[She startles for a moment, her shoulders tightening, her pale brows drawing together in a state of distress, giving a little anxious cough. The sharpness of his cursing ruins the slow, rhythmic cadence of his voice, even as much as it is layered in compliments and flattery. That sort of language reminds her, far too uncomfortably, of brutal men and the inevitable violence they bring.
She smiles all the same, but her good humor is somewhat spoiled, her fingers even possibly betraying a slight tremble as she takes a long breath from her cigarette. To say that her enjoyment of the entire evening hinges on his one curse would be an exaggeration, however, it does not brighten her image of him any further.]
Thank you.
[There is a decided edge of false politeness to her tone, a light wariness, clearing her throat with distinct uncertainty as to how to proceed—whether he will realize his blunder, or whether he will continue on blithely, as a true drunkard would. The curtains are very heavy, thick velvet and entirely opaque, and it is just barely too hot in their little booth. She fumbles, crossing one leg over the other, and when her thigh brushes against his knee beneath the table, it is entirely accidental.]
[He realizes it, of course he does, because though he may be the type of person to blunder himself into uncomfortable situations, he's not completely incapable of recognizing them. He's had enough experience speaking to people who find swearing and casual speech in general to be unpleasant, to be unprofessional, and when he really needs to, he can clean it up. Apparently, this seems to be one of those times.]
Sorry. Guess I could've phrased that a little nicer.
[It's not hard to see the uncomfortableness on her face, the way her brow furrows for a moment, which is a no less beautiful expression than the other expressions she's made, in the time they've been speaking, but which he's still unhappy to have caused to occur. He always seems to be putting himself into this position, one which requires an apology and an attempt to shape up, and the worst part is, he does it completely unintentionally.
When her leg brushes against his, though, he can't help but let the smile come back. Hers isn't an intentional touch, of course it isn't, but when he moves his own leg a little, brushing his knee against her thigh in a feigned attempt to shift positions, there's nothing accidental about it.]
[She exhales on a wavering, high note, more of a breathless cry than any resemblance to a laugh, a sound of relief and bleak irony at the ridiculousness of the situation, at herself for becoming so easily upset, at him for doing his best to remedy the sour turn of speech. She shakes her head, with none of the wild hysteria he may have been anticipating, and accepts his apology without further fuss, already terribly embarrassed by her own girlish turn of emotions, from laughter to tears and back again.]
We've both had some to drink.
[She offers, some feeble explanation to excuse both of their behaviors, realizing the earnesty in his face even through the light veil of smoke. After all, she has her vices just as he, and she too has spoken things better left unsaid, or even voiced thoughts she had instantly regretted: teasing remarks taken too far, or quiet comments infused with an unthinkable sense of bitterness. To consider him unforgivable or beyond redemption because of a thoughtless comment would be the most unkind thing of all.
After all, all he had been trying to do was offer her a kindness.
Her worries quieted, she attempts to settle back into her comfortable seating arrangement, but the sudden brush of heat—the moment of contact, the heavy pinstripe of his trousers against the fragile lace of her skirt—makes her think better of it, and she remains where she is. Never mind how the accidental touch catches her breath in her throat, feeling as silly as a schoolgirl, for fussing over how her legs are crossed or not.]
[But can he really blame the fact that they've been drinking on what
he decides he wants to do next? Truth be told, he'd probably shouldn't
prolong the contact between their legs, and he certainly shouldn't lean
forward a little, putting one of his hands on top of hers, but when's he
ever been too good about doing what he's supposed to?
Until she pulls her leg or her hand away, then, they're touching in
several places. He knows it could just as easily be seen as too forward,
just as easily get him slapped as result in another one of those charming
blushes of hers. But he's still doing it.]
I still meant what I said, even if I didn't say it too well.
[Is any of this a good idea? Probably not. But alcohol makes him
bold -- bolder, in his case.]
[Once again, his hand covers hers—there is almost something tender, loving about the gesture—and she hears a quality about his tone that she cannot place: whether it's meant to be apologetic, or seductive, or some combination of the two, she cannot deny his brazen confidence. Dimly, the realization strikes her that the firm press of his knee is intentional, but—what is there to do about it? She cannot push him, or shove him away, or deliver a smart slap any more than he could stop being tempted by her.
She could pretend she hasn't noticed, the possibility presents itself to her. She could blithely continue on with their clumsy attempts at conversation, to act as if she has never felt the warmth of his palm and the battered, rough skin of his pale knuckles. She could carry on the modest charade that she has never thought of admiring the masculine shape of his frame and the solid weight of muscle belied by crisp suits and silver silk ties. If she did, it would certainly cause less fuss. If she didn't, she might upset him awfully, or worst of all—ignite a flicker of some brooding temper, an unknown violence in his blood, which could be directed towards her, if she refuses him.
And—and it has been ages, since she's been touched with any sort of genuine sweetness, with something more than lust or the impersonal pragmatism of her spouse. She trembles in her hesitancy, her gaze darting anxiously between him and the gap in the drapery, the sound of stampeding footsteps and boisterous laughter not a mere few feet away, only the thin velvet curtain protecting their modesty—
She takes a shaky, shuddering breath, as if strengthening her resolve:]
Mr. Darmody, I—
[The curtains burst apart, and in her surprise, she presses against his side in the way that intimate sweethearts would, dropping her cigarette onto the polished table, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve in a moment of terrified incomprehension.
But it is only another drunken couple, looking blithely for their own booth: the man slurs an apology, leading a giggling woman on his arm away. The curtains are yanked shut again, her heart racing in her throat, her cigarette still smoldering feebly on the table. She does not disentangle herself immediately, her fragile frame still seized stiff from the shock of it all—but eventually, gently, she attempts to slide away, to put a comfortable distance between them.]
I'm married, Mr. Darmody.
[She says in a small voice, as if ashamed of her confession. And there is no reason, none whatsoever, for her heart to ache when she says this. As if anticipating his next bold remark, she continues on:]
It doesn't matter if I love him— [If she loves him—it had never meant to slip out, but there it is, her honeyed voice sharp and bitter with unkind honesty.] I'm his wife.
[It doesn't quite sound like a rejection, though. Not quite.]
[He startles a little, too, when the drunken couple bursts through
their curtain, interrupting their moment of... what? He can't quite call it
intimacy, though he obviously intends to push it in that direction, if
she's so inclined. It can't properly be described as tranquility, either,
because although he's pleasantly slowed and addled from the alcohol, he
still feels a certain delight when he looks at her, completely
inexplicable; he can't put words to it, all he knows is that he very much
likes the feeling of her soft, delicate hand below his.
And then she's speaking, and saying that, and he may be
drunk, but he's not so drunk that he doesn't hear the 'if' in that
statement, the implication that perhaps she doesn't love her husband, and
there's the fact that her husband is nowhere to be found, here, has left
her alone... But he won't insult her husband again. What little good sense
he has is enough to caution against that.]
I know.
[Does he need to mention that he's married, too? Is it relevant? He
wears a simple ring, after all, but he'd rather not go into it. He'd rather
not describe all the ways that that marriage isn't what he'd imagined,
isn't even what his wife had wanted, and...
Well. That's a road he doesn't need to go down, not when he's been drinking
and could so easily get morose. Instead, he'll say what's on his
mind.]
I just keep thinkin' about what kissin' you would be like.
[He leans forward further, like he really intends to try it, and in
framing it that way, he has tried to, at least, sidestep the issue of
marriage and responsibility entirely.]
[That flusters her most of all, when he speaks so boldly like that, ashamed and the color bright in her cheeks, a flush of red creeping down her exposed throat, their knees brushing together and the handsome, boyish youth of his face drawing closer to hers. She cannot even manage to shake her head, not this close, her lips parting and opening to silently protest, her breathing shallow, the nails of one hand leaving the stinging imprint of red crescents into the peach-soft flesh of her palm. The tension within her is threatening to overwhelm her, and she thinks of consequences, of the shame this will bring, but her heart feels as if it's going to burst—]
Please—
[Her voice is barely more audible than a whisper, plaintive and pleading, shivering from the summer heat of his flesh. She looks as desperate as any deprived lover: lightly sweating, breathing in thin, ragged gulps of smoky air, her eyes glassy with the feverish beginnings of panicked excitement.]
Please, don't—
[He leans in and her lashes flutter close, on the precipice. Don't stop, or don't go any further? She is caught between yearning and wanting something, but is she wanting for distance or closure? She doesn't love him—in the short span of an hour, or even less, that she has known him in the sweltering embers of afternoon, a woman cannot fall in love. But aren't there true accounts of love at first sight? No—what this is, it feels much less clearer than love, a product of it, or perhaps an imitation, a feeling much more potent and thunderous and obscured. He overwhelms her, and he shocks her—yet he also flatters her, and he is kind to her, in his own rugged way, and—oh, she doesn't know what to think!]
[Don't what? He truly doesn't intend to proceed if she wants him to stop. He's not the type of man, no matter how little of a gentleman he may proclaim himself to be, to force his attentions on anyone who doesn't want them. But -- and is he just fooling himself into thinking this, aided by his inebriation? -- her "don't" sounds almost... Well, it sounds almost like she wants something from him, something she may not be quite willing to admit.
One kiss then. Just one. How can it hurt? If she's scandalized, if she shoves him away or shouts at him or even slaps him and tells him to leave immediately, he won't be surprised. He holds out hope, of course, because he always does, no matter how ridiculous that hope may be, that she'll reciprocate, that she'll melt into the kiss instead of rebuffing it.
There's only one way to find out.
He finally closes the distance between them, and cups her chin in one hand, gently, firmly, then tilts her face up towards his and presses his lips against hers. It's a deep kiss, an intimate one, nothing that could be mistaken for fumbling, awkward, or platonic, but there's nothing demanding about it, either. If one kiss is all he gets, then he wants to make the most of it before she makes him leave.]
[She's trembling, she's exposed, as vulnerable as a bride on her wedding night, her nerves jittering just as badly as when the white lace hem and layers of ivory chiffon had fallen away. Watching him draw nearer from beneath her lashes, she thinks he might just be teasing, a cruel attempt at heartbreak, but then he takes her by her shaking chin, and—
If there is anything she is assured of, is that he is purely genuine when he meant to kiss her. If there is anything in the world that can incite the hopeless romance in her, tainted from cynicism over the years, is a gesture with good intentions and nothing but love—and it must be love, or at least affection—behind it. His kiss is not as innocent as hers, not at all like the faltering touch of her lips, but is just as bold and forward as the rest of his demeanor. For how much she feared he would turn violent, his lips remain firmly closed against hers, but no less passionate.
He told her of his intentions, but she is surprised all the same by the taste the whiskey and smoke on him, motionless against him. Perhaps he might take her lack of protest as encouragement—and she should protest, after all, she is a married woman. She could catch his skin between her teeth, or scream, anything rather than allowing him to ravish her mouth, the tension in her rising in a crescendo, torn between action and submission.
She chooses the latter, meekly accepting the kiss, not quite ready to reciprocate without coaxing. Her hand stirs on her lap, her fingers straining for a moment, as if reaching for some phantom of the past—but the moment passes, and her hand traces the angle of his jaw, the warmth of her fingers barely ghosting along his face. It is not quite a caress, but yet another abandoned attempt at protesting, a gesture of half tenderness and half frantic confusion. Her eyes are wet, and finally, at last—she parts her lips for him, exhaling on a bittersweet, breathless sound akin to a cry.]
[It's almost surprising to him, almost, when she doesn't pull away, when she gives in and lets him kiss her, when she doesn't slap him or shove him or scream at him or do anything that indicates that she's completely appalled by his action, by the way he insinuates himself into her space and heightens their intimacy exponentially. He had been prepared to be rebuffed, and the fact that he isn't -- though he can't necessarily say that she's as enthusiastic as he is -- comes as a surprise. A pleasant one, but a surprise, nonetheless.
So it takes him a moment of consideration, a moment where his lips are pressed to hers, where her hand is barely pressed against his jaw (he can feel her fingers, just a little, and they provide a pleasant sensation, a feeling he'd like to feel more of) and his fingers are still cupped underneath her chin. His lips are pressed against hers, and his brain is working as quickly as it can, trying to determine whether he should keep going, whether she'll let him, whether it's far too opportunistic to just keep kissing her...
But, of course, it's his desire for hedonistic pleasure that wins out; that, and the little breathless noise she makes, the one that he can't quite tell the meaning of, but knows that he appreciates, nevertheless. And that's what keeps him kissing her, that's what keeps him leaning closer, seeking out as much closeness as he can, taking full advantage of the moment before she thinks better of all of this, before she tells him to go away for good.
He's always pushed his limits just a little too far. It only remains to be seen how far he can push them tonight.]
[This is not the sort of polite, chaste kiss exchanged between shy beaus, not even the kind of electric ecstasy of new lovers, but something wholly foreign to her—the wet, dark warmth his tongue pressing between her parted lips is sinfully wicked, raw and visceral, and it gives her a shiver. There is the distant clatter of her empty glass, tipped over by the jostling of the table when his weight, lean with muscle, and his hands, hardened with calluses from a sort of terrible labor, press heavily over her, covering her shuddering, quaking body as if she is coming apart at the seams, and she needs him to hold her together.
What this is, she can sweeten it with as many desperate fantasies of love at first sight or hidden adoration as much as she would like, but it still remains an act of plain infidelity. Whorish behavior, her husband would sneer after too many New York Sours, and worse still, she is not immediately overwhelmed by a grevious sense of guilt—not when she is star-struck and lying passive beneath a stranger, a man she is inexplicably and infinitely charmed by, and he is treating her not like another gleaming silver award to polish for guests, or like an object of violence. Her treats her unlike any other suitor has, unlike any other man has, at all—and a rather tender memory, one of her soldier and wartime lover, rises to the forefront of her mind. He is not as brutish as Tom, but neither is he the traditional romantic as her very first lover had been—God only knows where he could be now.
But, morbid thought aside, she cannot dwell on the past when the present is so insistent, stealing the breath from her, leaving her gasping into his lips. This kiss, blurring the boundaries of flirtation and true intimacy, is morally reprehensible by every matrimonial law—and it will all be risked for naught, it he doesn't truly care for her. Does he care for her? Certainly, he cares for the comfort of her flesh, the temptation of feminine curves, but for her heart, for more than a pretty face? They haven't known each other for very long, at all. Perhaps she is just a conquest to him, a temporary concubine—and the thought is such a miserable one, her physical relief tinged with such bitterness that her pale cheeks are streaked with tears. He is pushing her past what she believes she can accept, but whether she believes it or not, she still has not refused him.]
[This is good, this is better than he'd hoped for, and the fact that she's not turning him away means more to him than he can possibly articulate -- not that he's articulating much of anything at the moment, not with her pressed close like this, underneath him and so soft and yielding.
There's a moment where that's all it is, a blissfully perfect kiss, something that he's been looking for for a long time and never quite been able to find, or maybe he's just never been satisfied with anything because he's always looking for something better, always trying to convince himself that there's someone perfect out there, someone who will love him just as much as he loves them... Those thoughts come back to his mind, even when he tries to block them out, even when he's running a hand down Daisy's face, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body and of her lips, and...
His fingers find something on her cheeks that isn't just the delicate skin, that isn't just the curve of her cheekbone. Those are tears, aren't they? And he's not the type of man to ignore tears, not when they can have so much meaning, not when they're being shed at a moment like this, which should be only pleasurable, not painful. He draws back, for a moment, meeting her eyes with his own intent, deep blue stare.]
What is it?
[And there, maybe, is some romance in his tone. There, maybe, is something soft, almost adoring. It's not the tone of someone who is here simply opportunistically. If listened to just the right way, it could almost sound like love, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? There's no way he could fall in love with someone so fast. And yet... He's been known to believe he has before.]
[The wet sound of their kiss parting is enough for her to come back to herself, her heart skipping in her throat, speeding like an uncontrollable locomotive with his face so near to her own, still leaning heavily over her. Hot tears spill over, her breath catching a little when he meets her gaze so directly, humiliated to death that her face is smeared with tears, during what is supposed to be a heartfelt moment.]
It's just—
[She attempts a smile, but the weak effort is ruined by her bottom lip trembling: a telltale sign of being close to bursting into tears. How can she explain, without sounding like a petty child? How could he ever know, that she is frightened, awfully frightened, of being nothing more than a scarlet woman to him? The things she wants from him—love, devotion, protection—are all impossible dreams, which he couldn't possibly provide for her, a girl he just met, after all. Worst of all, what if this union is little more than temptation and impulse, a hollow carnality, borne from out of the haze of liquor and cigarettes? Surely it is, or so sound logic would claim: she is fragile and lonely, and he is just sating a physical hunger.
But, when he touches her so carefully, his moment of wild abandon replaced by utmost tenderness—when he speaks with such sweetness, feeling concern (which he is neither obligated nor pressured to feel, and indeed, many men would not even bother with asking) over her wretched state, she thinks that, perhaps, she might be seeing the best of him. And that, for however much her jaded heart tries to warn her otherwise, he cares for her.
She dares to hope it may be true.]
Just—
[And if he does care for her, how far is she willing to let him carry on their taboo coupling? Another kiss? A secret rendezvous, after tonight? An entire affair, conducted in secret? To the bedroom of a hotel? She is shocked at her own audacious thoughts, giving a little startle. She wouldn't even entertain such scandalous thoughts if these were usual circumstances, if she hadn't already drank a fair amount!
But he is certainly not usual, is he? Not if he has already enchanted her, not if this is blossoming into something deeper than a fanciful whim.]
[He sounds legitimately surprised, maybe even a little concerned, because the tears on her eyelashes are so obvious, because the way her lip is trembling worries him. It's not her embarrassment he's thinking of, nor her humiliation, though if he were thinking more clearly, he might realize, of course, that she'd feel uncomfortable about being so emotional in front of someone she barely knows -- all he cares about is making sure she feels alright, making sure that this hasn't somehow upset her in a way he can't quite understand.
And yet, he's still surprised by what she says, because...]
You should be kissed like that.
[There's firm assurance in his voice, the kind that can only come from stating something very honestly. If her husband doesn't kiss her that way, he thinks, then her husband must be very stupid, or very unpleasant, or both. Of course, he's already suspected that, considering that her husband is nowhere to be found -- or maybe he's just trying to make himself feel better by making her conveniently missing husband into the villain.]
You should be kissed like that all the time. But maybe not in a place like this.
[It's the smoothest segue he can think of, the best way he can suggest without outright suggesting that they go somewhere else. He'd like to, but he's not sure she would. He knows -- can tell, just by looking at her, by the way her face looks -- that she's still conflicted.]
[She is both embarrassed and privately delighted by his assurance, taking a sort of pleasure in how he speaks with such utter sincerity, as if every word he says is more than the truth, but law. All of her lingering hesitation cannot doubt how plainly he states his beliefs, even if in a slightly unrefined manner—and she knows, by the honest ring in his voice, that he is tempting her for more than just his own sake.
The whiteness of her face, blotched pink and shining wet from her silent crying, dips slightly at his invitation, considering it for a long moment. Literally, he is offering nothing more than another place to go, where they can steal away for an hour or two, and kiss like proper lovers. Literally, that is all he is suggesting. But the undertone to his words is plain as day, even to her delicate sensibilities. Is it very possible, to make love without being in love—? Of course not, or so says the romance novels and radio serials, and so she would like to believe. But then, wouldn't that mean that Tom falls in love at least once an hour, from how many beguiling glances he has made at dancers and bell-girls and waitresses of all sorts?
Not that he is necessarily asking for any kind of physicality—at least, nothing beyond a kiss or two. Her imagination is simply running away with her, spurred on by the sudden engagement between the two of them. A kiss in somewhere private is not criminal, she justifies—at the very least, she takes comfort in knowing Tom was the first hypocrite, who first broke their wedding vows, and then broke her fractured heart. Her gaze drifts upwards, as if upstairs, her husband was listening to their conversation at that very minute. He would never know: he would be preoccupied with his sports-talk for at least until the end of the evening. She would be gone and return before she was ever missed—if he ever missed her at all.
Just for an hour or two.]
A—all right. Just a short little arrangement.
[There is a hitch in her voice, reaching for a cloth napkin to wipe at her cheeks. It's not going to be the sort of ghastly, loveless union one would read about in the "primitive" tabloids—his intentions for her are pure, and noble, and honest and above all, loving. She has herself half-convinced of that—but only by half.]
[It's a simple little word, but the happiness on his face is almost childlike, for a moment. He is genuinely delighted, completely pleased, and, yes, a little surprised, but only a little. He can hear that slight hesitation in her voice, certainly, but she's telling him yes, saying that 'just a short little arrangement' will be fine, maybe will be more than fine (it certainly will be, in his own mind) and that's enough, for the moment.]
Okay.
[He stands up, maybe a little unsteadily, already thinking of where they'll go, already ruling out hotels where he knows far too many people, places he might run into someone he does business with. It's not, necessarily, that he'd be ashamed of being seen with another woman -- because, frankly, he's been seen doing far worse things than having a romantic, drunken rendezvous with someone not his wife -- but he doesn't think Daisy would like it, wouldn't like them to be taken notice of.
All the same, as he brushes aside the curtains, he does offer her his arm. If it's possible to be at all chivalrous about this, considering what they're heading off to do, he'll try to make it so. The unsteadiness caused by his drunkenness isn't exactly a great combination with his already unsteady gait from his limp, but maybe she won't mind.
He'll just lead the way, then. He'll let that confidence -- cockiness? -- keep speaking for him.]
[She clings to his arm strongly, keeping her face lowered like an shamed and scorned harlot, physically drawing back at the sudden burst of sound and noise as they take their first shaking steps upon the world outside of their isolated booth. She almost whimpers at the clash of cymbals from the band, but her voice is drowned out by the brass taps of trumpets and the husky voice of a singer beneath the spotlight. Between the different colors of suited gentlemen and their own female companions on their arms, she and him slip between the dancers with ease, parting smoothly through the crowd.
It is already night, when they emerge from the dazzling lights and heady atmosphere of decadent merrymaking. Outside the club, a seaside breeze stirs the lace hem of her dress up around her stockinged knees, and she pushes it down with an indignant hand. There is no need to ask where they will go, not when he knows the city with obvious familiarity. Along the way, there are jewelry sellers and street florists and barkers for amusement park attractions, and as he guides her through the festival of activity, it is almost as if they are a proper couple.
The hotel he singled out is a mere few blocks down, with lavender wallpaper and silver accents (chosen for the lavish decorations purely for her benefit) and bellboys who ask no questions when unlocking the door to their suite. The interior is just as lavish and possesses as romantic an atmosphere as the rest of the hotel, an anonymous room where anyone at all could be seeking refuge. To the ignorant guest, they could be just a honeymooning pair, or a long married twosome celebrating a special event—not a man and his girl who had just barely met hours ago.
Looking at the streak of moonlight falling across the bed, it strikes her that he may be just toying with intimacy. She thought she had been assured when he first kissed her, when he showed enough control to be gentlemanly about her worries, but with the reality of the rented room and the heavy key upon the nightstand, she is seized with doubt. What proof has she that he loves her—and it has to be love, the pure, genuine article, or else she would not do this for anything else—or is there nothing to convince her but her own fervent imaginings? Is she so desperate for his adoration that she has conjured it from nothing more than a kiss and polite question?]
—James.
[She speaks his name very softly, and it's the first time it has touched her lips tonight.]
Are you in love with me?
[She punctuates the question with a bittersweet wisp of a smile, as if asking in good humor. He may feel inclined to lie to her, but the question still stands to be asked, spoken in too honest and too somber of a tone to be taken as any sort of jest. If the answer is no—she has received the truth, cruel as it is. If the answer is yes—
[It doesn't require a great deal of coordination to lead her to the hotel, not when he knows exactly how to get there, when he's been there before -- but of course, he won't tell her that, she doesn't need to know the details of any other experiences he's had like this. Better for both of them to pretend that it's special, and, if he concentrates on it long enough, it does feel that way.
Maybe it's just a certain sense of hopeless romance that makes him believe it, a sense that he shouldn't have, not after all these years, not after all the things he's seen, but that he oddly clings to all the same, but there is something about it that feels...
Right? Romantic? Affectionate, certainly. Fraught with sexual tension, certainly; he'd be crazy to think it wasn't, especially with what he's intending to do here, what they're both here to do. But there's something else to it, too, something that feels... right. Comfortable. And, yes, maybe a little loving.
So when she turns to him and asks that question, when he looks around the room and sees the beautiful decorations, the bed, the way the moonlight is coming in through the window, he just has to smile, mirroring that bittersweet expression on her face unintentionally.]
Not yet. But y'know, I think I could be. I really think I could be.
[And in this moment, it feels true. So of course he has to draw her close for another kiss.]
[She tries to pretend she doesn't feel the slight breaking of her heart, when she hears his reply. Of—of course, she should have known better, and deep down, her battered and beaten heart knew better, that love cannot capture a man within just an hour or so—but her little girlish dreams of a fairytale ending and a mysterious stranger whisking her away had prevailed over that cynical thought. But, still, she clings to the silver outlining of his brutally honest reply.
Not yet, but he could come to love her—perhaps he just isn't sure. Protests stir in her mind, but they are silenced by the intoxicated haze of desire, the feverish desperation, almost a physical ache, to believe that he could love, in time. And if—if she meets his kiss, perhaps she could help him communicate his muddled thoughts.
She yields to another one of his overwhelming kisses with only a murmur, and if she had been in her right mind, she would never have surrendered with such simplicity. But she is not in her mind, and maybe it is the shimmering of the moon, or the odd sense of nostalgia which seems to cling to him, or the pale violet walls which color her mind with thoughts of a maddening sort, the urgency to know his mind, to make this night somehow right. The rhythm of her pulse at her wrist is beginning to pound with a fierce intensity, her heart still feeling heavy, but for the first time, she unskillfully tries to return his passion with her own small, sweet kisses, bashful and innocent.]
[He would have liked to tell her that he did love her, because he truly does feel like something like love could come out of this, at least temporary love, which can be very valuable in it of itself, but he also didn't want to lie to her. She deserves better than that -- he's only known her for an hour or so, and he knows that. She shouldn't have anybody lie to her. She should have the truth, hard as it may be to swallow.
And he likes to think that telling her he could love her is worth something. Something small, something relatively meaningless, in the big scheme of things, perhaps, but something, nevertheless. He knows that, given enough time, it wouldn't be hard to fall for her at all. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, because that's...
Well, is it ridiculous? Hasn't he thought he's felt it before?
He shouldn't dwell on it. Instead, he's kissing her fervently, moving her back a little, nudging her towards the bed. His movements are gentle, but firm, his intention clear -- at least, in his own mind. He knows why they're here, and, to his knowledge, so does she. She responds to his kiss sweetly, not particularly passionately, but then, it would be hard to match him for passion, when it comes right down to it.]
[He steps forward and she moves back with him, her heels clacking loudly against the polished floorboards, walking a little uncertainly, even with his guidance. The strong drinks are to blame as she stumbles slightly, her hands reaching to clutch at the cuffs of his sleeves for support. He is holding her patiently, but there is something definite about his movements, a deliberation in his behavior...
The quivering back of her knees brush against the silk edge of the bedding, and she breaks the kiss, breathing heavier than she would like, betraying how much his touch exhilarates her. All it would take is a slight forward nod, and they would be entwined again, but she struggles to settle the anxious quiver in her hands, the graceless lack of control over her balance. She looks over her shoulder, down to the bed, pristine sheets folded back and cushions arranged, pale quilts soft against her skin. A moment of horrible incomprehension passes over her, struggling, grasping fruitlessly for the connection between him and the bed.]
Oh—
[Thunderously, the realization bursts upon her and all its sordid implications. For how bold he has been, she should have realized the blazing hints, and even through the strong daze of champagne, she feels as if a veil of naïvety has been torn aside, and now she can see things clearly. An unpleasant, almost frightened sound escapes her, high and wavering in a wordless cry.
She no longer looks mournful, but distressed to the deepest degree: her face pale and a faint frown lining her pretty mouth. Her hands are snatched back from his wrists, wringing together as if, by rubbing the tender white skin of her palms raw, she could grasp at some purer essence of the answer she has stumbled upon. Her fears of just being a companion for his bed are rushing in like black water, if he thinks of her consisting of nothing more than sweet flesh to warm him, just a mistress to be sated for the night, like any one of her husband's nameless harem.
And when she finds the breath to speak again, she sounds very brittle, her voice very tiny and hurt. To think, she had he thought, he might have—]
You can hardly make love to someone if—if you don't love them.
[Her confusion and her sudden realization strike him as somewhere between oddly sweet and oddly sad, but no matter how he slices it, it's utterly incomprehensible. What had she thought they'd come here for? Had that been why she'd asked whether he loved her? Had she really thought they could love each other after so short of a period of time? He hadn't been lying when he'd said that he thought, given enough time, he could, because he can already feel that affection for her, something that goes beyond just sex, but...
She sounds so distressed, not as though she's feigning her upset, not as though she's teasing him, but as though she's really, truly horrified. And the way she draws her hands away from him, the burrow on her brow and the downturn to her lips, that all sums up something akin to... disappointment? Fear?
Her voice strikes him as almost heartbreaking, and he wants to comfort her, but he's not quite sure how.]
I thought we wanted the same thing.
[Because he'd really thought, when he'd brought her here, that they'd been on the same page. That, although she was somewhat shy, somewhat timid, somewhat naive, she had the same basic idea of what coming to a hotel like this meant, of what his kisses had meant. Apparently, he'd been wrong.
Still, he doesn't step away, not entirely. Instead, his hand reaches out to stroke her cheek again, and this time, he makes sure to keep the touch affectionate but not heated, gentle but not at all passionate. All it could be described as is, truly, 'romantic.' Maybe even 'loving,' if that's what someone wants to read into it.]
I don't wanna hurt you. I only wanna make you happy.
[That's true, too, but what will make each of them happy might be very different things, it seems.]
[She manages to utter a strangled sob, which she unsuccessfully tries to disguise as a laugh, finding bitter humor at her own foolishness, so desperate to believe that there could be anything other than physical temptation in his intentions.
Hurt her? Never did she think he would hurt her, never did she fear the blow of his fists or the power of his rages incited by alcohol, otherwise, she would not have come. Surely, he must know that? He must know, even now, that she does not detest him? He has hardly tricked her, not when she was so willingly fooled, and her despairing regret is only because she should have realized sooner. Her vague first impression had been correct, after all, but she had dismissed it as only her imagination running wild, a perversion brought about by devilish elixir. If she had known that she was wanted, but only for the services of her flesh, would she have come along so willingly?
Maybe she would have.
Because, presently, she can't bear to see the hurt flitting across his expression, making the soft angles of his handsome face look oddly vulnerable. She hears the anguish in his voice, the boyish confusion, and feels just as guilty for wounding him, in a sense. She cannot stifle the pangs of sympathy for him, any more than she can stop the delirious attraction which draws her inescapably towards him.
She can feel him frame her face with such delicate care, far more purer than the heated press of his hands from before, and she can imagine how simply she could surrender to him. The way he looks at her, how he treats her like a fragile glass which could shatter, is the very opposite of his feverish lust which had lured her in. It is a very convincing imitation of love—daresay, indistinguishable from the real thing.]
Did you mean it?
[When he said he could love her, that is. Even the smallest of chances is more merciful than absolute deception. It is a shallow comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It seems like they were under opposite impressions before, but ultimately—what they both want is intimacy of a sort. Love, attraction, infatuation, lust—what-ever it may be, it has undoubtedly possessed the both of them, and she takes a tense step closer, her hands still folded over her heart.]
[He looks almost offended -- no, that's not the right word, because it's not offense on his face, but something very like hurt, something somewhat similar to her own expression, truthfully -- that she'd even suggest that he didn't. All the same, he can see why she's asking: a guy getting a woman in a position like this, having the audacity to be so forward with her in a relatively public place, then taking her back to a secluded hotel room... of course it would seem as though the only thing he wanted was her body, and that he'd say anything to get it.]
'n y'know, if I just wanted...
[Well, he doesn't really need to finish that sentence. He doesn't want to make reference to anyone else, at the moment, and he doesn't particularly need to say that if the only thing he'd wanted was someone to fulfill some fleeting lust with, it would be perfectly easy to find plenty of willing women at Babette's. It would sound too much like bragging, and there's no reason to call up the spectre of other prospects simply to convince her that he'd been honest in saying he could love her. It would cheapen it, somehow.
It's one of those rare, rare times when he knows how to hold his tongue.]
I do think I could love you. I think it'd be awfully easy.
[It's a conscious effort not to swear around her, it really is, not to say what he really wants to say, which is that it'd be so goddamned easy for him to fall in love with her that he's half-convinced he's doing it already, but he remembers how she'd responded to that kind of language, and so he tries to hold himself back from letting it out. It's harder than it should be.
The fact that she's stepping closer is reassuring. That means he can wrap an arm around her again, doesn't it? That means he can pull her close for another kiss, a slow one, testing the waters more than anything else, finding out if she'll rebuff him now, after all of this confusion, after she realized that they might not be on the same page at all.]
[It's still not what she wants, still not what she wishes he could say, but it's the best he can give her. And in these circumstances—if he were any other man, she almost knows instinctively—no other suitor would have immediately put an end to his advances when she refused. Another man could have simply not bothered at all to listen to her confusion, assuming she was playing at being coy. Another man would not have listened to her maddeningly contradictory words, and he positively would not have answered her ridiculous, romantic notions with as much kindness as he had. Although he has no reason to—although he could have just taken his pleasure before hers—is he not doing his best to comfort her, as a lover should?
This kiss is slower, sweeter, the sort of kiss which is the stuff of dreams, fairy tales and fiction. It is the first one they have exchanged tonight which is not a frantic race for completion or a tangle of confusion passion, tender and careful. One she can, at long last, relax into, the tension in her delicate frame gradually being undone. His hand curled around her waist supports her, it doesn't trap her or keep her caged within his reach, and with his lips on hers, being held in his arms, it feels like there is more to be attained tonight than just plain intercourse.
It feels like they can make love—even fall in love.
Tentatively, her hands fall away from where they are clasped, reaching blindly out to smooth along the lapels of his suit, dark pinstripes which appear black in the long shadows of the room. From there, they settle around his shoulders, and there is no unspoken tension or efforts to restrain himself in his frame, at least that she can feel. Is this good for him too? Is this enough for him, at least for this moment? Or does he want more than the chaste pace of kissing, the elaborate coaxing, the almost virginal shyness she possesses?]
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She smiles all the same, but her good humor is somewhat spoiled, her fingers even possibly betraying a slight tremble as she takes a long breath from her cigarette. To say that her enjoyment of the entire evening hinges on his one curse would be an exaggeration, however, it does not brighten her image of him any further.]
Thank you.
[There is a decided edge of false politeness to her tone, a light wariness, clearing her throat with distinct uncertainty as to how to proceed—whether he will realize his blunder, or whether he will continue on blithely, as a true drunkard would. The curtains are very heavy, thick velvet and entirely opaque, and it is just barely too hot in their little booth. She fumbles, crossing one leg over the other, and when her thigh brushes against his knee beneath the table, it is entirely accidental.]
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Sorry. Guess I could've phrased that a little nicer.
[It's not hard to see the uncomfortableness on her face, the way her brow furrows for a moment, which is a no less beautiful expression than the other expressions she's made, in the time they've been speaking, but which he's still unhappy to have caused to occur. He always seems to be putting himself into this position, one which requires an apology and an attempt to shape up, and the worst part is, he does it completely unintentionally.
When her leg brushes against his, though, he can't help but let the smile come back. Hers isn't an intentional touch, of course it isn't, but when he moves his own leg a little, brushing his knee against her thigh in a feigned attempt to shift positions, there's nothing accidental about it.]
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We've both had some to drink.
[She offers, some feeble explanation to excuse both of their behaviors, realizing the earnesty in his face even through the light veil of smoke. After all, she has her vices just as he, and she too has spoken things better left unsaid, or even voiced thoughts she had instantly regretted: teasing remarks taken too far, or quiet comments infused with an unthinkable sense of bitterness. To consider him unforgivable or beyond redemption because of a thoughtless comment would be the most unkind thing of all.
After all, all he had been trying to do was offer her a kindness.
Her worries quieted, she attempts to settle back into her comfortable seating arrangement, but the sudden brush of heat—the moment of contact, the heavy pinstripe of his trousers against the fragile lace of her skirt—makes her think better of it, and she remains where she is. Never mind how the accidental touch catches her breath in her throat, feeling as silly as a schoolgirl, for fussing over how her legs are crossed or not.]
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Yeah, we have.
[But can he really blame the fact that they've been drinking on what he decides he wants to do next? Truth be told, he'd probably shouldn't prolong the contact between their legs, and he certainly shouldn't lean forward a little, putting one of his hands on top of hers, but when's he ever been too good about doing what he's supposed to?
Until she pulls her leg or her hand away, then, they're touching in several places. He knows it could just as easily be seen as too forward, just as easily get him slapped as result in another one of those charming blushes of hers. But he's still doing it.]
I still meant what I said, even if I didn't say it too well.
[Is any of this a good idea? Probably not. But alcohol makes him bold -- bolder, in his case.]
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She could pretend she hasn't noticed, the possibility presents itself to her. She could blithely continue on with their clumsy attempts at conversation, to act as if she has never felt the warmth of his palm and the battered, rough skin of his pale knuckles. She could carry on the modest charade that she has never thought of admiring the masculine shape of his frame and the solid weight of muscle belied by crisp suits and silver silk ties. If she did, it would certainly cause less fuss. If she didn't, she might upset him awfully, or worst of all—ignite a flicker of some brooding temper, an unknown violence in his blood, which could be directed towards her, if she refuses him.
And—and it has been ages, since she's been touched with any sort of genuine sweetness, with something more than lust or the impersonal pragmatism of her spouse. She trembles in her hesitancy, her gaze darting anxiously between him and the gap in the drapery, the sound of stampeding footsteps and boisterous laughter not a mere few feet away, only the thin velvet curtain protecting their modesty—
She takes a shaky, shuddering breath, as if strengthening her resolve:]
Mr. Darmody, I—
[The curtains burst apart, and in her surprise, she presses against his side in the way that intimate sweethearts would, dropping her cigarette onto the polished table, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve in a moment of terrified incomprehension.
But it is only another drunken couple, looking blithely for their own booth: the man slurs an apology, leading a giggling woman on his arm away. The curtains are yanked shut again, her heart racing in her throat, her cigarette still smoldering feebly on the table. She does not disentangle herself immediately, her fragile frame still seized stiff from the shock of it all—but eventually, gently, she attempts to slide away, to put a comfortable distance between them.]
I'm married, Mr. Darmody.
[She says in a small voice, as if ashamed of her confession. And there is no reason, none whatsoever, for her heart to ache when she says this. As if anticipating his next bold remark, she continues on:]
It doesn't matter if I love him— [If she loves him—it had never meant to slip out, but there it is, her honeyed voice sharp and bitter with unkind honesty.] I'm his wife.
[It doesn't quite sound like a rejection, though. Not quite.]
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[He startles a little, too, when the drunken couple bursts through their curtain, interrupting their moment of... what? He can't quite call it intimacy, though he obviously intends to push it in that direction, if she's so inclined. It can't properly be described as tranquility, either, because although he's pleasantly slowed and addled from the alcohol, he still feels a certain delight when he looks at her, completely inexplicable; he can't put words to it, all he knows is that he very much likes the feeling of her soft, delicate hand below his.
And then she's speaking, and saying that, and he may be drunk, but he's not so drunk that he doesn't hear the 'if' in that statement, the implication that perhaps she doesn't love her husband, and there's the fact that her husband is nowhere to be found, here, has left her alone... But he won't insult her husband again. What little good sense he has is enough to caution against that.]
I know.
[Does he need to mention that he's married, too? Is it relevant? He wears a simple ring, after all, but he'd rather not go into it. He'd rather not describe all the ways that that marriage isn't what he'd imagined, isn't even what his wife had wanted, and...
Well. That's a road he doesn't need to go down, not when he's been drinking and could so easily get morose. Instead, he'll say what's on his mind.]
I just keep thinkin' about what kissin' you would be like.
[He leans forward further, like he really intends to try it, and in framing it that way, he has tried to, at least, sidestep the issue of marriage and responsibility entirely.]
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Please—
[Her voice is barely more audible than a whisper, plaintive and pleading, shivering from the summer heat of his flesh. She looks as desperate as any deprived lover: lightly sweating, breathing in thin, ragged gulps of smoky air, her eyes glassy with the feverish beginnings of panicked excitement.]
Please, don't—
[He leans in and her lashes flutter close, on the precipice. Don't stop, or don't go any further? She is caught between yearning and wanting something, but is she wanting for distance or closure? She doesn't love him—in the short span of an hour, or even less, that she has known him in the sweltering embers of afternoon, a woman cannot fall in love. But aren't there true accounts of love at first sight? No—what this is, it feels much less clearer than love, a product of it, or perhaps an imitation, a feeling much more potent and thunderous and obscured. He overwhelms her, and he shocks her—yet he also flatters her, and he is kind to her, in his own rugged way, and—oh, she doesn't know what to think!]
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One kiss then. Just one. How can it hurt? If she's scandalized, if she shoves him away or shouts at him or even slaps him and tells him to leave immediately, he won't be surprised. He holds out hope, of course, because he always does, no matter how ridiculous that hope may be, that she'll reciprocate, that she'll melt into the kiss instead of rebuffing it.
There's only one way to find out.
He finally closes the distance between them, and cups her chin in one hand, gently, firmly, then tilts her face up towards his and presses his lips against hers. It's a deep kiss, an intimate one, nothing that could be mistaken for fumbling, awkward, or platonic, but there's nothing demanding about it, either. If one kiss is all he gets, then he wants to make the most of it before she makes him leave.]
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If there is anything she is assured of, is that he is purely genuine when he meant to kiss her. If there is anything in the world that can incite the hopeless romance in her, tainted from cynicism over the years, is a gesture with good intentions and nothing but love—and it must be love, or at least affection—behind it. His kiss is not as innocent as hers, not at all like the faltering touch of her lips, but is just as bold and forward as the rest of his demeanor. For how much she feared he would turn violent, his lips remain firmly closed against hers, but no less passionate.
He told her of his intentions, but she is surprised all the same by the taste the whiskey and smoke on him, motionless against him. Perhaps he might take her lack of protest as encouragement—and she should protest, after all, she is a married woman. She could catch his skin between her teeth, or scream, anything rather than allowing him to ravish her mouth, the tension in her rising in a crescendo, torn between action and submission.
She chooses the latter, meekly accepting the kiss, not quite ready to reciprocate without coaxing. Her hand stirs on her lap, her fingers straining for a moment, as if reaching for some phantom of the past—but the moment passes, and her hand traces the angle of his jaw, the warmth of her fingers barely ghosting along his face. It is not quite a caress, but yet another abandoned attempt at protesting, a gesture of half tenderness and half frantic confusion. Her eyes are wet, and finally, at last—she parts her lips for him, exhaling on a bittersweet, breathless sound akin to a cry.]
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So it takes him a moment of consideration, a moment where his lips are pressed to hers, where her hand is barely pressed against his jaw (he can feel her fingers, just a little, and they provide a pleasant sensation, a feeling he'd like to feel more of) and his fingers are still cupped underneath her chin. His lips are pressed against hers, and his brain is working as quickly as it can, trying to determine whether he should keep going, whether she'll let him, whether it's far too opportunistic to just keep kissing her...
But, of course, it's his desire for hedonistic pleasure that wins out; that, and the little breathless noise she makes, the one that he can't quite tell the meaning of, but knows that he appreciates, nevertheless. And that's what keeps him kissing her, that's what keeps him leaning closer, seeking out as much closeness as he can, taking full advantage of the moment before she thinks better of all of this, before she tells him to go away for good.
He's always pushed his limits just a little too far. It only remains to be seen how far he can push them tonight.]
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What this is, she can sweeten it with as many desperate fantasies of love at first sight or hidden adoration as much as she would like, but it still remains an act of plain infidelity. Whorish behavior, her husband would sneer after too many New York Sours, and worse still, she is not immediately overwhelmed by a grevious sense of guilt—not when she is star-struck and lying passive beneath a stranger, a man she is inexplicably and infinitely charmed by, and he is treating her not like another gleaming silver award to polish for guests, or like an object of violence. Her treats her unlike any other suitor has, unlike any other man has, at all—and a rather tender memory, one of her soldier and wartime lover, rises to the forefront of her mind. He is not as brutish as Tom, but neither is he the traditional romantic as her very first lover had been—God only knows where he could be now.
But, morbid thought aside, she cannot dwell on the past when the present is so insistent, stealing the breath from her, leaving her gasping into his lips. This kiss, blurring the boundaries of flirtation and true intimacy, is morally reprehensible by every matrimonial law—and it will all be risked for naught, it he doesn't truly care for her. Does he care for her? Certainly, he cares for the comfort of her flesh, the temptation of feminine curves, but for her heart, for more than a pretty face? They haven't known each other for very long, at all. Perhaps she is just a conquest to him, a temporary concubine—and the thought is such a miserable one, her physical relief tinged with such bitterness that her pale cheeks are streaked with tears. He is pushing her past what she believes she can accept, but whether she believes it or not, she still has not refused him.]
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There's a moment where that's all it is, a blissfully perfect kiss, something that he's been looking for for a long time and never quite been able to find, or maybe he's just never been satisfied with anything because he's always looking for something better, always trying to convince himself that there's someone perfect out there, someone who will love him just as much as he loves them... Those thoughts come back to his mind, even when he tries to block them out, even when he's running a hand down Daisy's face, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body and of her lips, and...
His fingers find something on her cheeks that isn't just the delicate skin, that isn't just the curve of her cheekbone. Those are tears, aren't they? And he's not the type of man to ignore tears, not when they can have so much meaning, not when they're being shed at a moment like this, which should be only pleasurable, not painful. He draws back, for a moment, meeting her eyes with his own intent, deep blue stare.]
What is it?
[And there, maybe, is some romance in his tone. There, maybe, is something soft, almost adoring. It's not the tone of someone who is here simply opportunistically. If listened to just the right way, it could almost sound like love, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? There's no way he could fall in love with someone so fast. And yet... He's been known to believe he has before.]
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It's just—
[She attempts a smile, but the weak effort is ruined by her bottom lip trembling: a telltale sign of being close to bursting into tears. How can she explain, without sounding like a petty child? How could he ever know, that she is frightened, awfully frightened, of being nothing more than a scarlet woman to him? The things she wants from him—love, devotion, protection—are all impossible dreams, which he couldn't possibly provide for her, a girl he just met, after all. Worst of all, what if this union is little more than temptation and impulse, a hollow carnality, borne from out of the haze of liquor and cigarettes? Surely it is, or so sound logic would claim: she is fragile and lonely, and he is just sating a physical hunger.
But, when he touches her so carefully, his moment of wild abandon replaced by utmost tenderness—when he speaks with such sweetness, feeling concern (which he is neither obligated nor pressured to feel, and indeed, many men would not even bother with asking) over her wretched state, she thinks that, perhaps, she might be seeing the best of him. And that, for however much her jaded heart tries to warn her otherwise, he cares for her.
She dares to hope it may be true.]
Just—
[And if he does care for her, how far is she willing to let him carry on their taboo coupling? Another kiss? A secret rendezvous, after tonight? An entire affair, conducted in secret? To the bedroom of a hotel? She is shocked at her own audacious thoughts, giving a little startle. She wouldn't even entertain such scandalous thoughts if these were usual circumstances, if she hadn't already drank a fair amount!
But he is certainly not usual, is he? Not if he has already enchanted her, not if this is blossoming into something deeper than a fanciful whim.]
I've just—never had such a kiss.
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[He sounds legitimately surprised, maybe even a little concerned, because the tears on her eyelashes are so obvious, because the way her lip is trembling worries him. It's not her embarrassment he's thinking of, nor her humiliation, though if he were thinking more clearly, he might realize, of course, that she'd feel uncomfortable about being so emotional in front of someone she barely knows -- all he cares about is making sure she feels alright, making sure that this hasn't somehow upset her in a way he can't quite understand.
And yet, he's still surprised by what she says, because...]
You should be kissed like that.
[There's firm assurance in his voice, the kind that can only come from stating something very honestly. If her husband doesn't kiss her that way, he thinks, then her husband must be very stupid, or very unpleasant, or both. Of course, he's already suspected that, considering that her husband is nowhere to be found -- or maybe he's just trying to make himself feel better by making her conveniently missing husband into the villain.]
You should be kissed like that all the time. But maybe not in a place like this.
[It's the smoothest segue he can think of, the best way he can suggest without outright suggesting that they go somewhere else. He'd like to, but he's not sure she would. He knows -- can tell, just by looking at her, by the way her face looks -- that she's still conflicted.]
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The whiteness of her face, blotched pink and shining wet from her silent crying, dips slightly at his invitation, considering it for a long moment. Literally, he is offering nothing more than another place to go, where they can steal away for an hour or two, and kiss like proper lovers. Literally, that is all he is suggesting. But the undertone to his words is plain as day, even to her delicate sensibilities. Is it very possible, to make love without being in love—? Of course not, or so says the romance novels and radio serials, and so she would like to believe. But then, wouldn't that mean that Tom falls in love at least once an hour, from how many beguiling glances he has made at dancers and bell-girls and waitresses of all sorts?
Not that he is necessarily asking for any kind of physicality—at least, nothing beyond a kiss or two. Her imagination is simply running away with her, spurred on by the sudden engagement between the two of them. A kiss in somewhere private is not criminal, she justifies—at the very least, she takes comfort in knowing Tom was the first hypocrite, who first broke their wedding vows, and then broke her fractured heart. Her gaze drifts upwards, as if upstairs, her husband was listening to their conversation at that very minute. He would never know: he would be preoccupied with his sports-talk for at least until the end of the evening. She would be gone and return before she was ever missed—if he ever missed her at all.
Just for an hour or two.]
A—all right. Just a short little arrangement.
[There is a hitch in her voice, reaching for a cloth napkin to wipe at her cheeks. It's not going to be the sort of ghastly, loveless union one would read about in the "primitive" tabloids—his intentions for her are pure, and noble, and honest and above all, loving. She has herself half-convinced of that—but only by half.]
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[It's a simple little word, but the happiness on his face is almost childlike, for a moment. He is genuinely delighted, completely pleased, and, yes, a little surprised, but only a little. He can hear that slight hesitation in her voice, certainly, but she's telling him yes, saying that 'just a short little arrangement' will be fine, maybe will be more than fine (it certainly will be, in his own mind) and that's enough, for the moment.]
Okay.
[He stands up, maybe a little unsteadily, already thinking of where they'll go, already ruling out hotels where he knows far too many people, places he might run into someone he does business with. It's not, necessarily, that he'd be ashamed of being seen with another woman -- because, frankly, he's been seen doing far worse things than having a romantic, drunken rendezvous with someone not his wife -- but he doesn't think Daisy would like it, wouldn't like them to be taken notice of.
All the same, as he brushes aside the curtains, he does offer her his arm. If it's possible to be at all chivalrous about this, considering what they're heading off to do, he'll try to make it so. The unsteadiness caused by his drunkenness isn't exactly a great combination with his already unsteady gait from his limp, but maybe she won't mind.
He'll just lead the way, then. He'll let that confidence -- cockiness? -- keep speaking for him.]
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It is already night, when they emerge from the dazzling lights and heady atmosphere of decadent merrymaking. Outside the club, a seaside breeze stirs the lace hem of her dress up around her stockinged knees, and she pushes it down with an indignant hand. There is no need to ask where they will go, not when he knows the city with obvious familiarity. Along the way, there are jewelry sellers and street florists and barkers for amusement park attractions, and as he guides her through the festival of activity, it is almost as if they are a proper couple.
The hotel he singled out is a mere few blocks down, with lavender wallpaper and silver accents (chosen for the lavish decorations purely for her benefit) and bellboys who ask no questions when unlocking the door to their suite. The interior is just as lavish and possesses as romantic an atmosphere as the rest of the hotel, an anonymous room where anyone at all could be seeking refuge. To the ignorant guest, they could be just a honeymooning pair, or a long married twosome celebrating a special event—not a man and his girl who had just barely met hours ago.
Looking at the streak of moonlight falling across the bed, it strikes her that he may be just toying with intimacy. She thought she had been assured when he first kissed her, when he showed enough control to be gentlemanly about her worries, but with the reality of the rented room and the heavy key upon the nightstand, she is seized with doubt. What proof has she that he loves her—and it has to be love, the pure, genuine article, or else she would not do this for anything else—or is there nothing to convince her but her own fervent imaginings? Is she so desperate for his adoration that she has conjured it from nothing more than a kiss and polite question?]
—James.
[She speaks his name very softly, and it's the first time it has touched her lips tonight.]
Are you in love with me?
[She punctuates the question with a bittersweet wisp of a smile, as if asking in good humor. He may feel inclined to lie to her, but the question still stands to be asked, spoken in too honest and too somber of a tone to be taken as any sort of jest. If the answer is no—she has received the truth, cruel as it is. If the answer is yes—
If it is, what will she do then?]
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Maybe it's just a certain sense of hopeless romance that makes him believe it, a sense that he shouldn't have, not after all these years, not after all the things he's seen, but that he oddly clings to all the same, but there is something about it that feels...
Right? Romantic? Affectionate, certainly. Fraught with sexual tension, certainly; he'd be crazy to think it wasn't, especially with what he's intending to do here, what they're both here to do. But there's something else to it, too, something that feels... right. Comfortable. And, yes, maybe a little loving.
So when she turns to him and asks that question, when he looks around the room and sees the beautiful decorations, the bed, the way the moonlight is coming in through the window, he just has to smile, mirroring that bittersweet expression on her face unintentionally.]
Not yet. But y'know, I think I could be. I really think I could be.
[And in this moment, it feels true. So of course he has to draw her close for another kiss.]
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Not yet, but he could come to love her—perhaps he just isn't sure. Protests stir in her mind, but they are silenced by the intoxicated haze of desire, the feverish desperation, almost a physical ache, to believe that he could love, in time. And if—if she meets his kiss, perhaps she could help him communicate his muddled thoughts.
She yields to another one of his overwhelming kisses with only a murmur, and if she had been in her right mind, she would never have surrendered with such simplicity. But she is not in her mind, and maybe it is the shimmering of the moon, or the odd sense of nostalgia which seems to cling to him, or the pale violet walls which color her mind with thoughts of a maddening sort, the urgency to know his mind, to make this night somehow right. The rhythm of her pulse at her wrist is beginning to pound with a fierce intensity, her heart still feeling heavy, but for the first time, she unskillfully tries to return his passion with her own small, sweet kisses, bashful and innocent.]
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And he likes to think that telling her he could love her is worth something. Something small, something relatively meaningless, in the big scheme of things, perhaps, but something, nevertheless. He knows that, given enough time, it wouldn't be hard to fall for her at all. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, because that's...
Well, is it ridiculous? Hasn't he thought he's felt it before?
He shouldn't dwell on it. Instead, he's kissing her fervently, moving her back a little, nudging her towards the bed. His movements are gentle, but firm, his intention clear -- at least, in his own mind. He knows why they're here, and, to his knowledge, so does she. She responds to his kiss sweetly, not particularly passionately, but then, it would be hard to match him for passion, when it comes right down to it.]
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The quivering back of her knees brush against the silk edge of the bedding, and she breaks the kiss, breathing heavier than she would like, betraying how much his touch exhilarates her. All it would take is a slight forward nod, and they would be entwined again, but she struggles to settle the anxious quiver in her hands, the graceless lack of control over her balance. She looks over her shoulder, down to the bed, pristine sheets folded back and cushions arranged, pale quilts soft against her skin. A moment of horrible incomprehension passes over her, struggling, grasping fruitlessly for the connection between him and the bed.]
Oh—
[Thunderously, the realization bursts upon her and all its sordid implications. For how bold he has been, she should have realized the blazing hints, and even through the strong daze of champagne, she feels as if a veil of naïvety has been torn aside, and now she can see things clearly. An unpleasant, almost frightened sound escapes her, high and wavering in a wordless cry.
She no longer looks mournful, but distressed to the deepest degree: her face pale and a faint frown lining her pretty mouth. Her hands are snatched back from his wrists, wringing together as if, by rubbing the tender white skin of her palms raw, she could grasp at some purer essence of the answer she has stumbled upon. Her fears of just being a companion for his bed are rushing in like black water, if he thinks of her consisting of nothing more than sweet flesh to warm him, just a mistress to be sated for the night, like any one of her husband's nameless harem.
And when she finds the breath to speak again, she sounds very brittle, her voice very tiny and hurt. To think, she had he thought, he might have—]
You can hardly make love to someone if—if you don't love them.
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[Her confusion and her sudden realization strike him as somewhere between oddly sweet and oddly sad, but no matter how he slices it, it's utterly incomprehensible. What had she thought they'd come here for? Had that been why she'd asked whether he loved her? Had she really thought they could love each other after so short of a period of time? He hadn't been lying when he'd said that he thought, given enough time, he could, because he can already feel that affection for her, something that goes beyond just sex, but...
She sounds so distressed, not as though she's feigning her upset, not as though she's teasing him, but as though she's really, truly horrified. And the way she draws her hands away from him, the burrow on her brow and the downturn to her lips, that all sums up something akin to... disappointment? Fear?
Her voice strikes him as almost heartbreaking, and he wants to comfort her, but he's not quite sure how.]
I thought we wanted the same thing.
[Because he'd really thought, when he'd brought her here, that they'd been on the same page. That, although she was somewhat shy, somewhat timid, somewhat naive, she had the same basic idea of what coming to a hotel like this meant, of what his kisses had meant. Apparently, he'd been wrong.
Still, he doesn't step away, not entirely. Instead, his hand reaches out to stroke her cheek again, and this time, he makes sure to keep the touch affectionate but not heated, gentle but not at all passionate. All it could be described as is, truly, 'romantic.' Maybe even 'loving,' if that's what someone wants to read into it.]
I don't wanna hurt you. I only wanna make you happy.
[That's true, too, but what will make each of them happy might be very different things, it seems.]
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Hurt her? Never did she think he would hurt her, never did she fear the blow of his fists or the power of his rages incited by alcohol, otherwise, she would not have come. Surely, he must know that? He must know, even now, that she does not detest him? He has hardly tricked her, not when she was so willingly fooled, and her despairing regret is only because she should have realized sooner. Her vague first impression had been correct, after all, but she had dismissed it as only her imagination running wild, a perversion brought about by devilish elixir. If she had known that she was wanted, but only for the services of her flesh, would she have come along so willingly?
Maybe she would have.
Because, presently, she can't bear to see the hurt flitting across his expression, making the soft angles of his handsome face look oddly vulnerable. She hears the anguish in his voice, the boyish confusion, and feels just as guilty for wounding him, in a sense. She cannot stifle the pangs of sympathy for him, any more than she can stop the delirious attraction which draws her inescapably towards him.
She can feel him frame her face with such delicate care, far more purer than the heated press of his hands from before, and she can imagine how simply she could surrender to him. The way he looks at her, how he treats her like a fragile glass which could shatter, is the very opposite of his feverish lust which had lured her in. It is a very convincing imitation of love—daresay, indistinguishable from the real thing.]
Did you mean it?
[When he said he could love her, that is. Even the smallest of chances is more merciful than absolute deception. It is a shallow comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It seems like they were under opposite impressions before, but ultimately—what they both want is intimacy of a sort. Love, attraction, infatuation, lust—what-ever it may be, it has undoubtedly possessed the both of them, and she takes a tense step closer, her hands still folded over her heart.]
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[He looks almost offended -- no, that's not the right word, because it's not offense on his face, but something very like hurt, something somewhat similar to her own expression, truthfully -- that she'd even suggest that he didn't. All the same, he can see why she's asking: a guy getting a woman in a position like this, having the audacity to be so forward with her in a relatively public place, then taking her back to a secluded hotel room... of course it would seem as though the only thing he wanted was her body, and that he'd say anything to get it.]
'n y'know, if I just wanted...
[Well, he doesn't really need to finish that sentence. He doesn't want to make reference to anyone else, at the moment, and he doesn't particularly need to say that if the only thing he'd wanted was someone to fulfill some fleeting lust with, it would be perfectly easy to find plenty of willing women at Babette's. It would sound too much like bragging, and there's no reason to call up the spectre of other prospects simply to convince her that he'd been honest in saying he could love her. It would cheapen it, somehow.
It's one of those rare, rare times when he knows how to hold his tongue.]
I do think I could love you. I think it'd be awfully easy.
[It's a conscious effort not to swear around her, it really is, not to say what he really wants to say, which is that it'd be so goddamned easy for him to fall in love with her that he's half-convinced he's doing it already, but he remembers how she'd responded to that kind of language, and so he tries to hold himself back from letting it out. It's harder than it should be.
The fact that she's stepping closer is reassuring. That means he can wrap an arm around her again, doesn't it? That means he can pull her close for another kiss, a slow one, testing the waters more than anything else, finding out if she'll rebuff him now, after all of this confusion, after she realized that they might not be on the same page at all.]
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This kiss is slower, sweeter, the sort of kiss which is the stuff of dreams, fairy tales and fiction. It is the first one they have exchanged tonight which is not a frantic race for completion or a tangle of confusion passion, tender and careful. One she can, at long last, relax into, the tension in her delicate frame gradually being undone. His hand curled around her waist supports her, it doesn't trap her or keep her caged within his reach, and with his lips on hers, being held in his arms, it feels like there is more to be attained tonight than just plain intercourse.
It feels like they can make love—even fall in love.
Tentatively, her hands fall away from where they are clasped, reaching blindly out to smooth along the lapels of his suit, dark pinstripes which appear black in the long shadows of the room. From there, they settle around his shoulders, and there is no unspoken tension or efforts to restrain himself in his frame, at least that she can feel. Is this good for him too? Is this enough for him, at least for this moment? Or does he want more than the chaste pace of kissing, the elaborate coaxing, the almost virginal shyness she possesses?]
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