Re: The Apartment: Jamie/Seven
Jamie hadn't like, thought about this part. He glanced over the guy when he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over a chair that probably wouldn't, even times a million, come close to the cost of the coat, but tbh Jamie wasn't looking at the coat. It was way easy to drift his gaze over the guy, the casual checking-out that hit him somewhere mid solar-plexus with how fucking attractive Seven was, like the close of fingers around that part of his mid-section. Maybe it was the smile? Fractional and casual and Jamie hadn't catalogued the ways the guy was attractive because he didn't need to, it was a collection of like, central casting hot that did everything it needed to, but the way his eyes squeezed at the corners was doing it for him way more than he'd like, stopped to consider.
Jamie deliberately didn't think about how he looked. Like, he got it. Mars was way fucking unsubtle when talking to fam, and it had gotten to the point where he could see it? But stopping was way harder than starting, and the curdle of anxiety drained any kind of appetite way out of the bottoms of his soles but yeah, the sweater was thick, and he had it yanked past his wrists, and he didn't even have time to contemplate how he stacked up against the guy because Cat threw herself at his back and winched herself there with needles that stabbed through layers of wool.
"She's not a panther," he reached around to try to like, grab a handful of fur but she was lodged in the center of his back, climbing avidly up toward his shoulder, and Jamie's ability to breathe was like, seriously compromised by trying to laugh at the same time. "I think that's like, black cats? I don't know, she's striped." Once she'd crested his shoulder, triumphant in tiny cat-hood, Cat arched her back, opened her mouth and delicately spat in Seven's direction.
"She's mine," Jamie said, unnecessarily, and plucked Cat off his shoulder once more, and dropped her onto the couch. "Hi." Which was a way fave phrase of the Mayers in general, but he used it to like, close the gap between Seven and Jamie, his socked feet in redundant Christmas-tree-covered socks way close to the edge of Seven's fuck-off expensive shoes. Uncertainty trammelled the guy, and he reached out into the fabric of Seven's shirt, twisted.
"She has a thing for attention," he said, way seriously, as he like, found the half-way place between rising up and yanking the guy down, until it was a clash of hipbones and stomach and Jamie was kissing the guy with the latent taste of jasmine tea faint on the flat of his tongue.