es car gots
Billy McCann
Sat 09:03PM CST
Lights spill from the fancy awning with the fancy carpet over the wet pavement. Raining tonight, intermittent-like, and the sky is raw with stormclouds. Two valets stand at attention in their red velvet vests, waiting to run out into the storm with umbrellas not for themselves, but for the patrons coming and going. Arabella's car pulls up to the sidewalk and he unfurls his umbrella, leaning forward to provide shelter for her while crossing the dozen feet between the awning and the door her driver is circling the car to open for her. There's another shelter offered, though, not an umbrella but half a jean jacket raised up by one country boy, standing vigil in the rain. Blonde hair's wet, rain's streaming down his solemn features, stains the denim jacket a darker blue. He don't say nothing. But he looks at the valet, and the boy backs off a half-step, hesitant. He don't wanna come near, but don't wanna leave Arabella neither. "Drive ya home?" Billy asks, not really looking at her. More looking at the kid standing there, holding the umbrella down halfways, staring at the bizarre pair, gape-mouthed.
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 09:09PM CST
He had this tendency of finding her when she least expected it. The restaurant? French. The attire? A more formal then he's seen though she'd not dressed up too terribly much, drapped in dark grey silk, the black rosette patterns stitched into the dress artful and tasteful. The rain had merely been a backdrop for the night as she'd dined alone, enjoying simply being out of the condo's echoing rooms, immersed in candlelight and soft music and other people's quiet conversations.
And outside, she was surprised to see him, dripping rain and stepping up like a shadow divulged from the night. Her hand wrapped around a small strapless evening bag, thin shawl draped over her arms, since she'd not needed the convenience of an umbrella between her driver and the valet, and face smiled after a moment's stun. "Billy... you are quite a welcome surprise." The wave to the valet showing it was alright and she nodded.
"I'd like that." Worried about getting wet? She apparently didn't care if it happened.
Billy McCann
Sat 09:21PM CST
Arabella dismisses the valet, and the nervous young man backs away, unconsciously grateful for the reprieve. Still, he stares after her, worry knotting at the base of his neck, stiffening his spine. Wondering if he maybe shouldn't call the police. Wondering if she knew what she was doing. Billy drops his gaze from the boy to the Silver Fang, pale eyes swallowed by the darkness. Maybe she remembers their color, the hard washed-out blue flame. "Glad ta hear it." The corner of his hard mouth rises. It's almost a smile, and it is folded back into the rest of his expression, the hard features swept with rainlight and shadow. The staring sweep of his hungry gaze. Her fingers around the beaded evening bag. The shawl - already wet as she steps out beneath the dubious shelter of half-his coat - conforming to the shape of her arms as the rain splashes against her skin. His gaze tracks the path of a single drop of rain down her cheek. Then, belatedly, he shrugs outta his denim jacket, lean torso moving in hard concert, and swings the whole of it above her, holding it with surprising care. "Good dinner?" Gaze sweeping back a moment, at the name of the restaurant, eyes narrowing to read it. Low-voiced, raw. Strange humor sunk in the texture of his voice. The roughness belies the clarity of his singing voice. "Didja eat up some snails 'r somethin'?"
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 09:29PM CST
The valet dismissed beyond thought and her driver knew enough to step back and as she moved beyond his need, settled himself back within. She'd call if she needed him afterall. For her part, Bella's attention had become focused on Billy too, but with less intent. She was pulling details from memory, superimposed upon the shadowcast figure before her, rain drenched and chivalrous. "Thank you... I don't mind the rain truly, but I would hate to get sick." Imags of Bella wrapped in fluffy pink pajamas and nursing tea and chicken soup might be cute and touching and rather down to earth considering the elegant appearance of her now, the upswept coiffure of darkened curls, damp rain making it slicker, shinier, drawing some of the curls down towards pale line of her throat and face. His ending comment made her pause and then she laughed. "Hardly... I don't like their taste. It was a fancy chicken dish I could never hope of making, and hence... I came here."
She moved closer to him, to diminish the space with which he was holding the coat for her and the rain hitting them both, now glancing about for his dubious pickup. "Besides, the conod was too quiet, even when I was playing piano, so I went out."
Billy McCann
Sat 09:46PM CST
She steps close; he watches her, as he always does. Pale eyes spark in the darkness - back from the nameplate of the restaurant, receding in the rain, to her damp curls and the line of her throat. It ain't poetry he's thinkin' on, neither. His arm above her, her slender, elegant figure close in beside his body. They're walking on the sidewalk, but he stops suddenly, turns to look at her, standing close in. He doesn't touch her, still holds the jacket over her head more than his, the worn shoulders spread wide, the bulk of the jacket falling from his raised arms. His wifebeater wet and clinging to the sinewy lines of his lean, powerful torso. Corded arms, split knuckles of his large hand near enough to her head to snag a few errant curls. Studying her face, the line of her neck, the shape of her nose. Nostrils flare to steal her scent from the wet air, fine perfume mixed with garlic and herbs from the chicken. Close enough that he can feel her body heat, that her humid scent coats his senses. His pale eyes hood, and the flat mouth splits into another rare almost-smile. "I like 'em." Hard to remember what he's talking about. What he's saying. He's staring at her, and reaches to pluck an errant curl from her face, to smooth a rough thumb across her soft cheek. Breath catches in his throat, and the clarification comes bizarre and from out of nowhere, rough and strange. He could near about kiss her. "Snails, I like 'em." But he's waiting for something, and even he cain't tell what. "Maybe me an' th' boy kin liven up yer fancy condo."
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 09:57PM CST
There's an undertone now. Before, well before they'd watched the sunset together, she'd existed in the idea he was a friend, someone who found her interesting as much as she did him. Underlying agendas had been absent in her mind, not thinking he had any other rationale in his. Her experience lacked men who expressed interest in her, to a large degree, and somehow, these days, Tucker wasn't counting high on it regardless.
Then came the sunset, and now there were undertones to what happened and what could. Did she look for the meaning in his words, actions? She still somehow missed cues, naivete what it was, which lent her a lot of her charm actually. But she walked with him, comfortable in the closeness, body heat making it a warmth that came limned in moisture and scents were nearly touchabe things. She actually felt a good deal of guilt he was getting wet for her sake, which had propelled her to move close without impeding his movement. That problem ended when he stopped and she turned her head, to watch him, the smile tugging at the corner of her lips, a progression upwards he could practically time and bet upon. Without the grief and troubles brought on by Tucker, she smiled more like she used to. Glimpses of the girl she was hidden in the girl she is.
"You do? Well next time you can come and have snails..." Would probably prefer company to dinner and the idea of watching him indulge in french cuisine intrigued her. Heart beating a touch faster as he stroked over her cheek, damp, the faint floral scent of her perfume smelling more 'clean' with the mix of rainwater, and food. Simply Bella... bottled up, it could probably sell quite well. It was not unpleasant.
She was watching him more acutely, shifting under his coatheld canopy, mind unable to sit still on what she wanted to say. "Liven up?"
Billy McCann
Sat 10:10PM CST
He takes his time. He always does. Deliberate and confident. Maybe even bold, he just keeps standing there. The rain falls, and the wind rises, catching stray strands of her curling hair, flinging them across her cheek. After a moment of silence. "Wouldn't let me inna a place like that. Wouldn't wanna dress up, anywise. They do take-out?" His voice is still low, but now there's a gold threat to the raw tones. Light shines from the streetlamps onto the pavement. Glints off her hair, reflects in her eyes. He catches an errant lock with his free hand, twines it around his fingers, thumb hardly leaving her skin. Cool and soft, like nothing. He thinks of clouds, not clouds, rain, rainwet stones like satin, pale, solid, the sky reflecting across their surface, the spaces beyond. "Me 'n th' boys. Liven up yer silent place. Someone's always yapping. 'Cept Morgan'd probably break th'lamps a-swangin' from th' chandeliers. Ain't th'best idea I ever had." He looks up at last, toward his rusting ole truck parked not fifteen yards away now. Looks back at her, a strange expression on his face. "C'mon. Yer gittin' wet."
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 10:16PM CST
"I think... they can be persuaded." That answer could be to so many things, watching him, or more feeling, heat of his hand, strong, rough [welcome] against her cheek. No makeup to speak of, nothing disasterously smudged or ruined by the rain or wind. She could look pretty in maybe most any situation, with a natural draw in her.
Trying to imagine the McCanns in her condo, and somehow not able to, for the most part. She hardly knew a few of them to place it. Breath had caught in ehr throat a moment, wondering at the expression, eyes large, luminous under streetlight and in damp night, deep dark emeralds n ehr face when he could even catch a color.
"I'm not minding, truly..." Almost as if the truck would break the mystery of the moment, the wonder she had in him and what went on behind that rarely changing expression.
Billy McCann
Sat 10:43PM CST
She doesn't mind. He doesn't smile. His eyes don't flicker, don't come near to wavering from his face. His hands tighten against her cheek. She can feel it: sudden and sure. "I do." There's nothing soft about him, not even his poet's dreams. "I mind you gittin' wet. I mind you gittin' - " The sentence ends, abrupt, like it's done been chopped off midgrowth. The hard forearms flex with repressed energy, misappropriated, inappropriate, the storm that rides hard within him, diverted and changed and always changing. Ropes of veins sliding around the muscles. He says it again, like she didn't hear it the first time, like he can't let go of it: dog and bone, and he don't watch his language none at all. "I fucking mind." His momma wouldn't be pleased, but he ain't been a boy fer years. "C'mon." He says again, leaning forward, over her, hand falling from her cheek to graze the back of her elbow. Then rising to curve behind her neck and open her head, lift her face to his. Hard fingers splayed through her hair, making a ruckus of her elegant hair, pins falling like hard black raindrops to the damp sidewalk. Palm warm and strong on the back of her neck. She can feel his strength. He can breathe in her in. His body shifts and he leans forward, without ever dropping the jacket that is her shelter from the rain. She might think he's going to kiss her, and he comes close to it, hard mouth a half-inch above hers, breath rough and hitching up through his chest and throat with each of them. Then his mouth moves, a half-inch. It could be the half-inch between them, but it's a half-inch closer to her ear.
"We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love."
He stays there a full nother thirty seconds, breathing hard, like he's run a damned race and is oxygen starved. Mostly, he's just tasting her in the back of his throat, in his mouth, her scent on his tongue. Human, sweet, herbs, everything. Sweat and rain and the heat of exhaust from a passing car. Tastes it all, breathes it in and makes it her and hers. Abruptly, he releases her, steps back and starts walking again, slow enough that he doesn't leave her behind in the rain. The old high way of love. "C'mon." Again, his pale gaze, rough knuckles flexing beneath denim. "Yer gittin' wet."
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 10:54PM CST
She simply watche shim, eyes growing a size or two larger, as if to catch more of him in them, to read deeper, but understanding doesn't come from merely seeing more. In every way he throws her new conflicts and confusions, and she likes it, she looks for more. The tightneing through him, which touches her and others don't and she doesn't flinch. The fact he could tear life fom her without even breaking a sweat uncomfortable to some, but trust lingers deeper in her dark eyed gaze.
Eyes drift towards half closed, as he tilts her face up, lips only parting to emit some soft surprised sound which was neither protest nor plea and simply dies before it grows past the initial utterance. Quite frankly didn't know what to think, nor had much mental faculty to do so. His heat, sharp scent of man that was him, tensed and wet and earthy, it wrapped around her senses much as his hand did her neck.
She'd have to buy new hairpins one of these days...
Eyes do fall closed as he whispers, as much feeling the poetry as hearing it, and a soft tremor going through her at the words. Poignant and touching and deep. It made her heart beat faster, pulse jumping like a living thing beneath the taut skin of her throat. Then he's moving, away and she's breathless, scattered and nearly stumbling to follow. How -did- he do that anyways?
"Mind my getting what?" Feedback loop to his first broken sentence was her whispered reply for the time being.
Billy McCann
Sat 11:14PM CST
He steadies the jacket over her head, holds out a hand to her - automatic and real polite, natural - as she stumbles. Rough blunt fingers a calloused counterpoint to her fine, soft hands. He don't say nothing in response to her question. Don't say nothing more as he walks with her, sheltering her, to the truck. Opens the passenger's door and flashes her a look that has more fire and less humor than usual. Stands back, offering her a hand instead of lifting her up, like he done the last time. Like he can't trust himself to touch her, to wrap his hands around her waist. Like he don't know what he'd do. He drops the jacket and offers her a second hand if'n she needs it, hands her up into the cab without manhandling her, then looks up at her. Stares from below at her, and looks from her damp, curling hair and the rainshadows crossing her pale face, her fine features, to the the buildings that form the backdrop, to the stormclouds above. There's a moon up there, somewhere. Maybe he takes something from that, for he drops his pale eyes from the sky back to her. Stands there in the rain, lifts his chin toward her, or the world beyond her. "Mind you gittin' rained on. I mind you gittin' any kinda trouble. S'all." He doesn't smile, face still and solemn as a preacherman, or an undertaker, except for his eyes. He steps back then, closes the door behind her, closes her in. Stalks around the front of the truck, banging on the hood several times like he needs to wake up the engine from its slumber, then climbs in the driver's side, the scent of the rain invading the close, damp air. Steps up in one easy motion and swings into his seat, has the engine started before he has the door closed. Hank Williams, Sr. wails quietly in the background, honkytonk from the speakers. The engine hums and thrums and lurches, the whole cab vibrates with the engine's reassuring power. He don't say anything else. He just drives her home.
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 11:19PM CST
She doesn't understand him, or maybe its because the slim experience she does have is with those who weren't restrained, weren't toiling with their own demons. She remembered what Jodi had told her off and on, and somehow wondered if he thought about that other woman, when he looked at her...
Wondering which Wiliam had been the source of tonight's poetry, she remained silent though,climbing precariously into his truck, needing both those hands briefly in her heels, the edges of silk catching at legs were water had dampened in spots. Bedraggled and carrying it off with supreme confidence she merely smiled, and nodded.
There were going to be more tormented dreams that had nothing to do with her fading grief and everything to do with one welter of a confusing Fianna likely. He made her wonder now, when...
Sat 09:03PM CST
Lights spill from the fancy awning with the fancy carpet over the wet pavement. Raining tonight, intermittent-like, and the sky is raw with stormclouds. Two valets stand at attention in their red velvet vests, waiting to run out into the storm with umbrellas not for themselves, but for the patrons coming and going. Arabella's car pulls up to the sidewalk and he unfurls his umbrella, leaning forward to provide shelter for her while crossing the dozen feet between the awning and the door her driver is circling the car to open for her. There's another shelter offered, though, not an umbrella but half a jean jacket raised up by one country boy, standing vigil in the rain. Blonde hair's wet, rain's streaming down his solemn features, stains the denim jacket a darker blue. He don't say nothing. But he looks at the valet, and the boy backs off a half-step, hesitant. He don't wanna come near, but don't wanna leave Arabella neither. "Drive ya home?" Billy asks, not really looking at her. More looking at the kid standing there, holding the umbrella down halfways, staring at the bizarre pair, gape-mouthed.
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 09:09PM CST
He had this tendency of finding her when she least expected it. The restaurant? French. The attire? A more formal then he's seen though she'd not dressed up too terribly much, drapped in dark grey silk, the black rosette patterns stitched into the dress artful and tasteful. The rain had merely been a backdrop for the night as she'd dined alone, enjoying simply being out of the condo's echoing rooms, immersed in candlelight and soft music and other people's quiet conversations.
And outside, she was surprised to see him, dripping rain and stepping up like a shadow divulged from the night. Her hand wrapped around a small strapless evening bag, thin shawl draped over her arms, since she'd not needed the convenience of an umbrella between her driver and the valet, and face smiled after a moment's stun. "Billy... you are quite a welcome surprise." The wave to the valet showing it was alright and she nodded.
"I'd like that." Worried about getting wet? She apparently didn't care if it happened.
Billy McCann
Sat 09:21PM CST
Arabella dismisses the valet, and the nervous young man backs away, unconsciously grateful for the reprieve. Still, he stares after her, worry knotting at the base of his neck, stiffening his spine. Wondering if he maybe shouldn't call the police. Wondering if she knew what she was doing. Billy drops his gaze from the boy to the Silver Fang, pale eyes swallowed by the darkness. Maybe she remembers their color, the hard washed-out blue flame. "Glad ta hear it." The corner of his hard mouth rises. It's almost a smile, and it is folded back into the rest of his expression, the hard features swept with rainlight and shadow. The staring sweep of his hungry gaze. Her fingers around the beaded evening bag. The shawl - already wet as she steps out beneath the dubious shelter of half-his coat - conforming to the shape of her arms as the rain splashes against her skin. His gaze tracks the path of a single drop of rain down her cheek. Then, belatedly, he shrugs outta his denim jacket, lean torso moving in hard concert, and swings the whole of it above her, holding it with surprising care. "Good dinner?" Gaze sweeping back a moment, at the name of the restaurant, eyes narrowing to read it. Low-voiced, raw. Strange humor sunk in the texture of his voice. The roughness belies the clarity of his singing voice. "Didja eat up some snails 'r somethin'?"
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 09:29PM CST
The valet dismissed beyond thought and her driver knew enough to step back and as she moved beyond his need, settled himself back within. She'd call if she needed him afterall. For her part, Bella's attention had become focused on Billy too, but with less intent. She was pulling details from memory, superimposed upon the shadowcast figure before her, rain drenched and chivalrous. "Thank you... I don't mind the rain truly, but I would hate to get sick." Imags of Bella wrapped in fluffy pink pajamas and nursing tea and chicken soup might be cute and touching and rather down to earth considering the elegant appearance of her now, the upswept coiffure of darkened curls, damp rain making it slicker, shinier, drawing some of the curls down towards pale line of her throat and face. His ending comment made her pause and then she laughed. "Hardly... I don't like their taste. It was a fancy chicken dish I could never hope of making, and hence... I came here."
She moved closer to him, to diminish the space with which he was holding the coat for her and the rain hitting them both, now glancing about for his dubious pickup. "Besides, the conod was too quiet, even when I was playing piano, so I went out."
Billy McCann
Sat 09:46PM CST
She steps close; he watches her, as he always does. Pale eyes spark in the darkness - back from the nameplate of the restaurant, receding in the rain, to her damp curls and the line of her throat. It ain't poetry he's thinkin' on, neither. His arm above her, her slender, elegant figure close in beside his body. They're walking on the sidewalk, but he stops suddenly, turns to look at her, standing close in. He doesn't touch her, still holds the jacket over her head more than his, the worn shoulders spread wide, the bulk of the jacket falling from his raised arms. His wifebeater wet and clinging to the sinewy lines of his lean, powerful torso. Corded arms, split knuckles of his large hand near enough to her head to snag a few errant curls. Studying her face, the line of her neck, the shape of her nose. Nostrils flare to steal her scent from the wet air, fine perfume mixed with garlic and herbs from the chicken. Close enough that he can feel her body heat, that her humid scent coats his senses. His pale eyes hood, and the flat mouth splits into another rare almost-smile. "I like 'em." Hard to remember what he's talking about. What he's saying. He's staring at her, and reaches to pluck an errant curl from her face, to smooth a rough thumb across her soft cheek. Breath catches in his throat, and the clarification comes bizarre and from out of nowhere, rough and strange. He could near about kiss her. "Snails, I like 'em." But he's waiting for something, and even he cain't tell what. "Maybe me an' th' boy kin liven up yer fancy condo."
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 09:57PM CST
There's an undertone now. Before, well before they'd watched the sunset together, she'd existed in the idea he was a friend, someone who found her interesting as much as she did him. Underlying agendas had been absent in her mind, not thinking he had any other rationale in his. Her experience lacked men who expressed interest in her, to a large degree, and somehow, these days, Tucker wasn't counting high on it regardless.
Then came the sunset, and now there were undertones to what happened and what could. Did she look for the meaning in his words, actions? She still somehow missed cues, naivete what it was, which lent her a lot of her charm actually. But she walked with him, comfortable in the closeness, body heat making it a warmth that came limned in moisture and scents were nearly touchabe things. She actually felt a good deal of guilt he was getting wet for her sake, which had propelled her to move close without impeding his movement. That problem ended when he stopped and she turned her head, to watch him, the smile tugging at the corner of her lips, a progression upwards he could practically time and bet upon. Without the grief and troubles brought on by Tucker, she smiled more like she used to. Glimpses of the girl she was hidden in the girl she is.
"You do? Well next time you can come and have snails..." Would probably prefer company to dinner and the idea of watching him indulge in french cuisine intrigued her. Heart beating a touch faster as he stroked over her cheek, damp, the faint floral scent of her perfume smelling more 'clean' with the mix of rainwater, and food. Simply Bella... bottled up, it could probably sell quite well. It was not unpleasant.
She was watching him more acutely, shifting under his coatheld canopy, mind unable to sit still on what she wanted to say. "Liven up?"
Billy McCann
Sat 10:10PM CST
He takes his time. He always does. Deliberate and confident. Maybe even bold, he just keeps standing there. The rain falls, and the wind rises, catching stray strands of her curling hair, flinging them across her cheek. After a moment of silence. "Wouldn't let me inna a place like that. Wouldn't wanna dress up, anywise. They do take-out?" His voice is still low, but now there's a gold threat to the raw tones. Light shines from the streetlamps onto the pavement. Glints off her hair, reflects in her eyes. He catches an errant lock with his free hand, twines it around his fingers, thumb hardly leaving her skin. Cool and soft, like nothing. He thinks of clouds, not clouds, rain, rainwet stones like satin, pale, solid, the sky reflecting across their surface, the spaces beyond. "Me 'n th' boys. Liven up yer silent place. Someone's always yapping. 'Cept Morgan'd probably break th'lamps a-swangin' from th' chandeliers. Ain't th'best idea I ever had." He looks up at last, toward his rusting ole truck parked not fifteen yards away now. Looks back at her, a strange expression on his face. "C'mon. Yer gittin' wet."
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 10:16PM CST
"I think... they can be persuaded." That answer could be to so many things, watching him, or more feeling, heat of his hand, strong, rough [welcome] against her cheek. No makeup to speak of, nothing disasterously smudged or ruined by the rain or wind. She could look pretty in maybe most any situation, with a natural draw in her.
Trying to imagine the McCanns in her condo, and somehow not able to, for the most part. She hardly knew a few of them to place it. Breath had caught in ehr throat a moment, wondering at the expression, eyes large, luminous under streetlight and in damp night, deep dark emeralds n ehr face when he could even catch a color.
"I'm not minding, truly..." Almost as if the truck would break the mystery of the moment, the wonder she had in him and what went on behind that rarely changing expression.
Billy McCann
Sat 10:43PM CST
She doesn't mind. He doesn't smile. His eyes don't flicker, don't come near to wavering from his face. His hands tighten against her cheek. She can feel it: sudden and sure. "I do." There's nothing soft about him, not even his poet's dreams. "I mind you gittin' wet. I mind you gittin' - " The sentence ends, abrupt, like it's done been chopped off midgrowth. The hard forearms flex with repressed energy, misappropriated, inappropriate, the storm that rides hard within him, diverted and changed and always changing. Ropes of veins sliding around the muscles. He says it again, like she didn't hear it the first time, like he can't let go of it: dog and bone, and he don't watch his language none at all. "I fucking mind." His momma wouldn't be pleased, but he ain't been a boy fer years. "C'mon." He says again, leaning forward, over her, hand falling from her cheek to graze the back of her elbow. Then rising to curve behind her neck and open her head, lift her face to his. Hard fingers splayed through her hair, making a ruckus of her elegant hair, pins falling like hard black raindrops to the damp sidewalk. Palm warm and strong on the back of her neck. She can feel his strength. He can breathe in her in. His body shifts and he leans forward, without ever dropping the jacket that is her shelter from the rain. She might think he's going to kiss her, and he comes close to it, hard mouth a half-inch above hers, breath rough and hitching up through his chest and throat with each of them. Then his mouth moves, a half-inch. It could be the half-inch between them, but it's a half-inch closer to her ear.
"We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love."
He stays there a full nother thirty seconds, breathing hard, like he's run a damned race and is oxygen starved. Mostly, he's just tasting her in the back of his throat, in his mouth, her scent on his tongue. Human, sweet, herbs, everything. Sweat and rain and the heat of exhaust from a passing car. Tastes it all, breathes it in and makes it her and hers. Abruptly, he releases her, steps back and starts walking again, slow enough that he doesn't leave her behind in the rain. The old high way of love. "C'mon." Again, his pale gaze, rough knuckles flexing beneath denim. "Yer gittin' wet."
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 10:54PM CST
She simply watche shim, eyes growing a size or two larger, as if to catch more of him in them, to read deeper, but understanding doesn't come from merely seeing more. In every way he throws her new conflicts and confusions, and she likes it, she looks for more. The tightneing through him, which touches her and others don't and she doesn't flinch. The fact he could tear life fom her without even breaking a sweat uncomfortable to some, but trust lingers deeper in her dark eyed gaze.
Eyes drift towards half closed, as he tilts her face up, lips only parting to emit some soft surprised sound which was neither protest nor plea and simply dies before it grows past the initial utterance. Quite frankly didn't know what to think, nor had much mental faculty to do so. His heat, sharp scent of man that was him, tensed and wet and earthy, it wrapped around her senses much as his hand did her neck.
She'd have to buy new hairpins one of these days...
Eyes do fall closed as he whispers, as much feeling the poetry as hearing it, and a soft tremor going through her at the words. Poignant and touching and deep. It made her heart beat faster, pulse jumping like a living thing beneath the taut skin of her throat. Then he's moving, away and she's breathless, scattered and nearly stumbling to follow. How -did- he do that anyways?
"Mind my getting what?" Feedback loop to his first broken sentence was her whispered reply for the time being.
Billy McCann
Sat 11:14PM CST
He steadies the jacket over her head, holds out a hand to her - automatic and real polite, natural - as she stumbles. Rough blunt fingers a calloused counterpoint to her fine, soft hands. He don't say nothing in response to her question. Don't say nothing more as he walks with her, sheltering her, to the truck. Opens the passenger's door and flashes her a look that has more fire and less humor than usual. Stands back, offering her a hand instead of lifting her up, like he done the last time. Like he can't trust himself to touch her, to wrap his hands around her waist. Like he don't know what he'd do. He drops the jacket and offers her a second hand if'n she needs it, hands her up into the cab without manhandling her, then looks up at her. Stares from below at her, and looks from her damp, curling hair and the rainshadows crossing her pale face, her fine features, to the the buildings that form the backdrop, to the stormclouds above. There's a moon up there, somewhere. Maybe he takes something from that, for he drops his pale eyes from the sky back to her. Stands there in the rain, lifts his chin toward her, or the world beyond her. "Mind you gittin' rained on. I mind you gittin' any kinda trouble. S'all." He doesn't smile, face still and solemn as a preacherman, or an undertaker, except for his eyes. He steps back then, closes the door behind her, closes her in. Stalks around the front of the truck, banging on the hood several times like he needs to wake up the engine from its slumber, then climbs in the driver's side, the scent of the rain invading the close, damp air. Steps up in one easy motion and swings into his seat, has the engine started before he has the door closed. Hank Williams, Sr. wails quietly in the background, honkytonk from the speakers. The engine hums and thrums and lurches, the whole cab vibrates with the engine's reassuring power. He don't say anything else. He just drives her home.
Arabella Eberstark
Sat 11:19PM CST
She doesn't understand him, or maybe its because the slim experience she does have is with those who weren't restrained, weren't toiling with their own demons. She remembered what Jodi had told her off and on, and somehow wondered if he thought about that other woman, when he looked at her...
Wondering which Wiliam had been the source of tonight's poetry, she remained silent though,climbing precariously into his truck, needing both those hands briefly in her heels, the edges of silk catching at legs were water had dampened in spots. Bedraggled and carrying it off with supreme confidence she merely smiled, and nodded.
There were going to be more tormented dreams that had nothing to do with her fading grief and everything to do with one welter of a confusing Fianna likely. He made her wonder now, when...
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