[And that is that. The crystal goes quiet and the space should narrow once more to just the two of them, the anchor of her warmth against his side ruling over the thought of what details Julius might later work out of her (and how).
He takes a drink. He doesn't consider the width of the room.]
So you do have an opinion of me, [he finally says instead of anything else, all hypotheticals and flattened levity.]
I have had an opinion of you since we met, ( she returns, pertly if languidly delivered from the general vicinity of the freckles on his shoulder, of which she is becoming fond. ) It is ever-evolving.
[The freckles are fewer and farther between there and more distinct for it when compared to how darkly speckled his forearms are, the back of his neck. Once upon a time, a very long time ago indeed, James Flint was probably a boy who burned in the sun.
He tips his head toward the sound of her voice. There is kind of wry affinity in the tilt of his mouth near the edge of his cup.]
In which direction would you like it to evolve next, do you think?
[There had been a kind of momentum in this, an almost inevitable motion which had carried them from Hightown to this bed. The languid quality of the aftermath, more alien than anything else than had preceded it, apparently requires some parsing on his part.]
( she tips her head, weighing that question more thoughtfully than her own pert lead-in might have suggested she intended to, holding the rim of her cup against her closed mouth. (it is the more dangerous shape, marius had once said, for it meant she was still thinking, and that was never good.)
eventually, she says, )
I think within this evening there was an entire moment of ease.
( she holds up her free hand, thumb and forefinger. just a little one. )
I should wish to extend it, just a little.
( a true answer, if not the only one she thought to give. )
So no pressing the discussion of Nevarra just yet, then, [is probably a thought better reserved rather than spoken, but if she is asking for ease then this is what it warrants from him - throwaway remarks regarding how a thing might be reassembled.
Flint breathes an amused huff into his cup, drinks, and then leans briefly away from the warmth of her to set the glass aside on the narrow side table with all it's miscellany assemblage-slash-fire hazards of books and candles and now ladies' hairpins. When he shifts back to her, it is to touch her side - broad calloused hand at pale skin, thumb idle at the point of her hip.]
( despite herself, it makes her laugh—rueful, sinking deeper yet into the bedding as if it might close over her and spare her going back to the work that she can barely be drawn away from most days. )
If you wish to whisper me sweet nothings of Nevarra, ( droll, and sliding her fingertips from his knuckles up the slope of his bare arm, ) I'll not say no.
( or anything else. tell her your secrets, flint, it's probably fine. but she says on, )
It is my instinct to be at ease with you, ( to trust him, she means but will not say, ) and I study the shape of that very carefully.
( the shape of him, too. and this. but it is a frank thing, and not the musing of someone experiencing regret. )
[The wandering line of her hand warrants a further collapse—his turning nearer, settling closer. He comes to rest either over or against her or some combination of the two, propped up on an elbow as his thumbs traces absently over her pale skin.]
Do I seem so untrustworthy?
[He isn't serious; that much is evident in every line of him, and especially in the slant of his mouth. The curve in his timbre. I understand, he might say instead, but that must be obvious.]
( she tips her head, studying him with openly trouble-making thoughtfulness from this slightly-beneath-him vantage point, blonde hair spilled behind her on his pillow and a warm flush still lingering in her skin.
[Her laugh in that darkened room, all slashed through by moonlight, seems like a warm thing. The crooked line of his mouth widens behind his whiskers in reply, slow and smug and something roguish in that glint of teeth.
That self satisfied smirk is still firmly in place as he shifts by those narrow degrees necessary to—] Hazards of the profession. [—kiss her.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He takes a drink. He doesn't consider the width of the room.]
So you do have an opinion of me, [he finally says instead of anything else, all hypotheticals and flattened levity.]
no subject
no subject
He tips his head toward the sound of her voice. There is kind of wry affinity in the tilt of his mouth near the edge of his cup.]
In which direction would you like it to evolve next, do you think?
[There had been a kind of momentum in this, an almost inevitable motion which had carried them from Hightown to this bed. The languid quality of the aftermath, more alien than anything else than had preceded it, apparently requires some parsing on his part.]
no subject
eventually, she says, )
I think within this evening there was an entire moment of ease.
( she holds up her free hand, thumb and forefinger. just a little one. )
I should wish to extend it, just a little.
( a true answer, if not the only one she thought to give. )
no subject
Flint breathes an amused huff into his cup, drinks, and then leans briefly away from the warmth of her to set the glass aside on the narrow side table with all it's miscellany assemblage-slash-fire hazards of books and candles and now ladies' hairpins. When he shifts back to her, it is to touch her side - broad calloused hand at pale skin, thumb idle at the point of her hip.]
no subject
If you wish to whisper me sweet nothings of Nevarra, ( droll, and sliding her fingertips from his knuckles up the slope of his bare arm, ) I'll not say no.
( or anything else. tell her your secrets, flint, it's probably fine. but she says on, )
It is my instinct to be at ease with you, ( to trust him, she means but will not say, ) and I study the shape of that very carefully.
( the shape of him, too. and this. but it is a frank thing, and not the musing of someone experiencing regret. )
no subject
Do I seem so untrustworthy?
[He isn't serious; that much is evident in every line of him, and especially in the slant of his mouth. The curve in his timbre. I understand, he might say instead, but that must be obvious.]
no subject
( she tips her head, studying him with openly trouble-making thoughtfulness from this slightly-beneath-him vantage point, blonde hair spilled behind her on his pillow and a warm flush still lingering in her skin.
she laughs. )
You are conspicuously untrustworthy.
no subject
That self satisfied smirk is still firmly in place as he shifts by those narrow degrees necessary to—] Hazards of the profession. [—kiss her.]