residents, her mind shifted back to him, drawn there by the subtlest reminder: a rude word, the sharp curve of a mouth, the rumbling timbre of a masculine voice. Viola was grateful that it had not managed to impede her progress under the tutelage of her more experienced teachers, and that she'd been able to proficiently answer when one of the doctors asked her how she would handle a particular patient's symptoms. But on the long drive home, it had shadowed every passing musing until she concluded she must take action. She could not allow it to dominate her so thoroughly, permitting distraction to eventually lead to downfall. Viola needed to regain control, attain understanding for the unexpected blip in her concentration, and for that, she reluctantly concluded she would have to see the man again. The very idea of such an occurrence drew a swift and sudden tug from the hollow of her chest, and its feeling was not entirely unfamiliar. Yet, Viola could make no sense of it within the context it came, and rationalized that perhaps this was nothing more than the result of some nagging guilt that she had not been in her best form the morning of their meeting.

But she did not know the man well enough to conspire some plausible excuse for a visit, and ultimately she had to settle on a mere neighbourly gesture of reconciliation; though fortunately not one that included an apology for she was still convinced she had been in the right. She would simply attempt to smooth things over - a practical goal in an apartment complex so prone to socializing as theirs did. However, she had no intention of arriving empty handed. From what she'd read on the apartment forums, these displays of community-based goodwill often came accompanied by some sort of home-made offering of sustenance, and Viola hated to break tradition. Yet while she was quite capable of fixing herself a meal, she questioned whether anyone else would care for steamed fish with ginger. There was no reason to force such things on a stranger, especially one who might have very well already had his dinner. Instead she stopped by a liquor stores on her way home, eyeing the various red wines which were her own preference before deciding the man had struck her as more of a beer drinker. She picked out a six-pack of a local brew, advertised as having won an award in one of the recent Oktoberfests, and made her way back to Pax Letale.

From their brief run-in, she surmised the likelihood that he resided on the seventh floor, but it was through the direction of one of the complex's employees that she was spared knocking on every door, thus arriving at apartment 707 at approximately 7:45pm with a set of neatly curled fingers rapping lightly on wood grain. The entrance drew open and Viola found herself standing there, her heart inexplicably racing as she met a familiar gaze that left her feeling oddly exposed without any real pretense for her sudden appearance at his doorstep. Yet, she recovered with a steadying breath, finally understanding why so many came with parcels of consumables. It was a diversion, a means for framing an otherwise aimless conversation that might quickly tread into stumbled sentences or awkward silences, a way of directing attention away from oneself and onto a more neutral territory of proffered object. She lifted her eyes, meeting his squarely as she smiled. "Hi. Have you got a minute?"

Samuel immediately recognized the girl, though her presence took him aback. Given their first meeting and its hardly amicable end, she was the last person he expected to show up at his door, least of all with a sixer in hand. His curiosity and suspicion equally piqued, he quirked a brow, one broad shoulder lifting in a languid shrug. His motion guided the door farther open, out of carelessness or simple apathy allowing her a better view of what lay within. “Sure.” He cast a glance back into the apartment, shifting on his feet as he did. The source of his distraction was not visible from the door, though the sounds of a particularly intense gunfight issuing from the television’s general direction betrayed more than his words did. “I’d ask if you wanna come in, but I’m already booked. So...” He leaned against the doorframe, one hand gesturing vaguely toward the beer. “Great as it is to see you again, Grace, what’s this all about?”

Her thumb tread lightly across the thin edge of the cardboard handle, which cut against her palm from the weight of the bottles it bore. This slow, haptic pattern providing a haven away from the unusual disarray of her thoughts in its regimented rhythm as she sought to form her reply. Though she had not anticipated being welcomed with open arms, Viola found herself crestfallen at the apparent dismissal of his words, a pang of disappointment slicing through the center of her chest. It mixed violently with the inexplicable surge of dizzying elation she had experienced upon seeing him, the sort of sweetly, aching joy that had been so intense it had brought its own brand of discomfort, and the combination left her under the sway of see-sawing moods, none of which were pleasant. But her reactions made no logical sense, and they were so inherently unlike her that Viola could not shake the sensation that she was being invaded by some foreign spirit, an unfamiliar presence roiling within the depths of her mind and sending through it ripples of new and disrupting emotion, like tempestuous winds spoiling the previous placidity of perfectly smooth blue waters. Somewhere in that storm she was losing herself, but Viola had faced bigger challenges in her life. Determination, discipline, sheer force of willpower could overcome any obstacle. She inhaled so sharply that the air stung her nostrils.

"I hadn't intended to interrupt," she said, composing each syllable carefully so that her exact pacing forced it into a natural cadence. "Our last meeting was... less than ideal. I was rude, but you were ruder, and I thought we both could do better than that." Even under this strange spell that sent some confusing jolt of intrigued pleasure whenever she met his gaze, that filled her with an effusive need to impress him each time she noticed his strong, dominating figure, Viola did not mince her words. They were an accurate and fair assessment, and she didn't bide by stating things she couldn't stand behind. When push came to shove, she vastly preferred honesty over pretty words as long as they were not unnecessarily cruel.

"But seeing as you're preoccupied," she cast a glance briefly beyond the entryway, curious about his home and what it revealed about him but not daring to enter his abode when an invitation had almost been explicitly withheld. Viola wondered if he had been offering her a manufactured excuse or if he in fact had company somewhere hidden behind his walls before understanding struck her. The air suddenly felt too thin as though someone had snaked a fist around her ribs and crushed one of her lungs. Her focus faltered in a swoon of hazy vertigo. "It is Valentine's Day. I won't take any more of your time. Just a proper introduction. My name's Viola Kirke." She said in a voice that was a little too strained as she extended her free hand toward him.

At some point the arch to his brow had grown even sharper, perhaps a reaction to the imagined insult of having the memory of his effortless rudeness dredged up and thrown back at him. The expression evened out, now, Samuel being quite aware her judgment was sound, her verdict well deserved. He heard the change in her voice, that unexpected and minor alteration from her earlier certainty to this new, forced tone; he wondered at its cause, and very nearly asked as much. But for the time being he held his tongue, aware that by virtue of her peace offering they had just gotten off to something like a better start. He pushed off from the doorway, took her smaller, finely boned hand in his, and gave it a firm shake. “Sergeant Samuel Wolfe,” he said. His hand lingered on hers a moment too long, the pad of his thumb moving soft over her skin as he drew away, some small act of selfish, taunting playfulness whose motivations even he did not know.

“Listen,” he said, his sharp eyes meeting hers once more. “You wanna come back another time and bring that beer with you, we’ll talk it out. Who knows, I might even end up apologizing. I like meeting new people, especially the ones who aren’t easy to scare off.” He flashed a broad grin. “Just, you know. Now’s a bad time.” He leaned into the hall, his lips nearly at her ear, his eyes on hers as he whispered, “I don’t think she’s open to threesomes just yet.”

Too many feelings raced through Viola that she could not distinguish just one evoked by his words. Her thoughts swung between irrational joy at his touch despite its simplicity of a commonplace handshake, the sickening surge of her insides upon his admission that another awaited him inside, the burn of humiliation to know why she'd come and why she was being turned away. Viola had never felt so aware of another's presence, or so affected by it: the looming angle of broad shoulders, or the sharp, clean scent of soap on skin. Alone they might have merely been minor points of note, but together they intertwined to wreak havok on her senses. Her pulse gave a hateful flutter against the delicate lines of her veins, and she rebuked her body for this small betrayal. It was not as though she'd never experienced attraction before and yet, no one had ever quite evoked this same level of visceral response, a pure, chemical rush that struck with acute and devastating results. Her interest in others generally developed along a far more measured timeline, careful intervals of growing friendship and respect, appreciation of a person's values and intelligence that enhanced whatever physical allure they might possess. Instead, he caught her off-guard, kept her slightly out of balance, pushed her until she was constantly forced to adapt. Her inability to predict his actions was frustrating, even disconcerting, but irritation was parried by intrigue, and as with any situation that unraveled into the unknown, she found satisfaction in bringing order back to chaos, repose back to the hectic disturbances of an unsettled mind.

She did not give into impulses. She controlled them. Viola held his watchful stare, staving off the more instinctive desire to close her eyes. Instead she observed him with the intensity of a dark gaze, broken only by metered blinks that fell in perfect rhythm with the even draws of her breath. These subtle efforts to force her body back into its usual equilibrium. Viola did not move from his proximity, not out of the paralyzing effects of fear, but rather the opposite, an adamant refusal to be intimidated by these irrational emotions he stirred within her. Her posture retained its rigid poise, and when she spoke this time, her tone had regained most of its original precision and certainty, even when it almost pained her to mention his companion.

"That's good. Then she won't be disappointed since I would have had to decline. But I will hold you to your offer," she paused, weighing the appropriate way to address him. Sergeant Wolfe sounded too formal, and Samuel somehow not formal enough. She settled for somewhere in between. "I'll be back, Wolfe, and we'll share a drink." She waited for him to withdraw, knowing he would have to eventually step back behind the doorway of his apartment.

He straightened up as he pulled away, laughing at her quick response. Her self assurance intrigued him; where before her stubborn refusal to back down had been a nuisance, now he found it markedly appealing, a quality to be admired, particularly in someone he had taken such an overt interest in attempting to provoke. He sensed there was a great deal she was holding back from him, but knew to ask now would be a mistake. It was clear she would offer up no more than she already had, at least for the time being, and to push too far too soon would likely mean damaging future opportunities. Perhaps another time, he thought, with free-flowing beer and less stilted conversation, she might feel led to share what she now kept locked away. He grinned at the thought, a look so sharp and unconsciously predatory it fit his namesake well. “Sounds great,” he said. “You let me know when you feel up to it.”

Though his hand moved to the door’s chill knob he lingered in the doorway, green eyes passing over her in one last look of clear appraisal. His smile did not abate. “Take care, Grace. I’ll see you soon.”