sundown | for cable (nathan)

[ Her heart thumps in her throat, lips involuntarily tilting toward a smile and abruptly folding at the dour look that meets her. She takes it for displeasure immediately, and spends the rest of the lesson trying to reason with herself it wasn't aimed at her. It's just uncomfortable, after the night they spent together.

But she's acutely aware of how he doesn't acknowledge her at all, his eyes swimming past her in the crowd of faces. Difficult to ignore the growing trepidation in her gut, the slow gather of storm clouds. The sense she's done something wrong.

He's an efficient teacher, doesn't mince words. Something she finds refreshing. The lecture ends early. She lingers afterward, slower to let the rest to disperse. Alone, she picks her way down the steps, stopping to stand a polite distance away.

Clears her throat. ]

I'm -- [ she begins, her voice weak, fingers clutching her bag strap. Much like a chastised child. ] sorry. For disrupting you in the middle of your speech.

Edited 2025-05-04 08:08 (UTC)

[It is extremely difficult to proceed onward, but the only way to stop himself from showing recognition or being flustered is to ignore her.

He can't help notice her lingering, he sees her past the shoulders of a student approaching him with questions. When they leave, he's trying to gather his things as quickly as possible so he can avoid this interaction.

It pains him deeply to hear the tone of her voice, so different from this morning. He knows he's different too, he can't be that person here. He's yanking his jacket on as she speaks, a convenient excuse not to look at her.]

Don't worry about it. [It doesn't sound as reassuring as the words should be.]

I can't stick around. [He hopes that should make it quite clear, that they can't talk here. That he doesn't want to talk here.]

Oh.

[ The inflection turns her stomach inside out and all funny. It feels silly to apologize, and stupid to assume he's angry. She hasn't actually done anything wrong.

She always has been sensitive to changes in tone and demeanor, though, so her smile is awkward and strained. And he still doesn't look at her. ]

I understand. I just thought ... we could talk? [ That's reasonable. She's being perfectly reasonable. Right?

She shouldn't have to qualify it, but she does. ] About -- [ Searching for what to say, how to define what transpired between them, but none of it feels sufficient or appropriate. ]

About us? [ It lands like a bull in a china room. ]

[He becomes increasingly aware that looking at her is the worst thing he can do, which means he absolutely needs to force himself to do it.

He meets her eyes, trying to make sure it's a completely neutral expression. Neither besotted like last night or full of any misplaced irritation, just blank. He's always been absolutely terrible at this, so he's got no experience or natural instincts to fall back on. When he talks, it's just out of panic.]

There's nothing to talk about. It was nice, now it's done. [Even the admission that it was nice feels like he's toeing lines he shouldn't.]

If you want to drop the class, do it. [He ducks his head as he moves to pass by her.]

I need to go.

[ Francesca doesn't cry, despite her eyes stinging with categorical rejection.

She doesn't drop the class either.

Initially, she very nearly does. But though quiet and retiring, if she's anything, it is stubborn. Pure obstinance keeps her seated in his class, though she does nothing to call attention upon herself. There's a very simple purpose to it. If he's apathetic toward her -- virtually all men are the same, Eloise tells her, because they're "chauvinist pigs that think a woman is loose as soon as she fucks him", then it won't inconvenience him.

But, if on the offhand it bothers him to any degree to have to see her several times a week, he just has to deal with that discomfort. And she does think it irritates him; he so rarely makes eye contact with her over the duration of the semester.

( Her own discomfort means little to her. The feeling of being ridiculed compels her to do her very best to pass with flying colors. She's aware it's a dumb ambition, but it's about as spiteful as she has ever been. )

Finals come and go. When she hands over the last paper, their fingers graze each other. She can't temper the curl of her lip any more than he could control his displeasure to see she was his student. There are no goodbyes spared. And it's the last time she hopes to see Nathan Summers in more than passing. ]

[The guilt of that interaction lingers for a long time. Makes him even more aloof, because he feels like a fuck-up. But he also feels he did the right thing. At least for her. This isn't the kind of thing she wants marring her reputation.

He's confident that she'll move on, so it surprises him that she stays in the class. He's not sure if she's stubborn or just fucking with him, because he doubts that she likes the class that much.

It certainly makes it harder for him, because he aches to look at her when his eyes pass by her. He relishes reading her assignments, like they're communicating somehow. She's smart, she earns good marks and the good feedback he gives her.

When he catches glimpses of her at school, he feels sick. He feels irritated when she sees her with the young men, even if they're peers and even if this is what he wanted for her. There's at least one moment when their eyes linger on one another when he's leaning on his truck, smoking because it's a bad habit he picks up when he's stressed.

He doesn't see her around town because he doesn't go out anymore. Work to home, home to work. Sometimes he sees her walking and fantasises about rolling to a stop and calling her into an embrace, but he never does. He just feels sick, he goes to sleep thinking about her, he dreams about being tangled around her and fucking her until she cries and he comes to school and pretends she doesn't exist.

It's on a particular day of overwhelm that he feels inclined to relieve tension. Terribly inappropriate at work, but he woke up thinking about finishing on her chest and today her shirt shows just enough of her elegant collarbone and pale chest that it gets him excited. More so when their fingers brush together as she turns in her paper, even though he doesn't look up at her.

But he's alone. And it's getting late. He's not expecting students, his colleagues rarely drop in unannounced. He leans back in his chair, frowning at his desk with her paper in front of him.]

[ She had it all plotted out that she would just never be in Nathan's close vicinity again. Made a mental map of campus and how to avoid him. Certainly not alone in a room with him.

Of course she'd leave her scarf in the classroom. In the middle of winter. She grinds her teeth, seriously considering just foregoing it altogether -- only it's freezing, and her sister had given her that scarf. It's her favorite. She doesn't want somebody else to snatch it up over winter break.

So she finds herself at the classroom door, hoping he's already left, only to discover he hasn't. Of course. That's her luck. The light is on, and the door is -- locked.

Cursing herself, she stalls and argues with herself before knocking. ]

[It seems like the perfect crime. The doors are locked, most people don't have classes this late in the day. It's raining, so most people are home and curled up somewhere warm.

As Nathan takes in his surroundings, he notes the scarf on his desk. Turned in by someone else. He hadn't thought of it until now-- but it's hers. And he hesitates briefly before his resvolve weakens and he reaches for it. He strokes the soft fabric in his hand and brings it closer to his face. It smells like her hair and perfume and her skin and it brings him right back to that night, burying his face in her hair and sliding in and out of her.

He can't have her in reality, but there's nothing wrong with the fantasy of it in his view. His hand slides down to unbuckle himself, unzipping himself and palming himself. He imagines having her on his lap and bouncing on his cock and he starts to slowly stroke himself. Then there's a knock, and it sucks all the air out of his lungs. He goes soft almost immediately from sheer embarrassment, but he still looks flustered as he dresses himself and grabs for his coat and bag so he can just get the fuck out (and hold them in front of himself, just incase).

The door flies open and he looks extremely vexed by Francesca's presence. He's still holding her scarf and he's completely silent.]

[ Francesca notes several things. The door swinging violently open. The color in his face. Her cashmere scarf, hanging limply from his hand.

She's peeved, too. She'd recently come down with a head cold; the medicine from the chemist is fading fast. She had only come to class to get through this final exam. What she wants is to be home, bundled up with some earl grey.

They haven't spoken a single word to each other in how many weeks now? Months. She knows the sound of his voice, but she wouldn't be surprised if he didn't remember hers. The radio silence they've agreed upon ends now.

With accusation in her voice, arms crossed in front of her: ]

That's mine.

[The heart sore feeling he gets when he sees her fades quickly, replaced with a baffled feeling and furrowed brows.]

I didn't think it was mine. [It's not his colour.

He frowns at her crossed arms, because it's extremely childish but so endearing. God he wants to kiss those upturned lips. Instead, he thrusts the scarf at her.]

Go on. Save me a trip to the lost and found.

[ God.

She is so through with this... this attitude. She doesn't feel well enough to deal with it, his total lack of decency toward her. She reaches for the scarf. Unfortunately, she can't keep her mouth shut, her pink nose flaring. ]

What is your problem?

[Oh, this is not a conversation he wants to have here. His jaw tenses at the question, glancing around to make sure they're alone. They're never really alone, though. Always someone just around the corner.]

I don't have a problem. [Calmly, contrasting her demeanour but not in a good way. He presses the scarf into her hand until she takes it. The brush of their hands and the close proximity makes him hesitate. When he looks at her, it's hard to hide the ache in his eyes. But he's trying.]

I'm not having this conversation here.

[He says finally, pulling back to focus on locking his classroom.]

[ The brush of skin to skin is a heavy stone dropped in her stomach. She physically recoils, can't make sense of the look in his eyes, but she understands. He's made it clear since the start. It's not a conversation worth having in the first place. She's tired of wanting an answer.

She never mattered at all. A drop in the bucket. Whatever happened between them a garden grown, nourished, and turned barren within hours.

She swallows, hard, hates that her fatigue makes her eyes shine and burn with the sudden desire to cry. A loathsome moment of weakness. With whatever is left of her dignity, she draws herself up. ]

Goodbye, Nathan. [ And she leaves. ]

[Presumably she recoils because she's disgusted with him, which she should be. It would make it a lot easier to move on from this one night stand that has consumed weeks of their lives.

It's hard to get her voice and her face out of his head when he gets in his truck. It's also hard not to bang his head on the steering wheel and call himself stupid. But it's raining hard and it's projected to roll into a nasty storm, so he needs to get moving.

It doesn't take long to catch up to her. She is very identifiable-- and very wet. Battling against the strong wind whipping her hair against her face. On a pleasant day, her home is still a decent hike from the university. On a day like this, it's brutal. He keeps driving, gripping the steering wheel and trying to force the sympathy from him. Stop thinking about the fact that she was flushed and sniffling in class and that her hands were already cold.

He can't.

He turns the truck around, driving slowly along the road until he finds her again. He honks at her, pushing down the passenger window to call out to her. Loud enough to carry over the rain and wind.]

Get in, I'll give you a lift.

[ The cold is seemingly endless.

It's sheer willpower, maybe feverish delirium, that keeps Francesca on her feet. Putting one foot in front of the other while the rain beats down on her and the wind wants to bowl her over.

She spots the lights first, buttery orange in the distance, coming her way. For a moment, it's salvation. Before she sees who is inside the truck.

She was furious when she left campus, but now she's just in survival mode, can't waste energy stores on him. When hell freezes over, maybe she'll take his offer. Until then, she continues to walk.

His truck comes to match her pace. She sends him a look that is equal parts withering and distrustful. ]

Go. Away.

[Well. He should have expected that reaction, though he is impressed by her stubbornness. He keeps rolling alongside her, a little annoyed by the rain blowing in through the open window.]

You don't have to talk to me.

[He offers. Luckily his years in service have given him a loud voice that carries over noise.]

Don't be childish, Francesca. Just get in the fucking car.

[ She stops alongside the truck door, driving at a crawl, and snaps her chin over to glare at him. It's not very effective. The rain continues to pour down without mercy, lashing her face -- lending her all the ferocity of a lost and very wet puppy dog.

It is not like her to be hateful, nor reckless. Those traits were saved for other Bridgertons. She doesn't work off impulses. Were she less feverish, she might have listened. ]

You don't get to tell me what to do. I'm not your fucking "girl."

[Nate's jaw clenches yet again when she snaps back at him. He should take the fucking hint and drive away. He knows he'd never forgive himself for it, though. Neither would she. Not that it should matter.

He pulls up and parks his truck, practically bursting out of his side and slamming the door behind him as he marches toward her. Now they're both sad, soggy souls glaring at one another.]

Could you not make life difficult for me? For once? [His voice comes as a frustrated growl, though he's trying not to be a dick and yell at her. Now that he's closer, he can see how pale she is and how cold her extremeties look. She looks unsteady, not just from the wind.

At this moment, he makes an executive decision and closes in. He hauls her up, half on his shoulder, striding back toward his truck so he can throw open the door and seat her in the passenger seat. Closing the door after her, he jogs around and slides into his own seat.]

Just let me do this. Please.

[His voice softens now that they're in the truck. He turns the heat up, pulling a blanket from the back and foisting it upon her.]

[ In spite of how sick she is, she squares up to continue their argument when he whips around the truck.

But he beats her to the punch line. It happens very quickly: being grabbed and hoisted up, arms and legs flailing, then strapped into his truck like a small child. At first, Francesca is too shocked to react immediately. And then she's simply too woozy to effectively fight him on this, though her fingers locate the seatbelt in a sluggish attempt.

In the warmth of the cabin, she looks as bad as she feels: a greyish tinge to her complexion, clammy with a heat she can't feel. She's just so cold. Her body, wracked with shivers, her hair clinging to her face, her clothes soaked through.

She says nothing. Talking requires energy. All of hers has been spent defying him.

Where they're going, she eventually realizes cannot be her flat. The rain worsens, hitting the windows in sleets, the world outside a blur. It feels like they've been driving for hours, maybe the entire night, though that can't be right. Her body has sagged against the window and door of the passenger side, barely conscious, when the truck comes rumbling to a stop, the ignition turniing off. Her eyes don't open. ]

Edited 2025-05-05 00:09 (UTC)

[Somewhere between putting her in the truck and watching her fade in and out from the corner of his eye, Nate decides to bring her home. He doesn't know exactly which flat is hers or where her key is. What if she has roommates? What if she lives with people from the University?

His house feels safer. He can run up his own heating bill and, more importantly, he can keep an eye on her.

Increasingly worried, he's gentle as he scoops her up and walks her up the stairs and inside his home. He kicks off his boots, coming to the couch to rest her on it while he stokes a fire. As it builds, he checks intermittently on her. When it's consistently providing heat, she regains his full attention. Seated on the floor in front of her, he brushes her wet hair aside.]

Francesca. [He tests her, seeing if she'll rouse.]

You need to change out of those clothes. [He suggests, though he's committed to doing it himself if he has to. He just has to hope she won't hold it against him.]

[ She's dead weight in his arms, closer to road kill than person. The motions of being carried stir her to life, only just. She doesn't recognize her surroundings, whether it's hospital or a doctor's office or wherever.

She fades rapidly in and out of consciousness while he builds a fire. The shivering doesn't cease. Her limbs barely move, her eyes feel like they can't stay open when he calls on her to wake.

Her damp cheek leans into that simple touch, craving what comfort it'll provide, whether it's from him or not. Especially from him. She's too sick to remember she's mad at him. It wouldn't matter if she did; he's caring for her and she's in no position to deny it. ]

I don't want to. [ Not that she could. ]

[Nate grunts in response, aware enough that she's unwell so he doesn't rise to it.]

You're gonna have to, kid.

[He brushes his hand over her forehead, it's hot. She's definitely feverish and he needs to make sure she's warm.]

I'll be back. [He rises, striding to his bedroom and selects an outfit that should be appropriate for her (a shirt and trackpants with a drawstring). He quickly sheds his wet clothing and shrugs on a dry outfit before he pads out and drops in front of her again.

Starting with her shoes, he carefully unfastens and removes them and peels off the socks. He draws her closer to support her as he sheds her coat. He hesitates, grumbling to himself before hooking his hands around the waistband of her leggings and pulling them down her legs. It's an all too familiar movement, followed by her sweater coming up over her head. It's hard not to notice the way her nipples peek through her damp bra and recall how much he's thought about putting his mouth on them-- and her whole body-- since that night. He dresses her efficiently, discarding her wet clothes and the damp blanket so he can bundle her in something warmer.

And then, finally, he slides her headband off so he can start to dry her hair as best he can with a towel and his hands.]

[ Francesca is not much help in the removal of her clothes, but she makes what amounts to an attempt. The matter of being naked in front of him feels less embarrassing when she's physically unable to stop quivering, the cold in her very bones. He removes the layers methodically, bundles her, and then she's being hefted up into his arms again. Dimly recognizes he's trying to warm her as she's sat in his lap, directly in front of the fire.

The flames leap and crackle. Her eyes droop watching it, her head tucked under his chin. A memory unlocked by the smell of him.

It was raining the day they met, too.

The irony of it seems funny, summons a huff of a laugh from between her blue lips, against his throat. Her face is slick with sweat already. A perfectly wrong time to ask, but her rational thoughts have given way to the unreasonable. ]

Why do you hate me?

[Despite the circumstances, it's difficult not to enjoy the weight of her in his lap and against his chest. It's hard to pretend he hasn't craved this kind of intimacy with her from the moment they locked eyes. He knows it's a fleeting thing, a stupid thing, but it's fucking killing him.

He's hopeful that she'll drift off and get some rest. Once he's settled her and warmed her up, he can work on getting her hydrated and medicated. His hand unconsciously rubs slow circles on her back, aware of how cold she feels through his shirt.

She laughs and he grunts, frowning at the question. He brushes her damp hair aside, but it's hard to look at her face.]

I don't. [That's the problem. He can't resist leaning in, pressing his lips against her forehead.]

I'm too old for you. And you're too sick to talk about it.

[ Her feverish brain can't compute any of this. The implication, the kiss against her damp forehead, the movement of his hands. She lifts her face to meet his eyes. This close, her own are more green than hazel, cloudy with sickness and confusion and, beneath it all, dimensions of hurt. ]

I don't understand you.

[ That's the problem. She doesn't understand what she did, how he could possibly think so little of her, but at least painting him into the corner of being an asshole had become easy. Easier than whatever this is. ]

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