ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

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.

and the pale fires bloomed, eleven candles lit
The only difficulty in getting out of her coat is that it means she has to let go of him. One arm at a time pulls free of its sleeve, and returns immediately to him.
and every way they touched, their two bodies fit
Her hands make their way up his chest, one resting just below his shoulder and the other twining around the back of his neck.

Yeah, but this is small acrobatics of the pleasantest type. He works his own jacket off, leaning back into the movement of slipping off the arms when --

Is that a wall? Charlie seems to have him pressed against a wall now.

She's not really thinking about that, but the wall provides some much-needed steadiness.

Her mouth finally tears free of his, only to move along his jawline.

Oh, but she is good at that.

It gives his hands a little bit of freedom, and that's enough. They rove down over her hips and around her back, before they start seeking out the edge of her waistband, and the warm skin underneath.

Her back arches under his hands, just a touch, and then stiffens abruptly --

"--wait--"

She doesn't pull away. Tension trembling in every taut line of her body, head down in the crook of his shoulder, she swallows and breathes, swallows and breathes. And doesn't pull away.

His eyes snap open. He stares, unmoving, over her shoulder, gauging the feel of her body against his own.

(Usually she says something sooner than this.)

"Waiting," he murmurs, his brow furrowing.

(She hasn't put away his hands.)

It's not the fire. The fire's under control. It's the panic again.

Charlie takes one more deep breath and holds it. Forces the muscles in her back, her arms, her stomach, to relax. Lifts her head.

(And there had come a night when they got through it.)

"I'm all right," she whispers, and it's more determination than reassurance. "I'm good."

(Later there came a night when it was all right.)

She brings her arms back up around him, twining her fingers into his hair, setting her thumbs against his jawline.

(Then, suddenly, a night when it was glorious.)

Soft and tentative: "...Let me drive, okay?"

(dance, little sister, dance)

He pulls back, examines her face.

("I ought to warn you, I'm not the type who--")

She means every word.

(yes I said yes I will Yes)

Prometheus grins. "Do your worst, lady."

And he leans in to spark another kiss.

* * *

They get room service several hours after waking up the next morning.