sundown | for cable (nathan)

[ 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.]

[ This is uncomfortable. Francesca trains her eyes on the floor at his feet, watching him pad closer, into her space.

He pulls her into him and her breath leaves her in one exhale, her face tilting upward, all the denied affection surging out and up --

Coming to, she pulls free, backing into the countertop, clutching the lip of it. Not rejection, but uncertainty. Her throat moves with a swallow. ]

Why? [ Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are confronting. No anger has survived the past 48 hours, but she is guarded. Things have happened. So many. ] What are you sorry for?

For pushing you away.

[Which barely covers it, but they've got nothing but time to talk about it. He looks down at her and his gaze is soft, wanting and anxious.]

For making you think I could ever hate you.

[He adds. It feels a little cheesy, but the emphasis is warranted. He gently reaches past her to move the pan off the burner. Last thing he wants to do is ruin her breakfast. When it returns, he cups her face but doesn't yet kiss her. He hasn't earned it.]

I was worried about you. Worried about losing you.

[ She's quiet, doesn't resist the contact, her insides aching like a squeeze around her heart. So many emotions run amok her face, but he looks -- he looks so sad and weary, that she's compelled to comfort him. ]

I'm okay. [ Her fingers lift, pausing before they cover his own. They're warm, not frigid as they were when he first carried her in. Everything is so hazy, she remembers things in snatches. ] See? Alive.

[The squeeze draws a small smile from him, feeling his breath catch when he tries to speak.]

I.. [Love you. Love her. Jesus. He's in love with her. He's fucking hopeless.]

I don't want to burn your breakfast. [Said with all the warmth and affection of what he really wants to say.

He turns them so they can face the stove together, passing her cooking utensil back to her.]

And you look a lot better in that shirt than I do.

[ His smile makes her feel like she's been deprived of a basic human need. She catches her mouth in the beginnings of mirroring him. Catches that he was about to say something else, something unspoken. Heavy in the air.

He turns them, her back bumping against his chest. Heat comes off of him in waves, swivels in her stomach, altering the easy pattern of her breathing.

She's very aware of how close he is. That she is allowing it, attempting very! hard! to focus on the task before her. She asks for this and that as she works, her pulse jolting when his hand brushes hers or takes over stirring. ]

Well, it's not ramen, but ... [ Jokingly -- her detective work had her stumble upon a hoard in the pantry. Possibly a bad joke, but she offers the spoon to him to try, very professionally and not at all desperate for his approval. ]

It's an easy meal when you're grading a hundred papers. [He defends himself lazily, distracted by her. His hand curls around her, spanning his fingers over her stomach.]

And it's nice. [He murmurs against her neck. She smells more like him now, which still manages to excite him. He feels like he's melting into the moment, like whatever barrier he's held up has burst and he's just spilling into her. He doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed. It feels warm. It feels safe.

He leans over to taste the food, offering a sincere sound of approval.]

Better than ramen.

[ His hands encircle her entire waist and middle easily. She hadn't noticed it then. She does now, and the revelation feeds the desire working its way through her.

She noticeably warms to have won his favor. Between that and his breath cascading down her neck, the warmth in her cunt breaches. Would have soiled her underwear -- if she was wearing any.

Her body twitches, unable to stay still now that she's growing more and more anticipatory, waiting, lubricating in full expectation. ]

It's shakshuka, [ she explains, and the thought she's put into this comes spilling out. ] I thought maybe, perhaps you would recognize it. You said you were a veteran, and ... [ God, it sounds so overboard. ]

[The gesture warms him so much, it's difficult to articulate. His arm tightens around her and he hums against her neck. Tentatively, he presses his lips to her skin and breathes against it.

His fingers skim against the waistband of her pants. Well. His pants. The only reason they're staying up is because the drawstring is pulled tight and the curve of her hips fills them, but they're sitting low on her. Tempting him.]

I missed you. [He says finally. It feels terribly vulnerable, but right to say. He's also aware that he's firming up against the curve of her ass, but she's so close to his body he wonders if that's what she wants. He remembers the sounds she made in her sleep, the same he's heard from her before. It's all very alluring.]

[ The moment, electrified, turns when he says that. She sets the bamboo spoon down and turns in the circle of his arms, vulnerable and hopeful.

Until this moment, they've been dancing. Her fingers slip across his arms, up to sit on his chest. She fists his shirt, her voice stained with months' worth of sadness. ]

I missed you, too.

[Although aware it wasn't a clean break between them, Nate can't help but be baffled by her. It's not like he can deny that he wasn't so utterly charmed by her that he's been insane since they kissed. But for her to be this caught up over him? He struggles to make himself believe it.

But it's hard to deny it when she looks at him like that. And he hears it in her voice. All the ache between them, the pain of letting her go again feels harder to bear than any scrutiny about their relationship.

His arms tighten around her when she turns against his chest. He cups her face, turning her chin upward so he can kiss her deeply. He hums into it like he's sinking into a hot bath, as if he can feel the relief washing over him. His fingers thread into her hair, kissing her like he doesn't care if they ever breathe again.]

[ She doesn't care either, but eventally her lungs burn, forcing her to pull back. Taking sips of air, her forehead resting against his. A small smile smooths over her lips, a knot of tension released.

She cannot voice what emotions claw at her chest when she thinks of him -- the burning obsession, the ache that she realizes has sat in her stomach until this moment -- but she tries to communicate it. Through her eyes, her fingers, her lips when she turns his hand over to drop kisses over his fingertips, his palm, his pulse. There are faded scars on his hands and arms, a life's story of them, callouses on his palms. She nuzzles like she's known no safer place.

Then, she flips: kittenish licks, sucking on his pulse point. ]

[Nate huffs out a confused sound, almost a chuckle. He's utterly baffled by the obsession but equally, completely drawn to her in the same way. Under her lips, his heart is racing, skin pulsing.

He draw his arms around her, lifting her and setting her on the counter behind them. He crowds in on her, kissing her neck with long, lingering presses of his lips.]

I haven't been with anyone. Since you. Couldn't stop thinking about you.

[His admissions are breathless. It's unusual for him to be so candid and vulnerable, but she just draws it out.]

And it fucking killed me-- knowing you were right there.

[ He picks her up with ease and she settles there on the countertop, one hand in the linen of his shirt, the other coiled in the dark web of his hair. Her head tipped back, submitting to the path of his mouth. It drives her crazy to hear of his abstinence, the words pulsing between her legs. ]

What did you think of?

[ She leans forward, tugging him upward to chase4 his mouth, just as breathless as he is. His sweatpants are slung low on her hips, they could easily be pulled off with a motion of his hands, and his shirt is too big, falling over one shoulder. ]

Show me?

I thought of making you stay after class.

[He murmurs, setting his hands on her waist and turning her gently. He bends her over the counter, grinding his hips against her.]

Bending you over my desk. Pushing your skirt up. Fucking you.

[This stuff is relatively easy to admit, though a little shameful. His hands slide under the draping fabric of his shirt, squeezing her breasts.]

Every time you wore something that showed off your figure-- something short, low-cut-- thought it was for me.

[He presses his erection firmly against her, deliberately grinding her so that her cunt rubs against the counter through his pants.]

Then I'd think about fucking your tight, little pussy again while I jerked myself off.

[ He pins her to the kitchen counter, pushes her half-down. Her breaths come short and shallow the more he speaks, the longer he grinds. ]

O-oh.

[ She bites her breath, hips rolling back. He's hard enough to fuck her already. She goes a little crazy realizing that, her cunt drooling. Shakily, her fingers dip to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over her shoulders and head, her nipples pointed and her stomach rippling with every intake of breath. ]

I thought about you, too. But I thought -- I thought you didn't want me. So I didn't ...

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