sundown | for cable (nathan)

[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. ]

I know. [He readily admits this, murmuring against her forehead. He's deliberately difficult to understand, which he feels guilty for.]

Stop trying to. [He suggests, gently. Like it's friendly advice and not him trying to keep that barrier between them. He could talk at length about the reasons why he's doing what he's doing, but he's confident it would not be comprehensible to her in this state. He meets her eyes, brushing his fingers affectionately over her cheekbones. Comforting her even if he knows it's confusing. His eyes are hazel too, but they're darkened by a furrowed brow and hard to read.]

Close your eyes.

[ She does. It's easy to do, easier than trying to figure him out. Tremendously, undeniably easy, his heat and the fire stealing into her, letting her borrow it.

At some point, she falls asleep and is moved from one place to the other. Her dreams are frenetic things she half-remembers in the light of day -- nightmares, mostly, but there's another, more pleasurable, more intense. The backseat, his cock dragging through the lips of her wet cunt, the truck swaying as he fucks her until she says his name. She won't remember it at first.

She wakes in an unfamiliar room, dimly lit and sparingly decorated, wide open spaces, two of its walls floor to ceiling glass. It's dark outside, nobody there to greet her. Slowly, at her bladder's insisting, she finds herself on her feet, legs unsteady, the wood floors cool beneath her feet. One of them has a sock on, the other is bare, kicked off in the middle of the night.

She makes her way through the bedroom to an adjacent door, feeling like a thief in the night, poking her nose where she shouldn't when she pees and washes her hands in his sink. Taking in little details: the brand of toothpaste he uses, how neatly everything is arranged.

When she creeps down the stairs, she's quiet as a mouse. ]

[When she falls asleep, he finds himself dozing with her on the floor for a little while. When he rouses, she's warmed up enough that he feels okay with picking her up and moving her to his bed. His intention is to deposit her and leave, but she clutches and whines and his resolve is already so weak.

He lies with her for a long time, but opts to move when he starts to hear soft, enticing sounds. Feels too personal, even if he's already stayed long enough to hear his name.

Intermittently, he checks in on her. Waking her for soup, for medication, for tea. She seems utterly checked out each time, but he sits and waits for her to fall back asleep each time.

She finds him on the couch, under a mess of blankets with Smokey the cat atop him. He looks bedraggled and obliterated, he hasn't been asleep terribly long. Her clothes are cleaned, dried and neatly folded on the coffee table.

He hasn't woken up, but Smokey eyes her curiously. Like he's caught her doing something she shouldn't be.]

[ Francesca remains quiet, her default setting, and especially now. Stealing across the landing, down the stairs, finding him laying out across the couch.

She thinks of waking him. Stands close by, her fingers clenching and unclenching.

Ultimately, opts against it. Tries her phone, worried about her mother, but the signal is nonexistent and it dies soon after. Sits by herself in the corner, listening to his heavy breathing, trying to process the events of the last few days. Eventually she picks her way into his kitchen, through the fridge and pantry, snooping out of pure curiosity. She puts together that he's either an extreme example of a loner, or a doomsdayer, when she catalogues the stock of canned goods and how far they are away from civilization. His home is seated on the edge of a lake. Everywhere she looks there's only water and trees.

It's peaceful.

Smokey comes to visit her, or rather oversee, seated on the kitchen island as she chops vegetables and lights the stove. The look is accusing. ]

Don't look at me like that.

[That she makes it as far as she does is a testament to how tired he is. He's normally a light sleeper, but it takes him a long time to realise the ambient noise he hears is because someone else is in the house.

As he gathers his bearings, he realises it must be Francesca pottering around. He hesitates, feeling shy all of a sudden about what feels like a dramatic kidnapping.

When he rounds the corner, he looks terribly dishevelled (not unlike he did when they woke up together). He scoops Smokey up with one arm despite his protests, glancing down at him.]

Like what?

[He turns his attention to her, looking strangely comfortable in his home and his clothes. Like she belongs right where she is, as if he should be kissing her on the cheek.]

You look better.

[ Francesca looks somehow surprised to see him awake, though she shouldn't be. It's his house. He looks exhausted, his hair unkempt, shirt wrinkled. She doesn't answer him on the first, just looks down at her hands on the counter and nods. ]

I feel better.

[ Her voice is soft, painfully aware of the circumstances of how she got here, though her memories in the junction between are hazy. She assumes she embarrassed herself. She feels embarrassed and terribly shy now.

Dressed in his clothes, in his kitchen, touching his things, she feels very much like a trespassor. Like she owes an explanation for her presence outside of the bed she was quarantined in. Her throat clears. ]

I was just... [ Starts, stops. A hand gestures to the pan. She finishes lamely: ] Making breakfast. [ For him. She shifts her weight uncomfortably. ]

[Nate loiters, feeling like he needs to restrain himself a little. He's glad to see her looking well, but also glad to see the way her body looks in his clothes and how at home she looks in his kitchen.

He sets Smokey down, traipsing closer with the intention of asking to help. He doesn't get the words out, instead he circles an arm around her waist and brings her in against his chest. His head leans down so their foreheads bump together, eyes falling shut as his arm squeezes tighter.]

I'm sorry.

[His fingers reach up, brushing her hair aside. He wants to kiss her, but he's visibly holding back.]

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