ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

"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?"

His fingers play over the exposed skin just below her chin. "Can't we debate a little more?"

"Debate for the purpose of debating?"

She leans into him, happily smug.

"Now who's being a sophist?"

"I'm older than Socrates. Leave me alone."

He can't quite decide on a smile or a pout: the hybrid is a creature to behold.

Oh, it is.

"You're older than a lot of things."

He wraps both arms around her waist. "Yeah, but I'm forever young at heart. That's one of the signing bonuses for this gig."

She reaches up to slide one hand around the back of his neck.

"Sounds like a good deal."

He leans forward with the pressure. "There's a reason we stick around like we do."

Back to a murmur: "And what's that?"

Their faces are close together again, near touching.

"Because," he murmurs back, "we always get to find out what happens next."

In this instance, another kiss. A high wind blows up at his back, an insistent tug at their sleeves from the city of Chicago and the lake.

It's just a touch chilly, an exhilarating contrast to their tiny pocket of warmth.

"So," she breathes, punctuating more than breaking the kiss, "what happens next?"

Both hands are on her face now, huge palms cupping her cheeks. "Well--if you don't want to catch a cab all the way back to my place--we're all dressed up, and there are some--fine local hotels--just a stone's throw away."

Prometheus just has that feeling tonight.

"Someplace where we won't scandalize the local upright citizens?"

Her fingers lace through his hair for a moment, and then slide away.

"Sounds good to me."

"There was another rule back then." He steps back a pace and crooks out his elbow, dandy-style. "You could do anything you wanted, so long as you didn't do it where you'd scare the horses. The Drake, which is just there, has always qualified for just such a location."

"Well. We certainly wouldn't want to scare the horses."

She takes one dancing step to the side, and slips her arm through his.

"Lead on."

The concierge at the Drake Hotel, long one of the most exclusive establishments in the Windy City, is more than happy to provide the couple with a suite. Prometheus arranges payment by some means that leaves everyone but him confused. The keycard they are given has the image of an old wrought key on it, very like the keys they've gotten from Bar herself.

The bellboy points them toward the right corridor, and knows well enough to leave them alone once they step off the elevator. The hallways on this floor have the same luxurious grandeur that made them so famous in decades past. It's enough to make any guy silly with momentum: he opens the door with elaborate ceremony, and holds it for Charlie with a just-this-side-of-farcical air of Ladies first!

There's nothing you can do with that but roll with it.

Charlie bends her head in a sketch of a curtsey, and sweeps through the door as he holds it open.

And reaches back to grab his hand and tug him into the room after her.

Lucky for them there are no horses nearby: Prometheus has just enough time to swing the door shut before he's kissing her again, paying no attention to their surroundings, just helping her out of her coat by touch and improvising the rest.