Liz Sherman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
walking_napalm) wrote2009-02-28 01:16 am
walking_napalm) wrote2009-02-28 01:16 am
Entry tags:
Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense: Section 51
Fact: Liz steps out of the closet with a carton of skim milk in hand, so she could eat breakfast now.
Fact: While down by the lake is a pretty okay spot to think, it's damn cold out back at Milliways.
Fact: Liz wasn't really all that hungry, anyway.
(Fact: She forgets sometimes, mostly after she's been at Milliways for a while, that time crawls at the Bureau while hours pass at the bar.)
Liz steps out of the closet with a carton of skim milk in hand. The room is as she left it, dimly-lit and silent, with Red unmoving in bed. She frowns. Something isn't --
There are a host of yellow eyes peering at her from atop the bank of televisions.
"You can come down now, 'fraidy cats," Liz murmurs, reaching up and gently scratching the first furry chin that comes to hand. The gray tabby leaps down and mewls, and his fellows follow suit. The cats aren't stupid; they've learned (A) to hide, and (B) not to hide under the bed, when people begin lighting on fire.
Suppressing a shiver, Liz crosses the room -- boots scuffing quietly -- and puts the milk in its rightful place in the fridge. Her bowl, spoon, and box of Cheerios are right where she left them, and she considers them (and the daily routine that they symbolize) for a sober moment -- and then she walks back over to the bed, sits down on the edge, and starts unlacing her one boot that was actually tied.
Screw routine. Maybe the walk in the cold was helpful after all.
(The clock blinks 05:36.)
Fact: While down by the lake is a pretty okay spot to think, it's damn cold out back at Milliways.
Fact: Liz wasn't really all that hungry, anyway.
(Fact: She forgets sometimes, mostly after she's been at Milliways for a while, that time crawls at the Bureau while hours pass at the bar.)
Liz steps out of the closet with a carton of skim milk in hand. The room is as she left it, dimly-lit and silent, with Red unmoving in bed. She frowns. Something isn't --
There are a host of yellow eyes peering at her from atop the bank of televisions.
"You can come down now, 'fraidy cats," Liz murmurs, reaching up and gently scratching the first furry chin that comes to hand. The gray tabby leaps down and mewls, and his fellows follow suit. The cats aren't stupid; they've learned (A) to hide, and (B) not to hide under the bed, when people begin lighting on fire.
Suppressing a shiver, Liz crosses the room -- boots scuffing quietly -- and puts the milk in its rightful place in the fridge. Her bowl, spoon, and box of Cheerios are right where she left them, and she considers them (and the daily routine that they symbolize) for a sober moment -- and then she walks back over to the bed, sits down on the edge, and starts unlacing her one boot that was actually tied.
Screw routine. Maybe the walk in the cold was helpful after all.
(The clock blinks 05:36.)
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His eyes close and he shakes his head a little.
"Nah, I was havin' that weird dream again. The one with Felix the Cat and the penguins?"
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"The carton that was in the fridge is empty," she says, and her wry eyes leave little doubt as to who she is blaming for that one.
Still, she doesn't seem all too peeved about it, considering that her next move is to press a kiss to his chin and then shift again, close enough now that their noses are nearly touching.
Softly (and a hell of a lot softer than some people would think she is capable of): "Thanks for earlier." She lets her fingers slowly trail up from his neck, just enough to smooth his sideburn with her thumb.
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He gives her a warm smile and his hand moves down to smooth along her side.
"No problem. You okay?" Since she's back in bed he figures she's probably all right.
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The kiss, this time, is on the mouth.
(This, Liz decides, is much better than having awkward conversations with strangers at Milliways, or skipping stones across an iced-over lake, or sitting on the floor and running meditation exercises.
It is a vastly superior distraction.)
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His hand stops on her hip and he gives it a gentle squeeze while kissing her back.
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(She was going to solicit his help in making plans for Laura's birthday present. Now, though, is probably not the appropriate time.)
Red puts up with a lot from her, Liz knows, the majority of it without complaint and without even seeming to mind, and God knows she puts up with his crap, too. And it's all worth it, all the time, even the days when she wants to light him on fire, but quiet mornings like this one -- well. These are really worth it.
It is entirely possible that there is a roll and Liz comes up on top, and that she looks pretty pleased with herself for it.
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Times like this even make being awake at five thirty in the morning not such a bad deal.
That pleased look she has on gets a grin from him as he looks up at her while on his back. His stone hand settles on the mattress beside her knee, one fingertip stroking the side of her leg idly.
His other hand is settled on her hip, thumb pressed against her hip bone.
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"What's so funny?" she murmurs in his ear, in reference to his grin; it's a challenge, a tease, and a genuine question all in one.
(He may be able to feel her own smile, against his cheek.)
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"Just the way you're smiling, I guess."
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"Your fault," she tells him quietly.
The nice thing about being petite with a boyfriend who's supernaturally strong and not-so-petite: you never really have to worry about winding him, when it comes to using him as your own personal combination mattress/pillow.
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He doesn't mind the weight of her on top of him at all. His thumb makes slow circles around her hip bone and after this mornings awakening he's glad to see her smile.
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"So I was thinking about skipping training today," she says, slow, and she pushes herself up on one arm and leans up enough that she can look him in the eye. Her hand comes to rest on his chest. "Got any plans?"
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The smirk becomes a growing smile and he adjusts a bit beneath her, his own hips arching as he settles onto the mattress and brings a hand up to trail along her cheek down and around to the back of her neck.
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The accusation is a light one, especially considering that her eyelids fluttered with that move of his hips, and that Liz is half-smiling. She reaches over and plucks a rubber band off the side rail of the truck-bed (she doesn't wake up in flames terribly often, but when she does, she always needs new rubber bands, and it pays to keep a couple here and there), and sits up enough to tie her hair back in a low, messy ponytail; just to keep it out of the way.
In the process, she stays close enough that Red can keep his hand on the back of her neck.
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"There a reason I shouldn't be thinking positive?"
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It's a brief kiss, though no less fond for it, and she follows it up by brushing her lips across his jaw to his ear, where she exhales warm breath and nips lightly at his earlobe.
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His eyes slide closed and his mouth falls open a little as he murmurs approval.
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She rests her hand over Red's heart and smiles, tiny and quiet, against his cheekbone.