Afflicted. Conflicted. The voice of something wicked. It couldn't be a ghost, right? It had to be all in his head.
Right?
There were times in the past week that the machinist had to wonder, truly, if he was starting to go mad? It niggled at him, that lush soprano voice in his head, so taunting one moment and so ephemerally sweet the next. She wheedled and teased and brought to life so many old memories, and always away from the comfort of heath and home. Old apparitions and dead men come a calling, compounded by the growing distance between himself and Fionna, had driven him hard into his work within the bowels of Old Temple.
It ate at him, that distance, as if the part of himself he'd only so recently regained was under the threat of total consumption. Something was eating at her, noticably, in the shortness of her temper and subtle looks he'd stolen in the intervening days. That expression when she thought he wasn't paying attention when, in truth, all he could do was watch helplessly.
But it couldn't last.
He'd abandoned the peacekeeping effort early that day, instructions and promises exchanged before Steve had bound himself for home in hopes of beating her there. And it was a home he awaited her, sitting cross legged in the space he'd made for his gym with his elbows on his knees and his bearded resting pensively on closed fists.
Raza was still at Ali's. She hadn't called him to bring him home. She hadn't said anything about that at all to Steve, other than that he was there. The Eye, when they were in it at all, seemed cavernous and empty without the boy and the dog. Even Siva seemed ill at ease, and the cat rarely paid attention to anything she didn't want to, that Fio'd seen.
She worked, she came home and fell into bed. She repeated it all again the next morning, going through the motions of her daily life. It was two days before she stirred herself to focus at work. Jaster and Trista covered for her. She barely noticed.
He hadn't showered yet, the faint and masculine smell of a man at work still clinging to him even after he'd changed out of his AMT colors to don something more appropriate for a hard sweat-session in the gym. Old gray pajama pants had been cut off at the mid-calf for a better range of movement and an old football jersey lacking it's sleeves; baring a hint of six-pack abs where it had been shortened. The exposure of flesh made each small scrape and bruise noticable.
"Fionna," he called her name when the eventual noise at the door came, letting his voice carry but remaining where he'd set himself up. Waiting, for good or ill.
His voice carried down the staircase to the alley entrance. She paused to set the alarm behind her, closing the world outside the heavy metal security door. When the light blinked red, She steeled ehrself and took the stairs, all three flights to the Studio, where the door stood open, the lights spilling out onto the landing, and the blossoming scent of sweat and frustration greeted her. She unbuttoned her coat as she came inside.
In his mind's eye, he counted every step taken, measuring the closure of distance with the tightly coiled trap of a mind that was reminiscent of another. He was just as tightly wound then, dense muscle crawling with tension until even the subtle flex of his back made a subtle crackle that was audible in the silence room.
Even as she was, and had been of late, the machinist found his smile when the heavy weight of his scrutiny fell on her. It was undeniably apprehensive, but only for her. Weathered hands reached for her, callused palms pointed upwards.
"Come here?" It was a gentle invitation, but neither a demand nor a plea.
She peeled the coat off and dropped it over the stool she sat on when she painted, before crossing the big, open space toward the fitness equipment and Lirssa's nets where he was holding court. It had been a long day, in a long week, in a long, long season.
She studied him, where he sat, with dark eyes that almost shone under the twinkle lights along the beamed ceiling. The space was so different now than it had been five years before. Steve wouldn't recognize it. Perhaps he would have been horrified. Perhaps he would have pitied her. Perhaps he would have killed her outright. Now?
She approached with a tired smile and the tap, tap, tap of her heels on the wood floor.
His hands, larger and perceivably strong in comparison, closed slowly over hers until she was drawn slowly down to his level. Soundlessly, he coaxed her lower and lower, until she found her knees brushing his. Copious amounts of unspent energy lingered in blue eyes as they met hers, twinkling pinpricks of blue-white lighting dancing on the surface unbidden.
"I forgot myself that night and I didn't think of what my actions would do to you. I... got lost in a moment." It was a long time before those words finally escaped, but when the finally came it was with thick emotion of deep apology. The word sorry was never uttered, but could be felt on the earthy tremor of his voice. "I never wanted to drive you away like that. Never wanted to put you in a compromisin' position."
She was drawn into a crouch in front of him, her hands held captive in his. All she could see was blonde hair and light eyes, and despite the kindness and contrition in his words, self-loathing rose up in her chest again, choking her. She didn't know what to say. Still, she tried.
"I know you did not mean for that to happen. I understand. But... " Her throat worked. "I'm... it was dangerous. I couldn't stay there. You understand. I'm... "
"I wanna say that I understand," he murmured, searching her troubled gaze with quiet contrition. "That I know exactly what you're goin' through. But I'm not you. I..." A deep breath was draw in and expelled moments later in a quiet sigh.
"You know the things I did." One broad shoulder lifted in a shrug. "We never got into specifics, but I'm sure you've wondered or had an idea."
The tug on her hands was strong and yet gentle; insistent but never losing the air of invitation the machinist had affected the moment she stepped through the door. Each pull drew her a little closer, the space between them closing in the smallest of fractions before he lifted her hands and pressed them to the underside of his scruffy chin.
"If I wanted to judge you, I could've done it months ago when you shared your darkness with me. I know regret when I see it, Fi." The rest of the realm could call her Fio to their heart's content, but the simple affectation of the songle syllable and the pleasing flavor of the nickname on his tongue had taken root in his heart. "We both got lost in somethin' that night. We've both been lost in somethin' since. If you need to get it off your chest, then I'm here. I'm here for you."
She listened to all of it, crouched in front of him with her hands trapped and pressed against the undersode of his jaw, near the thump of his pulse. She was better able to resist it than she had been in months but it also sang to her more insistently, tempting instinct and nature. It sent a fresh wave of revulsion through her.
She tugged her fingers away and rocked back on a heel to rise, turning her back to him and tucking her hands beneath her arms. "I'm a monster."
For all of his doubts and tension and the distraction of old memories, he remained all too intent upon her face until she had finally pulled away. But the weight of his attention only shifted to her back then, blonde brows furrowed together thoughtfully when she replied.
"Only if you choose to be," he murmured in response, the muscles in his legs flexing to push him into a fluid rise to his feet. The short distance between them was closed again and a weathered hand found a perch on one of her slim shoulders. "We all have darkness in us, Fi, and we all have light. Sometimes it's easier to embrace one over the other, but life's about choice..."
A close lean spawned a soft touch of words. "I told someone the other day that you're the toughest woman I know. It wasn't blown smoke or some party line. I meant it. Whatever's goin' on with you, I know you can get through it. You're a trooper."
""You like to tell yourself that I'm still human. I'm not." The words were bitter, steeped in deep despair. "I try, but things like what happened the other night...I can't... I try but it is so hard. What if I hurt you? What would I do then?"
"Fionna," he said her full name, and when he did it held gentle gravity to it. "You're not human. I know that and I've accepted it. But your race and your humanity are two different things. It isn't what you are, it's who you are. It's who you choose to be. Our existence is about choice. Always will be. And you've given me so much time to see who you are, sweetheart. I didn't fallen in love with the governor."
"I didn't fall in love with a vampire or a monster or a thing."
"I fell in love with Fionna Helston Al Mat. I fell in love with a strong, iron-willed, stubborn woman with her own set of flaws, merits, and no shortage of love in her heart for the folks around her. A woman who saw through my flaws and found somethin' worth while."
The machinist's hand remained on her shoulder, while his other arm curled slowly around her waist. His bearded chin dropped to her opposite shoulder. His voice remained steady, his doubts about himself and his own demons shoved away for the time being; paling in comparison to his confidence in her.
His faith.
"I'm not made of glass. The nature of my blood, my genetics, make me tougher that you've even gotten the chance to see, baby. I've given myself to you. To us. What I have is yours and if it can spare you pain. If it can help, I'll give it willingly. And what faith I lost in me and other people, I've found in you a hundred fold. I know you'd never hurt me."
"My choices recently would sicken you." she pressed her lips together, her head bowed and cocked to her right to answer him from around her shoulder. The slash of her shadow angled across the floor to cut across his feet and slam against the storage wall. "They sicken me."
"You should have seen this place, back when Ali first met me. You'd be horrified by it, but it was, at least, the most honest I've been with the world. I was mad, and everyone knew it."
"They might," he conceded after a short, paced out silence lingered between them for a spell. "And maybe you're itchin' to tell me that I'd be better off runnin' away, shunnin' you, and some other sorta blah-blah-blah that involves me givin' up on you."
He drew her back against him then, his body conforming to hers as much as it could through the heavy material of her coat. His scent was heavy with sweat and the tensions of the day; of the oil and leather and metal she'd become so accustomed to from him early on in their companionship.
"At another time, on another world and in the other lives I'd had to make for myself... I might've. I might've done worse. But after what we've shared and what we've given to one another, what would that make me? Sometimes we stand at the edge of the abyss, staring down into everything we don't wanna be. And there's gonna be plenty of times that we need to just buckle down, pull up our bootstraps, and do for ourselves. To pull ourselves out of the Hell we've created or been thrust into. But sometimes, just sometimes, we're gonna need someone to be there for us. To be that hand. To remind us that who we are can be stronger than what we are. I've got a hard enough time lookin' at myself in the mirror some days, but how in the Hell could I ever do it at all if I walked away from an opportunity to be there for you when you might need me?"
His tone ground down softer. Thicker. "You remind me what it is to be human. You're part of my humanity."
The Abyss... Hell... And maybe that was where she belonged. Every word he spoke drove the spike of defeat deeper. Her shoulders slumped under his hands "You don't understand what you're talking about." It wasn't accusatory, or angry. She was tired and sad.
"Maybe not in the way you think," he admitted. "It's all relative. But I know what I feel and I'm damned sure not about to give up on you."
"That's your choice," she murmured, sinking back against him for a trembling moment in time. The stars wheeled in the ice of night beyond the blanket of clouds that hid them. Time passed and there was no pity to be found in the heavens.
Her shoulders rose and her chest expanded with a breath. "I'm going to go take a shower and change."
"A choice I make gladly, Fi."
He let the silence hang between them, sharing the warmth of his body and his presence with her until both muscular arms were curled around her lithe frame in a tight embrace. When she finally spoke again, the machinist was withdrawn his embrace with a gentle drag of callused fingertips.
"You want company?"
There was hesitation there. But in the end, she didn't walk away from him and she didn't tell him to leave. She nodded and she waited. There was no solace in the stars, and little comfort anywhere else, but they were each other's best hope for kindness.
"Come on," he murmured.
There was no pity in the heavens for her and none to be found within the man who took her gently by the hand to lead her from the room. None. Steve was about as willing to give pity as he was to accept it, which was not at all. He'd been a hard man beneath that oft times frustrating and agitating veneer of non-chalant snark and self-deprecating humor, steeled against the what was and what he once thought would be.
Only she, and her family through the invitation into her life, had found what lay beneath.
Up the stairs and deeper into the sanctum of their home, he had paused their progress to peel the outer shell of her coat from her shoulders to hang it upon the rack near the door. From there it was the gentle tug of her hand to draw her down the hall and into the bathroom. Within, weathered fingers worked at her clothes, drawing article after article off and away to create a rumpled pile in the corner.
It was so quiet without Raza, without Dante. It was a sad place, remote and isolated, that they ascended to. But it was home and it welcomed them tonight. Their bedroom took them with its shadowy faux landscape to the flowering Moorish gardens of an estate in Old Cairo. There would be no disturbing them in their ablutions.
She was warm, warmer than she probably had ever been in his precence, even before the hot spray of the granite walk-in. Warm and unmarked by violence.
Free of the material trappings of clothing and then jewelry and finally the bindings of her hair, Steve made a point of combing his fingers through those dark locks before escorting her beneath the steady fall of hot water. What little he wore came next, shucked and tossed to reveal small scrapes and bruises that should would have been so much worse on a lesser man's body. He healed faster than normal men; recovered far quicker.
Carnal or tame, he relished moments like these, stripped bare (in more ways than one) and sharing space in which moments were consumed with little touches that were so much more than just skin. He joined her beneath steady pressure of the water, as it matted down blonde hair that hadn't seen a comb all day and plastered it against his head. Large hands settled on the feminine flare of her hips, the pads of his thumbs rubbing subtle reassurance against the minute jut of hipbones.
The tiny pinpricks of blue-white starlight still stood out against the darker background of his eyes, dancing to the tune of whatever was already burning inside of him. But his gaze remained intent on her face, without pity for her, yet still full of the quiet empathy of familiarity and adoration.
When it was all said and done, he lifted her from the shower with a small burst of strength that was more a tender gesture than any attempts to manhandle her. The manner in which he toweled her off could have been the prelude to something carnal on any other night, during better times and lighter moments, but instead was little more than the compelling reminder of what they were together. Steve's own drying was more minimalist; more spartan, and with an empty house left to them he eschewed the act of procuring fresh clothes. It left the scars of his flesh on display, a physical manifestation to play the part of companion to those that Fionna was harboring with in and too reluctant to share when she was at such an emotional low.
He knew, upon first seeing her walk through the door, that she'd likely be peckish and unwilling to eat. With the growing knot of worry and frustration in his stomach, the machinist wouldn't either. So it was with a firm lace of fingers that he led her to their room and left her to linger at the foot of their bed for as long as it took to retrieve the brush from her vanity. She found herself settled between wide V-shape of his knees soon after, engaged in a ritual that for nearly a year had been the source of personal wagers, teases, jokes, and more than one touching moment that had so recently fallen off when unforeseen events unexpectedly sought to drive a wedge between them. Even as he brushed out her hair, Steve had a hard time recalling the last time she'd asked for the little gesture. Or when he'd offered.
But there they were and so he did.
Eventually he lost track of all time, losing count of the number of brushstrokes and becoming all to aware of the sway of slender shoulders that told him she needed to be anywhere but upright. The brush made it to the nightstand after a bounce off of the pillow and after a little jostling, the lights went out to the visual of his body tangled up with hers, a position meant for her comfort at the expense of his own. Despite a few softly mumbled protests, she was asleep within minutes.
For him, however, the peace of sleep was too long in the coming. So he watched, thought, and played the part of silent sentinel over her.
Some moments had all the meaning in the world.
These moments.
(Adapted from a scene that occurred IC on 2/24 with the always amazing and inspiring player of FioHelston.)
Right?
There were times in the past week that the machinist had to wonder, truly, if he was starting to go mad? It niggled at him, that lush soprano voice in his head, so taunting one moment and so ephemerally sweet the next. She wheedled and teased and brought to life so many old memories, and always away from the comfort of heath and home. Old apparitions and dead men come a calling, compounded by the growing distance between himself and Fionna, had driven him hard into his work within the bowels of Old Temple.
It ate at him, that distance, as if the part of himself he'd only so recently regained was under the threat of total consumption. Something was eating at her, noticably, in the shortness of her temper and subtle looks he'd stolen in the intervening days. That expression when she thought he wasn't paying attention when, in truth, all he could do was watch helplessly.
But it couldn't last.
He'd abandoned the peacekeeping effort early that day, instructions and promises exchanged before Steve had bound himself for home in hopes of beating her there. And it was a home he awaited her, sitting cross legged in the space he'd made for his gym with his elbows on his knees and his bearded resting pensively on closed fists.
Raza was still at Ali's. She hadn't called him to bring him home. She hadn't said anything about that at all to Steve, other than that he was there. The Eye, when they were in it at all, seemed cavernous and empty without the boy and the dog. Even Siva seemed ill at ease, and the cat rarely paid attention to anything she didn't want to, that Fio'd seen.
She worked, she came home and fell into bed. She repeated it all again the next morning, going through the motions of her daily life. It was two days before she stirred herself to focus at work. Jaster and Trista covered for her. She barely noticed.
He hadn't showered yet, the faint and masculine smell of a man at work still clinging to him even after he'd changed out of his AMT colors to don something more appropriate for a hard sweat-session in the gym. Old gray pajama pants had been cut off at the mid-calf for a better range of movement and an old football jersey lacking it's sleeves; baring a hint of six-pack abs where it had been shortened. The exposure of flesh made each small scrape and bruise noticable.
"Fionna," he called her name when the eventual noise at the door came, letting his voice carry but remaining where he'd set himself up. Waiting, for good or ill.
His voice carried down the staircase to the alley entrance. She paused to set the alarm behind her, closing the world outside the heavy metal security door. When the light blinked red, She steeled ehrself and took the stairs, all three flights to the Studio, where the door stood open, the lights spilling out onto the landing, and the blossoming scent of sweat and frustration greeted her. She unbuttoned her coat as she came inside.
In his mind's eye, he counted every step taken, measuring the closure of distance with the tightly coiled trap of a mind that was reminiscent of another. He was just as tightly wound then, dense muscle crawling with tension until even the subtle flex of his back made a subtle crackle that was audible in the silence room.
Even as she was, and had been of late, the machinist found his smile when the heavy weight of his scrutiny fell on her. It was undeniably apprehensive, but only for her. Weathered hands reached for her, callused palms pointed upwards.
"Come here?" It was a gentle invitation, but neither a demand nor a plea.
She peeled the coat off and dropped it over the stool she sat on when she painted, before crossing the big, open space toward the fitness equipment and Lirssa's nets where he was holding court. It had been a long day, in a long week, in a long, long season.
She studied him, where he sat, with dark eyes that almost shone under the twinkle lights along the beamed ceiling. The space was so different now than it had been five years before. Steve wouldn't recognize it. Perhaps he would have been horrified. Perhaps he would have pitied her. Perhaps he would have killed her outright. Now?
She approached with a tired smile and the tap, tap, tap of her heels on the wood floor.
His hands, larger and perceivably strong in comparison, closed slowly over hers until she was drawn slowly down to his level. Soundlessly, he coaxed her lower and lower, until she found her knees brushing his. Copious amounts of unspent energy lingered in blue eyes as they met hers, twinkling pinpricks of blue-white lighting dancing on the surface unbidden.
"I forgot myself that night and I didn't think of what my actions would do to you. I... got lost in a moment." It was a long time before those words finally escaped, but when the finally came it was with thick emotion of deep apology. The word sorry was never uttered, but could be felt on the earthy tremor of his voice. "I never wanted to drive you away like that. Never wanted to put you in a compromisin' position."
She was drawn into a crouch in front of him, her hands held captive in his. All she could see was blonde hair and light eyes, and despite the kindness and contrition in his words, self-loathing rose up in her chest again, choking her. She didn't know what to say. Still, she tried.
"I know you did not mean for that to happen. I understand. But... " Her throat worked. "I'm... it was dangerous. I couldn't stay there. You understand. I'm... "
"I wanna say that I understand," he murmured, searching her troubled gaze with quiet contrition. "That I know exactly what you're goin' through. But I'm not you. I..." A deep breath was draw in and expelled moments later in a quiet sigh.
"You know the things I did." One broad shoulder lifted in a shrug. "We never got into specifics, but I'm sure you've wondered or had an idea."
The tug on her hands was strong and yet gentle; insistent but never losing the air of invitation the machinist had affected the moment she stepped through the door. Each pull drew her a little closer, the space between them closing in the smallest of fractions before he lifted her hands and pressed them to the underside of his scruffy chin.
"If I wanted to judge you, I could've done it months ago when you shared your darkness with me. I know regret when I see it, Fi." The rest of the realm could call her Fio to their heart's content, but the simple affectation of the songle syllable and the pleasing flavor of the nickname on his tongue had taken root in his heart. "We both got lost in somethin' that night. We've both been lost in somethin' since. If you need to get it off your chest, then I'm here. I'm here for you."
She listened to all of it, crouched in front of him with her hands trapped and pressed against the undersode of his jaw, near the thump of his pulse. She was better able to resist it than she had been in months but it also sang to her more insistently, tempting instinct and nature. It sent a fresh wave of revulsion through her.
She tugged her fingers away and rocked back on a heel to rise, turning her back to him and tucking her hands beneath her arms. "I'm a monster."
For all of his doubts and tension and the distraction of old memories, he remained all too intent upon her face until she had finally pulled away. But the weight of his attention only shifted to her back then, blonde brows furrowed together thoughtfully when she replied.
"Only if you choose to be," he murmured in response, the muscles in his legs flexing to push him into a fluid rise to his feet. The short distance between them was closed again and a weathered hand found a perch on one of her slim shoulders. "We all have darkness in us, Fi, and we all have light. Sometimes it's easier to embrace one over the other, but life's about choice..."
A close lean spawned a soft touch of words. "I told someone the other day that you're the toughest woman I know. It wasn't blown smoke or some party line. I meant it. Whatever's goin' on with you, I know you can get through it. You're a trooper."
""You like to tell yourself that I'm still human. I'm not." The words were bitter, steeped in deep despair. "I try, but things like what happened the other night...I can't... I try but it is so hard. What if I hurt you? What would I do then?"
"Fionna," he said her full name, and when he did it held gentle gravity to it. "You're not human. I know that and I've accepted it. But your race and your humanity are two different things. It isn't what you are, it's who you are. It's who you choose to be. Our existence is about choice. Always will be. And you've given me so much time to see who you are, sweetheart. I didn't fallen in love with the governor."
"I didn't fall in love with a vampire or a monster or a thing."
"I fell in love with Fionna Helston Al Mat. I fell in love with a strong, iron-willed, stubborn woman with her own set of flaws, merits, and no shortage of love in her heart for the folks around her. A woman who saw through my flaws and found somethin' worth while."
The machinist's hand remained on her shoulder, while his other arm curled slowly around her waist. His bearded chin dropped to her opposite shoulder. His voice remained steady, his doubts about himself and his own demons shoved away for the time being; paling in comparison to his confidence in her.
His faith.
"I'm not made of glass. The nature of my blood, my genetics, make me tougher that you've even gotten the chance to see, baby. I've given myself to you. To us. What I have is yours and if it can spare you pain. If it can help, I'll give it willingly. And what faith I lost in me and other people, I've found in you a hundred fold. I know you'd never hurt me."
"My choices recently would sicken you." she pressed her lips together, her head bowed and cocked to her right to answer him from around her shoulder. The slash of her shadow angled across the floor to cut across his feet and slam against the storage wall. "They sicken me."
"You should have seen this place, back when Ali first met me. You'd be horrified by it, but it was, at least, the most honest I've been with the world. I was mad, and everyone knew it."
"They might," he conceded after a short, paced out silence lingered between them for a spell. "And maybe you're itchin' to tell me that I'd be better off runnin' away, shunnin' you, and some other sorta blah-blah-blah that involves me givin' up on you."
He drew her back against him then, his body conforming to hers as much as it could through the heavy material of her coat. His scent was heavy with sweat and the tensions of the day; of the oil and leather and metal she'd become so accustomed to from him early on in their companionship.
"At another time, on another world and in the other lives I'd had to make for myself... I might've. I might've done worse. But after what we've shared and what we've given to one another, what would that make me? Sometimes we stand at the edge of the abyss, staring down into everything we don't wanna be. And there's gonna be plenty of times that we need to just buckle down, pull up our bootstraps, and do for ourselves. To pull ourselves out of the Hell we've created or been thrust into. But sometimes, just sometimes, we're gonna need someone to be there for us. To be that hand. To remind us that who we are can be stronger than what we are. I've got a hard enough time lookin' at myself in the mirror some days, but how in the Hell could I ever do it at all if I walked away from an opportunity to be there for you when you might need me?"
His tone ground down softer. Thicker. "You remind me what it is to be human. You're part of my humanity."
The Abyss... Hell... And maybe that was where she belonged. Every word he spoke drove the spike of defeat deeper. Her shoulders slumped under his hands "You don't understand what you're talking about." It wasn't accusatory, or angry. She was tired and sad.
"Maybe not in the way you think," he admitted. "It's all relative. But I know what I feel and I'm damned sure not about to give up on you."
"That's your choice," she murmured, sinking back against him for a trembling moment in time. The stars wheeled in the ice of night beyond the blanket of clouds that hid them. Time passed and there was no pity to be found in the heavens.
Her shoulders rose and her chest expanded with a breath. "I'm going to go take a shower and change."
"A choice I make gladly, Fi."
He let the silence hang between them, sharing the warmth of his body and his presence with her until both muscular arms were curled around her lithe frame in a tight embrace. When she finally spoke again, the machinist was withdrawn his embrace with a gentle drag of callused fingertips.
"You want company?"
There was hesitation there. But in the end, she didn't walk away from him and she didn't tell him to leave. She nodded and she waited. There was no solace in the stars, and little comfort anywhere else, but they were each other's best hope for kindness.
"Come on," he murmured.
There was no pity in the heavens for her and none to be found within the man who took her gently by the hand to lead her from the room. None. Steve was about as willing to give pity as he was to accept it, which was not at all. He'd been a hard man beneath that oft times frustrating and agitating veneer of non-chalant snark and self-deprecating humor, steeled against the what was and what he once thought would be.
Only she, and her family through the invitation into her life, had found what lay beneath.
Up the stairs and deeper into the sanctum of their home, he had paused their progress to peel the outer shell of her coat from her shoulders to hang it upon the rack near the door. From there it was the gentle tug of her hand to draw her down the hall and into the bathroom. Within, weathered fingers worked at her clothes, drawing article after article off and away to create a rumpled pile in the corner.
It was so quiet without Raza, without Dante. It was a sad place, remote and isolated, that they ascended to. But it was home and it welcomed them tonight. Their bedroom took them with its shadowy faux landscape to the flowering Moorish gardens of an estate in Old Cairo. There would be no disturbing them in their ablutions.
She was warm, warmer than she probably had ever been in his precence, even before the hot spray of the granite walk-in. Warm and unmarked by violence.
Free of the material trappings of clothing and then jewelry and finally the bindings of her hair, Steve made a point of combing his fingers through those dark locks before escorting her beneath the steady fall of hot water. What little he wore came next, shucked and tossed to reveal small scrapes and bruises that should would have been so much worse on a lesser man's body. He healed faster than normal men; recovered far quicker.
Carnal or tame, he relished moments like these, stripped bare (in more ways than one) and sharing space in which moments were consumed with little touches that were so much more than just skin. He joined her beneath steady pressure of the water, as it matted down blonde hair that hadn't seen a comb all day and plastered it against his head. Large hands settled on the feminine flare of her hips, the pads of his thumbs rubbing subtle reassurance against the minute jut of hipbones.
The tiny pinpricks of blue-white starlight still stood out against the darker background of his eyes, dancing to the tune of whatever was already burning inside of him. But his gaze remained intent on her face, without pity for her, yet still full of the quiet empathy of familiarity and adoration.
When it was all said and done, he lifted her from the shower with a small burst of strength that was more a tender gesture than any attempts to manhandle her. The manner in which he toweled her off could have been the prelude to something carnal on any other night, during better times and lighter moments, but instead was little more than the compelling reminder of what they were together. Steve's own drying was more minimalist; more spartan, and with an empty house left to them he eschewed the act of procuring fresh clothes. It left the scars of his flesh on display, a physical manifestation to play the part of companion to those that Fionna was harboring with in and too reluctant to share when she was at such an emotional low.
He knew, upon first seeing her walk through the door, that she'd likely be peckish and unwilling to eat. With the growing knot of worry and frustration in his stomach, the machinist wouldn't either. So it was with a firm lace of fingers that he led her to their room and left her to linger at the foot of their bed for as long as it took to retrieve the brush from her vanity. She found herself settled between wide V-shape of his knees soon after, engaged in a ritual that for nearly a year had been the source of personal wagers, teases, jokes, and more than one touching moment that had so recently fallen off when unforeseen events unexpectedly sought to drive a wedge between them. Even as he brushed out her hair, Steve had a hard time recalling the last time she'd asked for the little gesture. Or when he'd offered.
But there they were and so he did.
Eventually he lost track of all time, losing count of the number of brushstrokes and becoming all to aware of the sway of slender shoulders that told him she needed to be anywhere but upright. The brush made it to the nightstand after a bounce off of the pillow and after a little jostling, the lights went out to the visual of his body tangled up with hers, a position meant for her comfort at the expense of his own. Despite a few softly mumbled protests, she was asleep within minutes.
For him, however, the peace of sleep was too long in the coming. So he watched, thought, and played the part of silent sentinel over her.
Some moments had all the meaning in the world.
These moments.
(Adapted from a scene that occurred IC on 2/24 with the always amazing and inspiring player of FioHelston.)