[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Cerise might have collected herself at that pained hiss when she let her hands trip over to the raw parts of him. Might have, but didn't, because Emiel himself certainly didn't seem to be in any hurry for her to do so. Was it more or less painful than when she'd hit him full in the face, the first time they'd met? Were she to guess, she wasn't sure she'd have answer. Depended, she supposed, on the type of pain being considered. At least to her.

"Oh we're being literary are we, Just Emiel?" This was old, familiar ground--easy to fall into. Books, of all the strange and unexpected things, had brought them together in the first place. Her heart lurched a little, thinking on it. That's what she got, really, for thinking. She had let her hands drift, and when he spoke again she let herself focus instead on the unfairly charming way he pressed his tongue against the back of the ring in his mouth.

"Don't know what that means," she teased; a lie. She'd picked up that much at least, in their not-quite-a-year. And not a lie, too, because she understood the words but not the meaning. He pouted, just as exaggerated as her sigh; Cerise barely kept herself from laughing looking at him. Gracious clocking Lady, she had forgotten how good it felt just to look at him, to joke around. Even if he was an absolutely rotten patient, no matter what he said.

Cerise couldn't bring herself to complain anyway, when he didn't turn back around to let her finish what she'd started. He would have to, eventually, or else finish what he'd started. That seemed medically unwise. Not that she would stop him; she did care about taking care of the aftermath of earlier, truly. But she also liked him right where he was, hands at her waist.

That comment about her bedside manner didn't require much of a response. Not a verbal one, anyway. You're the only one I'd play healer for, she thought to herself, but she kissed him instead of saying it out loud. The sentiment was the same, anyway; speaking would only have gotten in the way.

"Who told you that blatant lie?" she demanded, only reluctantly letting him sink back to the floor. That was a hit, that comment about her face; calculated or accidental? And did it matter? A part of her heart ached all the same. She sighed, the edge of it bitter. Let him think it was for taking that mouth away from her, and not that she was thinking too hard on the kinds of trouble her face had gotten him into. In the end it hardly mattered--she had said she wasn't going anywhere, and she meant it.

No, he'd have to get rid of her himself this time. Explicitly, directly, and personally. And maybe he would. She remembered still every bitter comment, and what had sounded to her like resignation. Cerise had said what she said, and she knew it may not matter. She did hope, at least, he'd wait for tomorrow to do it. Let her pretend a little longer. Tomorrow was a problem for future Cerise.

He turned around, anyway, and settled himself again. Cerise tried to make herself focus on the glass, on being careful with removing it. The water was still running in the washroom, she realized; he'd turned it on before she even sat down, and hadn't turned it off the whole time. Every sign of his obvious impatience made her want to move slower, draw the whole procedure out, just to be contrary. Nevermind that she was just as impatient, if not more so.

"I can be both," she said, resuming the work. "But neither of those are the same as gentle." She punctuated the sentence by pulling out another piece. For all that she was teasing, she did try not to make it hurt too much.

There was less glass remaining than she thought; she had made decent progress before she had stopped. Before too long, she had gotten the last of it. Cerise thought that she should disinfect it all somehow; she rummaged around in the first aid kit, but she held little hope he'd have any antiseptic of any kind.

"There," she declared, and began to retrieve her hair tie. Which admittedly also became an excuse to run her hands through the bright locks of it again, but she did think it was time to take it back. "That's the glass, at least... We should actually clean this up. And bandage the burns on your back, too." Maybe, just maybe, she let her hands move from ghosting over the red and blistering skin to tugging a little more at the shirt he'd already peeled away from his shoulders.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Awhole lot, that's what." Emiel murmured with his freckled face still mocking a pout, broken only by the bright mischief in his amber eyes. It were damn difficult to pull away from those lips, 'specially when they'd been turned upward in her sharp, familiar, endearin' sorta smile. Em liked to fancy himself one of the few—he'd convinced himself he were somethin' special on account of how often he knew he'd seen her face without a hint of a frown on it. Granted, this close, flushed an' a lil' breathless were a good look on the dark-haired galdor, too, but he were biased an' he knew it. He didn't want to know who else'd seen such expressions, ne like he'd were sure he could count on one hand (maybe two) who'd enjoyed so many smiles like he'd done.

He'd missed them.

Slow to turn 'round, to settle on his knees, he didn't answer her riposte of a question, closin' his eyes for a heartbeat or two instead, feelin' that edge to her voice slip between his ribs, diggin' for his lungs. She'd not even reached for any more glass yet, there in his scalp, an' he winced 'cause he knew what he were feelin' in that field of hers, that field he'd not forgotten how to read in his own, limited but intimate way.

Her fingers prodded, pinched, and dug. Emiel whined and huffed a little less than the first time, both because she didn't have much work left an' because his mind were jus' a little more occupied with other things. Cerise declared her victory over all that Lionel McAllister had purposefully driven into the back of the purple-haired wick's head—into the scalp of some good for nothin' mongrel. That word stuck. It stung far worse than fingernails sliding tiny slivers from burned, sensitive flesh, an' it wormed its way right into his heart, slim like a needle.

It were jus' as against th' Law in establishments in the Stacks to use magic offensively an' cause harm to others as it were to use one's fists outside of the appropriate sporting areas. Lionel'd been jus' as wrong to explode top shelf booze an' burn the Badger's barkeep as Em'd been to smash his face an' break his textbook well-bred nose. Only, out of the two of them, only Em'd be th'one in trouble an' he knew it.

He were quite sure to be expectin' a court summons in the next few days. Probably with a fine he couldn't pay or a stint in jail he couldn't writ-talk his way out of.

"Water should be runnin' clean 'bout now. Takes a while 'cause the landlord won't do a damn thing for the pipes—" Emiel swallowed somethin' hot an' hard that had balled up tight in the back of his throat, thinkin' 'bout golly laws an' how he'd get the heel of 'em only to make some suddenly distracted, helpless sort of noise when Cerise's hands lingered in his hair, fingers a pina manna more gentle. Oes. He wanted more of that an' less thinkin' on spitch he couldn't deal with now.

Laws were all problems for later.

Gettin' some clothes off were problems for now.

Well, ne. It weren't a problem.

Featherlight touch traced downward toward his shoulders and the wick shrugged playfully, reachin' up to slip out of his already unbuttoned vest an' shirt, leavin' them in her tugging grasp as he moved to stand, gettin' the undressin' started with a quiet, husky sorta laugh,

"—mmm'oes. C'mon, then. There's better things we could be doin'." He were grinnin' when he turned around and reached to unhelpfully help the dark-haired young woman on his bed to her feet, purposefully placin' her palms on his own freckled skin, pausin' to lean an' wrap up all the glass shards in the towel, foldin' it careful-like an' settin' it out of the way on the lil' night stand he'd built himself to deal with later. Not botherin' to turn around, he walked backwards with insatiable coyness, "It's gonna be damn cold this time 'f year, so I ent bathin', ye chen. Jus' a good rinse. Hot water works better at th' Badger unless you want me to heat some on the stove."

Em didn't care, honestly. His mind was already elsewhere, searchin' Cerise's face an' forcin' himself ne to apologize for the lack of luxury she were most likely used to. He didn't even need to bet on the water on campus, sure the pipes hardly froze an' the dorms didn't spring leaks. They probably weren't drafty an' hard to heat, neither—gods, some nights it were worth it to have another body in the bed jus' 'cause winter was clockin' cold.

"I ent got much by the way of bandages. Maybe somethin' in here." Pullin' them both into the tiny, tight closet of a washroom, Emiel made sure to totally be in the way, in both their personal spaces, lips brushing hers while he snatched for a towel and body pressin' closer when he finally turned to rummage through shelves for somethin' useful. There were a few bandages, some salve, probably left over from the last time he'd burned the shit out of himself in the kitchens (a rare but still notable occurrence whenever Paolo attempted to get him back there durin' busy dinner times), and he waggled them in her direction with enthusiasm.

The faucet ran weakly, and while the water was clear, the ringed stains etched into the sink revealed that rust and age and most likely quality 'd all left their marks with time. It was clean—all of it—but, it was also obvious the bath was hardly used for its actual purpose. At the moment, washed clothes hung on a line stretched the length of the copper tub, drying in the relative warmth of the small flat compared to the Bethas chill outside,

"I'll jus' get another towel wet an' you can make some dabs, eh?" Em smiled, softer with an almost self-conscious chagrin as if revealin' somethin' about his bathroom were revealin' too much about the reality of his life, as if somehow Cerise weren't already aware, as if he worried her perspective 'd somehow changed after all this time. She'd never cared 'bout their differences, but did she now, seein' some more clearly than before?

The water bit at his fingers 'cause it were so cold an' he soaked a small hand towel, wringin' it out jus' enough before offerin' it to her an' bendin' over the sink, restin' his elbows on the side an' lowerin' his head. If he made a point to back into her, jus' a lil', well, it were in good fun.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Each little piece removed was an admonishment. Em was quieter this time as she resumed picking those bright-edged pieces out of his skin. A thoughtful kind of quiet, maybe. Cerise couldn't be sure; she found herself second-guessing too much where she might once have just known.

Cerise just kept her hands moving, though. There was nothing else she could do. None of this should have happened, and none of it would have if she hadn't been so selfish. But even though she felt the weight of it, and even though there was a sharp prick of fury with every shard, a part of her wasn't sorry at all. A large part, a self-centered part that had just missed him terribly all this time and couldn't be regretful that she was here now.

"Oh is that why it's been on? Here I thought it was for ambiance." She smiled while she said it, even though she was looking at the back of his head. Now she didn't even try to stop herself from touching him, pretending that undressing was practical (which it was) but mostly wanting to refresh her memory. Emiel slipped out of her hands then, leaving his vest and shirt behind. Cerise's fingers tensed for just a moment, before she let both fall to the floor.

The sound of that laugh went straight to some core part of her, chasing out some of the cold that persisted in her veins. It curled in her ears and lingered there. The steel of her eyes turned appreciative; injured or not, Em was easy to appreciate. Broader and a little rougher than most of her kind, but not in any way she would have said was bulky. Plenty of Anaxi of all kinds had freckles, extensive ones--none of them she thought looked so well. "Perfect" was the word came to mind; not that she'd ever say that out loud. His ego would likely crush them both if she did.

The burns were ugly things, marring the plane of his back and shoulders. If they scarred, she thought, she would be furious. He could have all the scars in the world and she wouldn't care about any but for these, she thought. It was a strange, possessive kind of fury that she didn't understand well enough to dwell on. She laughed anyway and let herself be drawn to her feet.

"Em, I hope you aren't telling me that you've stopped bathing in our time apart, because that will certainly put a damper on things." Her eyebrows arched and her eyes were light with teasing, but she let her hands go where they wanted while Emiel walked backwards into the washroom. He was looking at her trying to find something; she didn't know what he thought to find. There was nothing to see but her drake's grin, and all the warmth of blood right at the surface of her skin. "I'm sure we can think of ways to warm you up after."

This was not a room meant to accommodate two people. It was barely a room meant for one, by Cerise's standards. Even in the dorms. That was hard to mind, given how easy it made it to keep close. She laughed again, making very little attempt to keep either of their bodies out of the way even after Emiel decided to actually look for anything useful.

"If I had known I'd be here, I would have brought my own kit," she commented mildly. Cerise thought a little wistfully of the one she kept in her own room, with all the odds and ends she'd collected in her years of avoiding going to the infirmary unless she had to. Chiefly of the antiseptic, now, and she had just put more bandages in it. But Emiel had bandages of his own and what looked like salve for burns--good enough. That was all they really needed, besides the extra set of hands she had to provide.

Cerise tried to keep her eyes focused only Emiel. He seemed self-conscious about having her here. She wasn't blind; the entire place was a far cry from even the dorms, let alone the Vauquelin house in Uptown. Clean, all of it. Still, it had seen better days--and even then, the best of those days were likely below the worst of what she was used to. But she was more comfortable here than in either of those places, because this was where Em was. Lady that was sentimental--reading that poetry from her father had rotted her mind.

The towel was, in fact, cold--so the water must be colder still. Cerise took it, breaking out into a snorting kind of laugh when Em decided to make it as difficult as possible for her to finish this. Impossible, that's what he was. Well, she could be impossible too. She wrapped her free hand around him so he couldn't escape and pressed a kiss to some undamaged part of him, slow. And another, even slower. The towel in her other hand dripped on the floor as she held it just so, out of the way. Her empty hand moved, roaming to his hip--where she pinched him, hard, and stepped slightly to the side.

"If you don't want me to finish this, I can go back to the school," she warned, the lie there obvious in her voice and her smile. Instead of waiting for any kind of response or acknowledgment, she put that cold, wet towel on the back of his head. She was no more gentle with that than she had been with removing the glass, but she was no less so either. Every so often she stopped to run the towel under the cold bite of the water again, wringing it out and watching it swirl pink-tinted down the drain.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Hells ne—you'd know, I think." Smirked the shirtless creature at such ridiculous accusations, implying their proximity would most certainly have already revealed whether or not he'd completely given up on bathing in his current living situation. He rolled his amber eyes, only for his momentary mockery of being insulted to falter at her much more suggestive follow-up, purring his response just as he squeezed them both through the threshold of his closet-sized washroom, allowing the implication of it all to cover up that twinge of self-consciousness that sank heavily into his otherwise fluttering chest,

"Oes, y'ent wrong there. I'm sure I can think of some things if you can't, but somethin' tells me you have already. Hmm?"

The purple-haired wick couldn't help but chuckle at Cerise's musings, tilting his head to flash her a sternly sarcastic look for the implication that she knew exactly what was going to happen tonight. He chose not to say anything, however, busying himself searching for anything helpful to his injuries while mostly making obvious attempts to be in the dark-haired woman's way at every opportunity. What were there to say, anyway? How could she 've known that McAllister were such a clockin' ersehole?

Did she know an' agree anyway—he couldn't ask. He jus' couldn't.

Even if she had, he were sure she didn't know what he'd thought of her—ne jus' a mere bitch, but a mongrel's bitch.

Emiel's lips twisted into a sneer when he turned away, hopin' it were where she couldn't see, hopefully n'even his reflection in the cracked, permanently foggy mirror. She'd been his once, oes, but ne like that. He'd always known he couldn't keep her, ne matter how much he wanted to, an' he weren't any more a halfbred anythin' than she were as terrible as everyone seemed to think she was. It all still stung, though. The knowin'. The not knowin'. Fresh hurt to old aches.

Once he finally settled against the sink, having surrendered all the medical supplies he had, he reluctantly offered her the cold towel and braced himself for exactly what he knew it would feel like. The shift of his hips was pure mischief, he knew, and he couldn't help but hum some sound of surprise when a delicate hand snaked its way 'round his waist an' warm lips tickled freckled skin. Her fingertips wandered, light and taunting.

Gods, really—

"Shit!"

The unsuspecting creature whined, practically yelping his surprise before he laughed, the sound of it rumbling through the tiny space. Twisting just a little, he leaned quick-like, still grinnin' like a chrove, to kiss her, rough, toothy, an' full of promise that there'd be more. When he let her breathe again, she still had the nerve to threaten him with goin' home and he tsk'd, leanin' his elbows back on the rim of the sink,

"This ent all I want you to finish. Y'ent goin' anywhere, Cerise." He offered with nothin' but honesty, lowerin' his face into his hands to hide his flushed, freckled cheeks as well as to hide how much he winced at the cold towel that begrudgingly mopped at the back of his head. It weren't pleasant and he huffed about it, biting his palm as the galdor cleaned blood and what probably smelled like half the top shelf of the Badger from his neck and shoulders. Through his fingers, he could see pink water disappear down the rusty, stained drain, and he did his best to be still while she worked, reminding himself he was only frustrating himself by being the source of any troublesome delays to the uncomfortable process.

There were a couple of other clean towels in the room to dry himself with when she were done with the water, an' Em jus' gently took the wet one from her after, wringing it out one more time before tossin' it into the tub to be washed—later. Givin' them both a chance to wash their hands before turnin' off the sink, he spoke quietly as if his suggestion were logical and innocent,

"Maybe it's easier if I sit again, eh? For the bandages, ye chen." Ne like he were any taller than her, of course, so much as the space wasn't very generous. Ne like he jus' wanted more of her on his bed so much as it were more comfortable for reachin' what'd been burned. Oes. That were totally it. His hands settled on her hips once he'd straightened from leaning against the sink, fingers curling into fabric, an' if he had every intention of leading her from the confines of his washroom back out into his bedroom, well, he took his damn time 'bout it.

Pausin' there, unconcerned 'bout whether or not her hands were full of bandages an' salve, he figured a few more lingerin' kisses were a fair trade, trappin' her for a moment between the peelin' wallpaper an' his wantin',

"Well, ne jus' for the bandages, but they're a start." He all but giggled, slipping away, one hand tugging her back into the larger, still-chilly room. He knew he'd have to behave for a little while longer, even if he didn't want to, even if it were quite a bit of fun to interrupt too much.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Emiel had laughed, at least, at her suggestion that she could have known how this night would go. Well, more of a chuckle. That was all the statement deserved. Hard to even call it a joke, honestly, weak as it was.

If she'd known she would end up here in Em's closet of a washroom, would she have changed anything? Cerise thought hard, too hard maybe, on the question. She wanted to tell herself no. No, if she had known everything that was going to happen today--yesterday, now--she wouldn't have gone out. She would have seen the Badger and turned away, or if she'd known early enough, she would have refused the invitation. That "no" was a lie.

Oh, she would have changed things. Broken McAllister's straight, haughty nose herself maybe--better the demerit or worse, better to get herself in trouble with the school. Not let him say any of the things he said, to tell him off before he got the chance to hiss that insult directed at her but intended for them both. But, she thought miserably, she couldn't really say she wouldn't have gone, knowing it all had ultimately led her here.

Cerise was looking at Em, and only at him. She caught the edge of the twist of his face as he turned away. She didn't look in the mirror to see the distortion of it there. There was no need.

Whatever guilt she felt? It wasn't enough to keep her away, and it wasn't enough to stop her from indulging herself now that she was here. Her sharp pinch had the desired effect; Em's surprise turned to laughter and Cerise was laughing too. She didn't bother to contain herself now. Her laughter was an almost giddy sound, like she was drunk. Cerise held the towel out with one hand and didn't quiet when he kissed her, rough and quick. Both of their voices bounced off the too-close walls.

She threatened to go back to the school, empty as it was, and he clicked his tongue at her before settling back over the sink. Her hand faltered a little when spoke, face in his hands where she couldn't see it to read what was there. Never even once had Cerise wanted Emiel to be anything than what he was, but just now she wouldn't have said no to a field that gave her a little more to work with. She made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been a laugh or a grunt, and put the biting-cold towel on the back of Emiel's head.

"No," she sighed, like she'd been caught in a great deception, "I'm not." Not until she was finished, or he was. At least he kept that bright violet head still for her while she worked, biting on his hand. Cerise opened her mouth to apologize, only to close it again. There was nothing she could do about the water, and she'd already apologized for the rest of it. Sort of.

This part went more quickly than removing the glass in the first place, at least, Emiel's torment under her hand only temporary. Cerise had every intention of making up for it in short order. The wet towel she had been using was tossed unceremoniously into the tub. Which, really, was as good a place as any.

"Might be. You do tower above me so." Cleaner, more dry, and with only the bandaging left to do, she was happy to spend a little bit of time in between. But only a little. Cerise made an impatient sound into Em's mouth anyway, because her hands were full of medical supplies and not him. That was just unfair. Waiting until she was defenseless, taking advantage. Maybe that was payback for the pinching. She would have to pinch him more often.

Still, she was happy to be led back into the other room. Every time he laughed, she felt her face warm and her heart flutter in response. Sometimes she thought she should have gotten enough of hearing it, or at least used to it, but she never had. It always delighted her like she was hearing it for the first time."I admire your dedication to multi-tasking."

Whether she needed him to sit or not, they both did so. Cerise opened the salve, setting the lid of the jar next to her knees and tucking her still-stocking-covered feet underneath of her. There were little wet bits, from where she had stepped on the water that had dripped of the towel. Thin, pale fingers scooped out some of the salve, spreading it carefully over the red, shining marks. She would keep working, methodical and thorough, and bandage him up at the end.

"Is that what you want?" She asked quietly without meaning to. "For this to finish?" Cerise let her head drop forward, dark curls tumbling after. They both knew she didn't mean her bandaging.

[Emiel Emmerson]

home, the stacks

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"I'm really good at jugglin', ye chen." Emiel all but giggled, quite confident in his dexterity behind the bar and in all the wrong situations, from pilferin' pockets to pickin' locks, from holdin' hands in unoccupied alleys to unfastenin' buttons in the dark. He settled on his bed, clearly unconcerned about the state of his sheets (which weren't dirty; he just didn't see the point in makin' somethin' he'd be messin' up again later), cross-legged an' straight-backed to give her a good view of his now cleaned injuries. He felt something trickle down the back of his neck, unsure if it were a rivulet of water or some ooze of blood from where glass had once been.

The purple-haired wick sat still, hands in his lap curled into his trousers, eyes closed, while Cerise sat behind him, the weight of her field comfortable in its familiar gravity like a well-worn blanket instead of some heavy, oppressive hand because he knew it, not because it wasn't powerful. Truth be told, the salve was quite soothing and he sighed, slumping as he relaxed beneath the work of her hands, which were, this time, a lil' more gentle than they'd been when diggin' for glass.

He moved as needed for her to bandage what were burned by flamin' alcohol as it dribbled down his neck an' upper back, which was, admittedly, such a damn awkward place to be burned, really. Ersehole, that McAllister. Instead of thinkin' on him, however, Em let himself dwell on delicate hands driftin' over his bare skin, amber eyes catchin' Cerise's grey hues whenever he were given a chance to see a glimpse of her face through his mess of hair or through her dark curls.

Eventually her hands slipped away, pressing into the bed as she leaned closer to taunt him. He felt the tickle of her breath before her hair brushed his shoulder an' he sighed, tiltin' his head jus' so to kiss her cheek, to chuckle close to her ear with another brush of teeth. Without lookin' he attempted to move some first aid supplies out of the clockin' way, wet towel, lidded salve, an' whatever else he could reach dumped unceremoniously onto the floor all while he nibbled more light kisses over that flushhed face next to his,

"Oes—well—ne—bandagin' to finish, but only to get other things started." Lips drifted to her neck while he shifted, moving to turn an' face the young woman while on his knees, balancin' by puttin' his hands on her thighs, gatherin' the fabric of her skirts in his fingers. He whispered over the sharp, lovely line of her jaw toward her lips, "It's th'Art Fair, oes? You busy tomorrow or free to stay for breakfast?"

Ne like he gave her a chance to answer, really, as if kissin' that mouth of hers were a more formal invitation, as if lingerin' were some kind of request that required a response in writin' only he had no interest in handin' her paper an' a pen at this moment. His palms dragged upwards once he found a bit of stability, travelin' without any shyness upward to curl into the decorative lapels of her well-tailored coat. Breath hitchin', he leaned away with a rough drag of teeth catchin' her lower lip, grinnin' too close for her to even see,

"It's already late anyway. Or early. Dependin' on your opinion, of course. Either way, I think we both have some catchin' up to do—" Em weren't sure how to say he had no interest in lettin' her go anywhere now that she were here, quite certain if he did, she'd jus' be gone again for the Circle only knew how long—forever maybe, this time? His stomach twisted at the thought while his pulse picked up its tempo in his ears, jus' patient enough to hold her steely gaze while he waited for a response (though his hands were already slidin' that coat from her shoulders without a hint of apology,

"—You said so yourself."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Cerise was more gentle with this than she had been with the glass, making sure to keep her touch light. Some trickle of water, tinged slightly red, slid down the back of his neck when Emiel straightened his back. Cerise ignored it, not willing to stop to grab the towel and wipe it away. It wouldn't hurt anything, as far as she knew.

This was pleasant. That was a terrible thing to think, of course, but it stayed in the privacy of her own head at least. Not the injury; that, of course, she was furious about and would be for quite some time. If not for the whole rest of her life; Cerise Vauquelin could certainly nurse a grudge. The pleasant part, of course, was just sitting here on the mess of linens on Emiel's bed, feeling that straight posture relax underneath the salve-covered touch of her hands. The easy, too-comfortable mingling of mona between the two of them that she had always, always liked.

Em was proving a much better patient, now; Cerise's mouth hooked into a thin and crooked smile. Proper motivation could do wonders, she supposed. She didn't mind at all; she was happy enough playing nurse like this, but there were things she had more interest in that occupied her hands just as well. Still, she was as careful as she knew how to be when finishing the bandaging. It would do neither of them any good if it came undone at any point. Whatever points there were.

Her question had none of the edge she thought it might have; good. She didn't know what she would have done if it had. Died, probably. She was just so tired of asking questions she didn't like the answer to.

Whatever was or wasn't in the question, she liked this answer, kisses on her face, teeth brushed over her ear. A part of her thought to check and see if any of that had spilled on the floor; most of her didn't care, because it had served its purpose and she could replace whatever was ruined. If it needed to be. Honestly, the status of Em's first aid kit was low on her list of priorities right now.

Somehow, she was surprised he remembered the Arts Fair--if she'd thought about it, it would have made sense. The bar would be busy, she thought, full of students with too much free time and professors who wished they could say the same. It wouldn't have mattered if she had classes tomorrow or not, though. If Em asked her, she was free.

He didn't let her answer of course, which Cerise thought was just as well. Anything she could have said in plain Estuan she thought she said better like this, meeting Emiel with enthusiasm and hands drifting over his sides and up the well-formed planes of his chest.

This shouldn't have made her feel so affectionate and soft, all this grinning and Emiel's teeth catching her lip as he pulled away. Taking off her coat without so much as a by-your-leave; he didn't need one, and she couldn't pretend so even in teasing. But it did. As much as had felt patching him up, if not more. Cerise couldn't be kind and she couldn't be gentle, not even when trying, but she could do this much. Maybe that was enough; Em didn't seem to be complaining.

Wriggling out of her jacket and holding Emiel's eyes was difficult to accomplish at the same time, but she did her best. She had waited a year and half, and some besides--she wasn't going to wait a minute longer than that, now that he was bandaged up as well as she could do it. One of her hands came to his face, and she hummed like she was thinking about the answer. She dropped her jacket on the floor and raised her eyebrows.

"It would be inappropriate for me to go home unescorted at this hour," she teased, face warm and mouth curved into a soft smile. "So I think it's better if I stayed, don't you? Propriety," she said quiet into the space between them, before she made sure there wasn't any, "and all that... that sort of thing."

"I've got nowhere I want to be more," she said lightly, easily, like it was nothing. Like her breath didn't catch and her face wasn't flushed and she wasn't making a headstart on the buttons of her blouse. Too godsdamn many of them; if she didn't think Diana would have a fit if she needed to replace another, she might have been tempted to rip them all right off.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

She didn't object to his fingers at the buttons of her coat, not one bit. Permission'd been granted already, an' the dark-haired galdor didn't even seem to want to dredge up a quip or mock an objection for his own benefit. If anything, she relaxed jus' a lil' instead, body losin' some of that tension beneath the movement of his hands once they drifted toward the well-tailored lapels and moved to slip beneath the layers of fabric, grinnin' like a chrove when she let him encourage that outer layer off her shoulders,

"Cerise Vauquelin, talkin' to me 'bout bein' proper? Clockin' hell—" He felt her hands leave his chest with a twinge of disappointment before he realized she were stealin' his fun by reachin' for her own buttons, "—that kinda feels like talkin' dirty. Go on."

Emiel growled, muffling the sound against her palm as he turned his face against it while she finished shrugging off her coat, amber eyes not even following it to the floor, "Ent anywhere else I'd been wishin' to see you, neither, besides here in my bed. But, dze, don't—"

The purple-haired wick chuckled, giving her a button or two more while he kissed her again, quick but purposeful, before he made a gentle attempt to take over. Gold-ringed fingers movin' to make his own quick work of whatever she left him, driftin' from that enjoyable mouth to whisper again in her ear,

"—don't steal all my fun, ye chen." He took his time, clearly not in as much of a hurry as she'd been, enjoyin' the sensation of her pulse against his lips while he traced rough kisses from her ear down her neck, teasin' his way toward the pleasingly strong line of her clavicle before leanin' back to watch what he were doin'. It were obvious he wasn't lookin' 'cause he didn't know what he was doin', aware there were layers to navigate—all of them with some form of godsbedamned fastening, of course, 'cause proper jent fashion jus' couldn't be easy—but instead, he was lookin' 'cause he clockin' well wanted to.

He were grateful she weren't in that godsbedamned green uniform—it were a small favor after all that'd his evening 'd stacked up to be, after all. Ne matter how nice it may've looked on a bunch 'f jent all flocked together like fancy birds when they walked the streets. As much as he'd had a good time figurin' it out all that time ago, he didn't mind a bit more simple work with jus' a few less buttons for all the same rewards. Rewards that were jus' as scandalous then as they were now, an' while there were some of that knowin' excitement that tickled down his spine and pooled too hot in his lap, this all felt like a different kind of appreciation than perhaps he'd recklessly risked so much for in the beginnin'.

Amber eyes, warm like honey on a summer day, glanced up to her face for a lil' hint of a grin, workin' his way toward some further hint of pale skin, aware of what shortcuts he had at his disposal once he made some progress, hardly forgettin' how to get this particular golly on his bed outta her clothes, but clearly disinterested in hurryin', tauntin' the dark-haired galdor with his slow, methodical enjoyment of the entire process, "I ent got nothin' to do tomorrow, neither, so, there's no need to rush—"

Emiel's tone was husky in its wickedness, tongue against his lower lip, pressed jus' so against the gold ring through it, arching a slim brow at the dull thud of somethin' in his common room hitting the floor—gods, hopefully n'all the damn books he'd had—ne'er mind—didn't matter,

"—too much, anyway."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, The Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

What a face he was making, her Em, what a grin as he started to take off her jacket and she let him without a protest. (The possessive slipped into her mind without her notice or intention. A still-broken piece of her twisted when she realized, too deep for any of it to creep onto her sharp face or into the weight of her field.)

A laugh sprang out of her. Talking dirty, was it? Well, he wasn't wrong. She couldn't deny that the way all of this went against what was proper had been a not-insignificant draw at the start. Now? Now, how much did that little thrill of doing something she knew she shouldn't figure in to the whole? Cerise hadn't stopped to think on it much before, content to let their relationship be what it was and not examine it any closer than that. She didn't feel like she had that luxury now, but she didn't feel like she had an answer either.

"How's this: you're properly impossible." While her hand was there on his freckled face, she let herself stroke her thumb softly back and forth once or twice. Remembering, or rediscovering the shape of muscle and bone under his skin. Less, she thought. Not none, she wasn't immune at times like this--but less, much less. She felt his mouth move against the palm of her hand, that gold ring hard where the rest of his face soft, and she thought it was only the smallest piece.

Cerise's thin, impatient fingers had only made it so far before Em moved to replace them. He kissed her while he did it, the absolute chrove, to distract her. And only to do that; he pulled back quickly enough. Cerise caught just the edges of his lip with her teeth. She didn't really mind if he wanted take care of all those buttons; those hands of his had always proved clever before. It was one of his chief positive qualities.

"This is the fun part, is it now? I can always wear something with more of them next time--" Her intake of breath was just that her pulse sped up as Emiel's impossible mouth had made its way down her neck. It had nothing at all to do with her casual implication of a next time.

Yes, that had to be it. She couldn't think of much else when he pulled back to watch the whole process. Like Em hadn't done this enough times to be able to work through those buttons in the dark. Hells, he had on more than one occasion. Sneaking around didn't usually lend itself to proper lighting. Cerise was looking at his looking, and it all went right to the center of her.

Now that Em had taken over the matter of her blouse, Cerise had empty hands. That was intolerable. She put them back on Emiel, starting at his wrists and sliding up. Eager, but if he was taking his time she would too. Something else mingled in with the electric thrill of her anticipation. Something that felt remarkably like nervousness, were that not too ridiculous to contemplate. Although if it weren't too absurd to be true--and it was, entirely--then it was just, well. It had been a long time. If the thrill of all of this wore off too soon, and she wasn't what he wanted anymore--

Stop it. Cerise almost shook her darkly-curled head, cutting off the thought at the root. She was not about to let something like thinking get in her way. Now was only for intent and desire, for action. Like the casting of a spell, shaping her will into something more.

"You do now," she murmured. It was not helping that Em seemed determined to take his sweet clocking time. Cerise made an impatient growl, though she did nothing else to hurry him along. There was no need to rush, that was true. No need but her own, anyway. She heard the sound of something crashing to the floor in the other room. Sish, having finished off the whale long ago no doubt. Cerise, used to the sound of Sish's boredom, ignored it easily.

Just in case Em would have trouble keeping his thoughts on what was important, though, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. The rest of her she pushed a little closer, one hand coming up to run through that dyed purple hair again and the other reaching around to trace the line of his spine. Not quick, not shallow; Cerise was determined to take as much time with this kiss as Em seemed to be with getting through unfastening the dark grey cotton of her shirt. There was space enough between them not to interrupt--but just enough, and no more.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"That's 'bout as close to proper as I want to get in my whole life, ye chen. Now, yourself on th'other hand—" Emiel's grin didn't falter, attention drifting toward his hands as he leaned away from her lovely face, growling in amusement at the catch of her teeth,

"Oes—oes—fun be a pina manna exaggeration, but ne, this is plenty." Huffed the purple-haired wick, half-serious, half clockin' unconcerned. Whatever she wanted to wear, if she wanted him to get her out of it, he'd happily find a way. This were a different sorta challenge than pickin' pockets 'r stealin' notes from some professor's bag—this were workin' while distracted, while delicate hands traced over his freckled skin an' sharp grey eyes watched his every move. He liked it, of course, every second of it, an' it weren't like he didn't know exactly what he were workin' towards an' how much it were worth the trouble.

One dark brow quirked just so, Em toying with the ring through his lip while he reached toward the end of one layer of fastenings, about to wander his hands back upward for the next when Cerise revealed she weren't in a hurry to go anywhere, neither. His bright eyes flashed back up to her face, somethin' misty burnin' at the edges, some kinda sigh hitchin' in his bare chest, "Yeah? Boemo. I can cook an' keep you in bed an' figure out how to keep your lil' winged friend from destroyin' my furniture while we, you know, catch up. Like this—"

He'd moved onto removing more clothing, hands strayin' a lil' on the way back upward, n'even missin' a beat when the dark-haired galdor leaned to kiss him. Invitin' her to linger as long as she'd like with a tilt of his head an' a lil' leanin' of his own, he worked his way down another set of challenges to touchin' pale skin an' once he reached the end, instead of shovin' fabric aside, he shifted how he sat on the bed, jus' enough, while his hands snatched at whatever he could get a scandalously good grip on, hefting her into his lap, quite sure she could figure out what to do with her limbs in the proceess to get herself settled much closer.

"—an' like this."

Em chuckled, mostly against her mouth, accommodatin' as needed but hardly actually accommodatin' at all, muttering softly 'bout how that were much better. Decidin' to indulge that lovely mouth a bit, enjoyin' the way his pulse thrummed faster an' the way heat trickled through his veins far hotter than any good buzz—

Clockin' hell, it were really for the best that he were sober, anyway. Even if the back of his head hurt an' between his shoulders felt so damn tight beneath bandages an' so much burned skin, he were makin' these choices about as clear-headed as he could be, even if he knew he tended to pretty much lose his head 'round Cerise Vauquelin.

Had he been clear-headed for a year an' a half, though? Had he really?

Since Rohan—

Ne.

Since everythin'—

Ne, not at all.

The purple-haired wick sighed through his nose, breath ragged, fingers back on task, no longer takin' his time with that last layer of proper clockin' fashion because all he wanted right at this moment were less cotton an' ribbing an' more smooth, pale skin, less thinkin' 'bout what was or what could be an' more enjoyin' this moment jus' as it were handed to 'em both. Truth be told, Emiel hardly waited for those last few fastenings anyway, drifting with an eager but playful sort of roughness from her lips to her neck, teeth chasing the flutter of her heartbeat, workin' downward with appreciative kisses over the familiar landscape he gladly gave opportunity to reveal once his rather otherwise monotonous task was finally finished. The rest weren't really work, either, even if it were fun to be dramatic every once an' a while.

Ne particular how it all played out from here, whether she wanted to lean back an' spread like a map over his bed for them both to chart a course or whether she wanted to taunt him a bit in totally acceptable fair play from his lap, he didn't much care. There were still some clothes in the way, after all, but maybe he were a lil' over takin' his time with more layers. Maybe.