ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

"That's true -- it's been most of the night and we haven't found a single outrageous plastic ornament in any of our drinks."

Charlie frowns, then looks thoughtful and slips her free hand into her jacket pocket.

And smiles, coming out with a tiny bright-purple paper umbrella.

"Heh." He carefully plucks the umbrella from between her fingers and threads the toothpick behind her ear. It's very fetching on her.

"I don't have one for you," she says mournfully.

"It looks better on you," he replies, equally solemn. "I'm definitely getting the better end of this deal."

"If I had a second one, you could wear it in your buttonhole."

"Now that would be dashing. Take that, Sinatra!"

And, while it's completely incongruous to the conversation, he takes her by the waist, wraps one hand around hers, and begins leading her in a dance across the sand.

Charlie muffles a laugh, and follows along with him the best she can.

(Which isn't very well. She's not an accomplished dancer.)

If she can laugh like that, she doesn't have to be.

"In 1911, this would have been the height of scandalous, you know," he mentions absently.

"What, dancing on a public beach?"

The sand's just shifty enough underfoot to make dancing a dicey proposition. Charlie takes a moment to be thankful she's not wearing high heels.

"Something like that. Mostly it's the unsupervised bit that'd have the upright citizens' panties in a twist." The phantom tune in his head speeds up a touch, and he swings her out, to get a good look at her against the water and the skyline. He's a sly fox like that.

She poses obligingly, and then spins back in along his arm to fetch up with her back snugged against his chest.

Prometheus is not the only one who's sly.

He settles in with his head on her shoulder, keeping her close and turning idly as they bob.

"Damn, this is all gonna be snow in a couple of weeks. That kind of breaks my heart a little."

The downside of autumn is that winter comes in inexorably on its heels. The upside of winter is that people have figured out ways of making the best of that. See: central heating, couches, and hot beverages flavored like eggnog.

"You don't like snow?"

She tilts her head upward a little, her hair moving against his cheek.

"I'm okay with snow. But my constitution favors warmth, generally speaking. Old habits die hard and all."

He made a point of shaving today -- lucky for both of them.

"How about you?"

"I like snow. Always have."

The impromptu dancing has slowed down to an idle back-and-forth swaying.

"I don't love the cold, but winter in general ... it's soothing."

He chuckles. "Maybe somewhere else. Not here." Not even the rush of cars on Lake Shore Drive disturbs them. "Then again, cities aren't exactly built to be oases of peace and relaxation."

Ignore the irony of the moment, please.

"All rush and bustle," she agrees insincerely, leaning into him. "I don't know how people stand it."

"Oh, it's all about deadening the soul and getting mean." His arms press her closer. "You get the hang of it after a while."

The sky's clear, with some stars visible through the corona of city lights, and the lake is a vast sweep of darkness stretching to the horizon.

Charlie turns her head again, stretching up, and her cheek brushes his.

He tilts his face toward hers. "You're disproving my theory," he murmurs. "Stop that."

His breath's warm against her skin.

"If your theory is that easily disproved," she murmurs back, her lips almost touching the line of his jaw, "maybe you should trade it in for a new one."

As is hers. He leans in against the spot just below her ear, brushing away that curtain of hair with his fingertips.

"I gotta know it's not just sophistry first."

What runs through her at that touch is the opposite of a shiver; a ripple of melting warmth, slow and sweet.

"Can't be sophistry," she breathes, turning in his arms and rising on her toes in the sand.

Her lips a bare centimeter from his, she pauses long enough to add "I haven't said a word," and moves in to complete the kiss.

"And yet, persuasive," he manages to supply, before leaning in to investigate the proposition once again.

It's several seconds before the kiss breaks.

Charlie draws back a little, still in the circle of his arm, looking up at him thoughtfully.

(Her heart's beating a little faster, but not racing. No panic sweat. No tremor hinting at loss of control. It's a deliberate self-assessment: we're good.)

"And the verdict?"