OOM: Suite 130

[watching_you]

Sunlight pours like butterscotch through the gap in the curtains, gathering in one long thin strand along the ceiling, then the walls. As the sun rises it melts down, pooling at last on the tangle of blankets that marks the bed. Though the gap is thin the sun is persistent, making firm arguments in brightness and warmth that yes, it is morning, and no reasonable person should attempt to ignore that fact through such frivolous action as maintaining sleep.

But Veronica has always had something of a rebellious streak. With a muffled sigh of discontent she turns away from the window, the duvet twisting around her ankles; this action brings her nose-to-chest with the bed's other resident. The nuzzling that follows seems pure instinct.

"Mm." Her voice is thick with drowsiness as she mumbles, pre-emptively, "Just ten more minutes."

Comments

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

"You said that half an hour ago," he rumbles, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder. He's been drifting in and out of sleep for awhile, listening to the world waking up around them. He swears he can hear the Loompas moving in the walls, and yeah, it keeps him on edge.

But when she's here, he actually does manage to relax. His hand idly combs through her hair, tucking it behind her ear.

"Aren't you hungry for breakfast yet?"

[watching_you]

Her fingers dance an uncoordinated waltz along his chest, drawing contours along the lines of bone and flesh and muscle. She cranes her neck a fraction of an inch, just enough to let her place a kiss at his neck.

"Do you mean breakfast, or..." she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, "...breakfast?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

His eyelids droop and his arm falls around her shoulder, pulling her a little closer. He has no idea how he got so damned lucky, but he's never been the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Depends." He opens an eye to look at her. "Am I cooking or are you?"

[watching_you]

"Well, do you mean cooking, or—" the same gesture, same innuendo-laden tone: "cooking?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

Mills smirks, eyeing her.

"Are you trying to imply something? Because, if you are, you're making me hungry. And I mean 'hungry', not 'hungry'."

[watching_you]

Veronica sighs, and throws the blankets back: a sure sign of defeat.

"Pancakes or oatmeal?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He chuckles, a little disappointed that she gave up so easily.

"Pancakes. Do we have any bacon?"

[watching_you]

"Maybe. Are you going to cook it topless? You know how sexy danger gets me going."

He gets one last kiss on his cheek before she swings her legs out of bed.

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

"Cooking bacon without a shirt counts as sexy danger now?"

He screws up his face as he considers this.

"Okay, if that's what it takes to light your fire."

His hands linger on her for as long as possible, and he makes no move to follow her. The bed, it is warm and comfy.

[watching_you]

"I'll take what I can get."

She takes a moment to stretch in the narrow beam of sunlight, adjusting her sleep-rumpled tank top and boxers. It occurs to her that he hasn't moved, and she shoots him an expectant look; when he fails to emerge from the soft cocoon of the duvet, she rolls her eyes instead.

"You suck," she declares, proceeding to the curtains and throwing them wide, letting a sudden flood of sunlight drown the half-dark of the room.

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He throws up a hand to block the death ray.

"Gah! What are you trying to do, turn me to dust or something? Evil woman."

He rolls over and takes the duvet with him, disappearing into blessed soft shadows.

[watching_you]

Veronica rounds to his side of the bed, and snatches at his down-filled fortress.

"Hiding is unacceptable. You must suffer! Suffer!"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

After the third attack, he explodes out of the nest, moving far too fast for a man of his size and age. He catches her around the middle and sweeps her off her feet, flinging her over his shoulder.

"I've never believed in suffering. I make other people suffer."

Uh oh. Looks like he's headed for the bathroom.

[watching_you]

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," the words—and her breath—pouring out of her in a rush. She'll never get used to his tendency to do this, and how each time she instinctively wants to flail but knows that'll only end with her getting dropped. It's worse this morning: his lack of shirt means she has nothing to grab onto, causing her to sink her fingernails into his back. "This is completely unfair you giant man-monster, I swear to god if you even attempt to give me a swirly I will defend myself with all the resources at my disposal up to and including biting, do you hear me, biting and not at all in the fun way and you will never again get the fun way so maybe you should just think about your actions oh my god."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He's holding her securely around the waist, one hand on her bum. He hisses a bit at the sting of her nails, but it's nothing he can't handle

"Veronica," he explains gently, hauling her through the door, mindful not to bang her head on anything. "You think I'd stoop to that?"

Nope. He snatches the shower curtain back, and reaches for the taps. Yes, he's carrying her into the shower with him, under the blast of water out of pipes that reside in a building that's ostensibly in Scotland in February.

She did say 'suffer'.

[watching_you]

One would be forgiven for thinking the high-pitched noise that follows is the squeal of old pipes. It certainly matches the tone and frequency of that kind of metallic complaint. But eventually the noise dies down, passing into thoroughly miserable silence.

"This is not a proportional response," Veronica protests from behind Mills.

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

As soon as the squealing fades, he gently sets her down, keeping one hand around her. He reaches past her to turn on the warm water, trying not to smirk and failing miserably.

"No, no it's not."

He has absolutely no problem with this.

[watching_you]

A cold, wet, clothed Veronica is a sad sight to see: pyjamas clinging uncomfortably to her form, hair hanging in limp ropes around her face. "Well you can make your own damn pancakes, that's for sure."

Somehow that doesn't seem like enough. So after a second of gloomy silence she goes for his one obvious vulnerability.

(Later, she'll look back and think about what her Quantico instructors might say if she told them that months of agility training helped her to this: the delivery of a perfect set of nipple tweaks.)

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

And here he was thinking how adorable she looked.

"OW."

Did she just ...

She did. She totally did.

"Fine, I'll cook for you. And tell you where the plans are. Just don't ever do that again!"

[watching_you]

She grins, even as water drips off the end of her nose.

"Now you see what happens to those who underestimate me," she drawls in her villain voice. "And I'm going to need orange juice with that, please. Hand-squeezed."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He wraps her up in his arms, his head dipping down to touch his nose to hers.

"You want hand-squeezed, hmm?"

His hands may be squeezing right now, seeing as she asked so nicely.

[watching_you]

"…And how exactly is this supposed to get me my orange juice?" she asks, squirming. "Actually, don't answer that."

A peck on the cheek and she pulls back the curtains. "Enjoy your shower. I'm going to start my hour-long hair drying process."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

"Heart breaker."

He pulls the shower curtain shut behind her, and a moment later, his wet pyjama bottoms are slung over the rod, dripping wet.

"Your turn to make coffee."

[watching_you]

"Hope you like it bitter, strong and dark. You know, like my soul."

The cackle that follows is muffled as she closes the bathroom door.

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He joins her in the kitchen ten minutes later, wet hair and a damp towel slung low around his hips. Mornings are not his favourite, but he doesn't wallow in it. Besides, he has to keep up with her, and she makes him work for it. He rummages in the cabinet and comes up with the juicer, and a large pitcher.

"Do we have oranges, or do I need to make a trek down to the bar?"

[watching_you]

She's taken advantage of the time to dress, throwing on some jeans and a tossing a blazer over her My Pretty Pony t-shirt, tying her damp hair back into twin buns. She's prepping the coffeemaker as he wanders in, and she looks him slowly up and down.

"If that involves you putting pants on, then forget it."

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

Mills leans against the counter, hanging between his shoulders, a crooked grin somewhere between affectionate and exasperated directed at her.

"Make up your mind, am I chef or cabana boy? I'm good with either; it's just difficult to be both at the same time."

[watching_you]

"Is it? Really?" She squints at him. "Unhygienic maybe, but difficult?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

He just rolls his eyes, and turns back to the fridge.

"I can do bacon. But if there are no oranges, there will be no hand-squeezed juice."

He has to draw the line somewhere.

[watching_you]

Her sigh is heavy with melodrama.

"Oh, fine. I'll suffer through with just coffee. God, my life is so hard.."

Smirking, she steps out of his way, moving around to the other side of the kitchenette's bar-style counter and taking a seat.

"So. Plans for today?"

[particularskill.livejournal.com]

"Not really. Thought I might go for a run around the lake later, weather permitting. Other than that," he shakes his head, setting out the bacon and a box of eggs beside the stove. He's cooked enough in her kitchen to know where the pans are. "Toast?"

[watching_you]

"Love some, thanks."

A brief pause.

"So. Would you like to… make plans?"