Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
So the whole thing was that Jamie thought he was the goddamn queen of mean, or some shit. That was the thing. That was what he thought. He could summon whatever he wanted, but Seven’s knee butted against the soft muscle of Jamie’s inner thigh and Seven looked down at the smug, self-satisfied slant of the guy’s smile and it was sort of gross, how into being a fucking prick the kid was, yeah? Seven’s fingers squeezed against the edges of Jamie’s kneecap and the soft curves of muscle, and then he let go. Stepped back just a half-step.
“You’re right,” he agreed, consonants crisp and a little curt. His lips flattened out from a smirk into something a little superior, a lot too lazy to be smug, and his hand went from Jamie’s knee up and into his hair, raking back from his forehead. “No, it’s not a fucking thing.”
He enunciated this carefully, tongue against teeth, and he kinda wanted to grab Jamie’s chin and squeeze hard against the idea that Seven was anybody’s fucking charity case, but he held off for now. Seven leaned in a little at the waist, reaching out to plant one hand against the back of the couch so that he could bend over the guy without making actual contact and smirk down and into the kid’s upturned face.
“You’re a fuck, sweetheart. A pretty decent fuck, but just a fuck. A kid.” And his voice was flat just like the stretch of Seven’s lips, as he took a step back from the arm of the couch and walked over to the suite’s bar, back turned. “Do I what?” As he poured himself half a tumbler of chilled gin into a rocks glass, then picking up a lime to peel some zest. "Do I give a shit? No, baby. Sorry."