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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"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.