He fell asleep even as the last drink of vodka was swallowed, and he is still in that position, having not moved one little motion in the eight hours of sleep that followed. Dressed as he was at the end of your conversation, his insistence to sleep upon the floor, with a blanket, refusing your bed -- not out of a lack of desire, but of not trusting himself once he got there. He murmured a story in Romanian to you as you began to drift off.
Just like the old days...
The empty glass is still balanced on his stomach, his legs outstretched, propped up on a neighboring chair. He never made it to the floor, but fashioned a bed for himself all the same. Slumped down, tall and broad form unmoving, his head tipped to the side, blonde hair too short to be mussed. There is only the twitch of gold-brown eyelashes to give any indication that he is waking.
And outside, a lighter kind of grey. No sun -- it is Ireland in the winter, and so the sun is rarely seen -- but one can feel it. It is just past early morning... but well before noon...
She was up with the dawn, as is her custom now. Quietly, she slipped out of the bed in the corner and disappeared into the bathroom before her movements could wake you. The door must be a solid one because the sound of running water would barely be heard out here, leaving no risk of waking you before your body wants to.
Time passes and finally she re-emerges from behind that solid door, wrapped in a long satin house-coat, her long red hair hanging damply about her shoulders. A towel is being used to dry her hair, being rubbed furiously about her head as she pads softly through the large room.
The white towel is deposited over a kitchen chair as she passes it, moving to put the water on for the morning's first cup of tea. A silent yawn takes over for a second as she stretches, waiting for the water to fill the kettle in the sink. She then tosses a quick glance over her shoulder as she turns the tap off.
He sometimes sleeps so lightly that the breath of a bee could wake him. But after so much vodka, after watching you sleep, after wrestling himself to stay in his makeshift bed, after another couple of shots, he slept like a stone.
Until he heard the tap. Pale green eyes open suddenly, blink, there is a masculine grunt -- how long has it been since you have heard this in your room, anyway? -- and Nicu sits up. A little too quickly, there's a smirk and a wince.
Hangover. How embarrassing...
He drags a hand through short blonde hair. "Morning," he says, sitting up more slowly this time, stretching, leaning and setting the glass aside, on the coffee table. "...At least I hope I have not slept until the afternoon..." he suddenly wonders.
And you smell like spring rain...
Ach, I have to take a shower. Yes! That will be the cure...
Nicu yawns mightily, shakes his head, as if that would clear it, and then he stands. And with it comes a half-slumbering smile. A glance to the bathroom. "I slept like a stone. Did I snore?" Surprisingly not. Too drunk to snore...
Lifting the kettle out of the sink, Una smiles over her shoulder, then moves to the stove to get the water on to boil. "Sorry if I woke you," she murmurs softly, somehow knowing how your head must ache. Perhaps that's how she felt until she had her shower.
The element is lit, then she turns to face you, leaning against the counter. "Would you like a tea?" Coffee can be arranged if you'd prefer -- she just doesn't know what you drink in the mornings anymore. It's been quite a while.
A soft chuckle escapes her as she smiles, responding with, "No, you did not snore. At least, if you did, I did not hear it." She crosses her satin-clad arms across her chest as she watches you slowly move and wake up. She crooks a leg a bit as she switches her weight onto one foot. The house-coat flutters momentarily, flashing an ankle...nothing more.
"Tea is good," his voice is more rumbly when he first wakes up, almost gravelly really. "I think I am going to borrow your shower for a while. And... no no... it is good," yes you woke me, but it is good. Nicu laughs a little and then half-turns to the bath.
It is not horribly awkward, but there is an ...unfamiliarity of what waking up with you is anymore. But it is not unpleasant, really. It is more... searching for footing. Like testing out the snowpack on a mountain you have not climbed in many years. It will come back to him.
He hopes you will allow it to come back to him...
"Little dove," he says in his old tongue, the meaning of which you know, "... I am glad I did not keep you awake with rattling shutters then." A little blush. A chuckle. A glance to the bath. "Ah... I will be back in a little moment. Or," he grins, "you can bring the tea in here? When it is done? We can talk about sight-seeing..."
Interesting choice of words as he's inviting you into the bathroom, where he will be utilizing your shower...
"Just... give me a moment..." Nicu whispers. And he disappears into the small bath. You hear the usual things one hears when one shares an apartment with a man. The tossing of clothes. The use of the 'facilities'. The cough and clearing of throat as he runs the water. A silent prayer to some Eastern Orthodox saint to take his headache away...
Even though this is her own home, she does find herself feeling a little awkward right now. But it's not unpleasant, no. There is something in the rumbling of your voice so early in the morning that brings back more than a few memories. She shakes her head a bit as though trying to move her hair out of her face, but all it does is move it back there...an attempt to hide a bit of a blush, perhaps.
"No, no, once I'm asleep like that, I'm like a rock..." You should know that -- this she leaves off. It doesn't need to be said. She smiles gently as she sees your blush, but doesn't draw attention to it. She might tease you about such things in other times, but now just isn't the correct timing. There's something more... careful about this moment, as though everything that happens now will set the route you both end up taking.
You're not the only one searching for footing.
"I can... bring it in there, certainly." This is said just as you say you'll be a moment and go into the bathroom. She chuckles softly to herself, then shakes her head, turning to find the kettle steaming away, indicating that the water is ready.
A teapot is pulled out of another cupboard and warmed with a bit of the boiled water before this is dumped and replaced with some tea leaves and the rest of the water from the kettle. She then pulls out two cups from the cupboard and sets up a small serving tray with all the fixings for tea while she waits for you to finish your 'morning rituals'.
One last ritual. Stepping into the water. The final groan. The burying of the face in slowly heating water...
It is safe to enter. Your shower has a curtain, thanks be to god, so there is no need to fully reacquaint yourself with the spy. Well, not before you want to that is -- if you should want to. He's trying not to think about that.
"I was thinking," he says over the water, "...that we could maybe see the surrounding area. I would like to get to know it better. But... I should be polite," another groaning sigh. A praise to a merciful god that the heat is beginning to flow. "... and not just assume you can spend the day with me. If you cannot, I understand, of course. All I need is a map and a compass and I will be set..."
You know him. He has to get the "lay" of the land in order to be comfortable. No different than a hound in his way. "But, of course, if you... can come with me," so his voice trails off and you know he is smiling by the way it sounds. "I would like that very much."
A hand sticks out of the curtain, waiting for the cup of tea. On the countertop near the sink he has neatly folded his clothing. "I need to buy some new clothes, too..."
It only takes her a moment to cross the room to the bathroom with the serving tray in her hands. She steps gingerly into the small room, setting the tray on the vanity counter top.
She looks at the shower curtain and then down to the tray, trying hard to avoid temptation. Part of her wants to give in to that tempting thought, while the other part isn't sure the action would be appreciated by you. Drawing in a deep breath, she focuses on pouring the tea and getting it done as you like it...if she remembers correctly.
"We could do that. Don't worry about my schedule. It's my bar down there, but I do have staff. I have it worked out so that there's always someone down there, even if I don't show. They're paid well, so they don't really give a damn what the boss does," her voice murmurs through the curtain to you, sounding really close...possibly no more than a couple of feet away.
A brief moment passes before she continues, "Newgrange and the rest of the valley is not too far away. We could go and see them. It's quite peaceful when you can avoid the tourists." A soft chuckle is punctuated by the soft chime of a spoon twirling in a cup. The next moment, a cup is being offered to you. "Dublin is not too far away either. It's a bit farther than Newgrange, but it's probably the best place to get you some new clothing."
"No kilts. Too breezy," he cracks, and the hand that sticks out to get the cup is soon joined by his other, parting the shower curtain, just to give you a wet smile. "Thank you, dove," he says and he takes the cup, a lean, a sip and he hands it back to you. "You remembered," is all he says on it. How he likes his tea. So simple, so subtle a thing. Now, with so much meaning.
And now steam, finally!, begins to rise past the curtain. He dunks his head beneath it. This is just what I needed. Well, a little of what I needed. There is one other thing. "Let's head to Dublin then first, if you don't mind. We'll have lunch, walk around. A nice easy day, yes? And then, maybe Newgrange on the way back. I have a mind to see it under the moon with you." Sounds romantic, doesn't it...
His hand appears for the cup again, as his other turns off the water. "If .... that is okay with you...Please... I am going to speak out my desires," his voice warmer now after the tea, still rumbly but without the gravel. "But that does not mean they have to ...become your own. Stop me... if I assume or ask too much." Nicu laughs. "So, if I ask you to dance with me beneath the moon... I am saying... it is okay for you to say 'no'."
Soft laughter passes through the curtain as you comment on the kilts. "Especially at this time of year," she replies, grinning. Then the curtain parts and she sees your smile as you take the cup. Another deep breath is taken. A soft smile answers your own as she takes the cup from you. "Oh, good.." about the tea. There is a bit of relief in her voice.
Leaning against the wall, she pries her eyes away from the curtain as you duck behind it once more, forcing them to gaze at anything else but the thin sheet of plastic which separates the two of you. "Dublin sounds good. Lunch is still a far ways off, but I think that would be lovely. There's lots of shops along Grafton Street we can check out...oh, and I know of one where you can get some really nice quality jumpers." Jumpers. Sweaters. Same thing.
"Newgrange under the moon sounds lovely," Una manages to say, closing her eyes briefly, then opening them again. Yes, it does sound romantic. Her teeth worry a bit at her bottom lip...an old habit.
Oh, your hand is outstretched again..and so she hands it to you again, hearing the water switch off. Her hand comes into your line of view as she does so.
"No, no... seriously. You do not ask for too much." Nor could you. She would likely give you the world if you asked it. Nor would she say no to you. "It all sounds lovely. I don't mind...really." She then winces briefly behind the curtain, hoping she didn't sound too... ugh, desperate? She nearly laughs at herself. Stop acting like a little school girl, Una, she mentally chides herself as her cheeks flush a soft crimson.
"Good, it will be a good day. I rented a Land Rover..." so he will be driving. That should be an adventure, if he drives a car anything like he used to drive a carriage. "And... I'm glad," he says softly, quiet and thankful response. He will dance with you then, he is a wonderful dancer -- of the courtly sort. Not the modern gyrating sort...
There is a pause for the draining of the tea and his hand appears again, holding forth the empty cup. Soon he will be out...oh, is there a towel? Handing the tea off to you, his hands begin searching that out. Ah, good...
The towel slips past the curtain, and soon his hands employ it. "I have to say.... I mean I am going to admit it... this is going to be a very pleasant sanctuary, Una." Ooonah, is how it is pronounced. After a moment more, the curtain is thrown back, revealing him, wrapped in a towel -- well, around his waist... everything else is in full view.
Had you forgotten the build of the Polish commander, Romanian by birth - Polish by affiliation - the 15th Century soldier turned spy? The build remains, with effort now as the days of war have passed. Smooth-skinned shoulders, broad. A roll of them and the joints pop. He smiles a little. I needed that. The broad chest. The strong stomach. The legs, well what you can see. You have known every part of it. Even the parts now hidden. And some of the old familiarity begins to come back, leeching in like water past wood, through the cracks of stone. You've seen and known more than this. There is, suddenly, no awkwardness. Nicu takes another towel and drapes it over his head.
The close quarters of the bathroom are suddenly quite close indeed, as Nicu bends, and places a kiss upon the side of your neck. "Good morning," he says again, this time more awake. Much more awake and aware. Full knowing what he does. What he wants. He straightens, lifts his hand and brushes back your still damp hair, letting fingers trail against your skin a moment.
Slap me. Stop me. No, don't stop me...
"I need to... get the taste of old vodka out of my mouth," he says softly, suddenly. And pale green eyes sparkle in his half-smile. He lowers his hand from your hair, your face, and with both hands runs the towel through and against his own wet hair.
Oh lord, you're driving...this shall indeed be an interesting adventure. However, you'll most certainly fit into the driving habits of those in busy Dublin. She'll just have to close her eyes and pretend not to feel the swerving and swaying of the vehicle as you dodge in and out of the horror that is Dublin traffic. She can't help but chuckle.
The cup is accepted from you and set aside. Her own tea had nearly been forgotten. Ah, she'll get one in Dublin. To go, as they say now.
Looking back as she hears the curtain being pulled back...she can't help but look...she nearly gasps at the sight. How could she have forgotten all of that? No, not forgotten...merely filed away in a dusty old filing cabinet in the back recesses of her mind. If she hadn't, might she not have gone mad from the longing of it all?
But it is no longer in a dusty filing cabinet drawer, but out before her to see with her own eyes, instead of her mind's eye. Her emerald gaze slips down your torso without her bidding, taking in all the details in that quick sweep down and then back up. This time, she doesn't try to hide the furious blush that comes to her cheeks. How could she hide that? Even the tips of her ears have flushed.
And then your lips touch her neck... her eyes close at the oh so brief sensation. They would flutter open again if that touch was not replaced by the touch of your fingertips.
Stop you? She doesn't. Perhaps she should.. but she doesn't. As you speak and lower your hand, her eyelids now flutter back open and her lungs take in a deep breath of air. Softly, trying to get her voice back quickly, she replies, "There's... there's mouthwash beneath the sink."
He didn't expect you would let him just... dance back in. He thought you would be angry. Maybe you should be. Maybe you will be. He tries not to take advantage of it. To be humble. To recognize it, but not to abuse it. But the kiss, the touch could not be helped. Nor could the rest that was in the back of his mind that now is shifting to front-and-center.
Coming back. Rekindling old sparks to a new fire. Forget that his life, that your life, is the way that it is. Forget that at the end of the day there can only be one of you remaining. Forget that he hopes it is your hand that strikes his head from his neck, if it has to be anyone. Forget the present problems in Russia, the reason for the flight. That's all just an excuse. Maybe he would have come back all the same...
Nicu nods, smiles, looks to the pile of folded clothing and then back to you. "I will get dressed then, try to be... presentable... then we will go. I will treat to breakfast or lunch. Whichever you want." And fingers hook under the towel, preparing to toss it aside.
And if he wouldn't taste of old vodka covered over with milky tea, he'd kiss you right now. He smirks at that, fair complexion coloring at it and he removes the towel from his head and now mussed blonde hair. A hand touches your waist as he bends toward the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. "And I should shave too. Shaggy dog that I am." He was always rather fussy about his appearance. Even when the world was muddy and wet, messy and chaotic.
Maybe she should be angry, yes, but how can she be when you're standing before her half-naked in all your glory? But then again, it is the way things happen with immortals sometimes. Time has a bad habit of making people drift. But she's not thinking about any drifting away right now. Her mind races as she watches you, listens to your voice, responds to your touches.
Her own thoughts echo your own, even if the two of you don't know it yet. The Game be damned...she has you here and now. The moment is what's important. The past is gone and can't be changed.
Softly, she murmurs, "Breakfast might be nice... it's been a while since we've done that." And Ireland's known for their hearty breakfasts that keep you satisfied till dinner. In the old familiarity which seems to be effecting both of you, her eyes continue to examine you. This isn't even covered or hidden. Smiling, she continues to speak, "If that's alright with you?"
There is a small pause, then she whispers as she reaches up to touch your cheek with just her fingertips, "I like you the way you are, Nicu." Just so plain and simple as that. She then blushes deeply and pulls her hand away, murmuring, "I should go... let you get dressed..." Does it sound as much of an excuse as it truly is?
"You don't have to," and he blushes as he says it, unbelieving of the words as they pass off his tongue and onto the air. He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It is territory once belonging to you, is it not? But..." a clearing of his throat and a tilt of his head. "I leave it to your discretion."
He turns, a last look in the mirror and then he shrugs, so be it, he will be shaggy. Well, he will groom, for certain. He can't help himself. Suddenly, he squats, towel be damned -- and it doesn't do a damn bit of good when he does so, you might notice -- and opening the sink's cabinet, he pulls out the mouthwash. Alright, to hell with the towel. His fingers pluck it away from his skin, it falls slack. He is without shame, but horribly civilized. He folds the towel, sets it aside, and unfolds his boxers. A turn to you, a wink, and they're pulled on. Now... you may stay without fear...
Yes, it's all as you remember. Suddenly, memories may rush to the cheek, to the surface of your skin, your smile, your eyes before he covers up...
What's not romantic is the mouthful of mouthwash moving side to side. Or the comical waggling of one eyebrow at a time to coincide with it. Comical Orozco. He has his moments. Soon the blue stuff is spat into the sink, the water run, and he gahs at the flavor. "It tastes like hemlock. Less deadly but still... nasty..." He looks at himself in the mirror another moment, another thought of shaving as he runs his hand over the bristles of golden and silver hair beginning to form the outline of a beard. But, then he neverminds all that. Fuck it. Forget it. I leave it. And turning, he leans against the counter, pale green boxers -- those are silk -- matching his sage green eyes. "Breakfast it is then. You know the good places? My treat," he gestures with his hands. And his eyes lock onto you. Your eyes. Your mouth. Further down, sliding, then upward. "It is the least I can do... and... you do not mind me being underfoot? I do not mind getting my own room. I do not want to... make for gossip among your staff... but... I am more than content taking up your sofa or floor, as long as it does not bother you. I... think I'm going to stay for a while..."
Even as you blush, she does once more. Part of her can't believe that you're standing there before her, in her bathroom, wearing only a towel, basically saying See my naked body... no, really, it's ok... She can't help but stare, even as you squat to retrieve the mouthwash...and gawk, even. She glances away and fusses with the tea tray for a moment, trying to regain her composure. Spoons are put into cups, cups back on saucers... with trembling hands?
Her fidgeting then stops as she looks back just as you yank off the towel and fold it up. She might as well forget trying to stop blushing today because it seems you're going to keep catching her off-guard.
Chuckling a bit and modestly glancing at her robe, she then absently picks off some imaginary lint off her robe. But she simply can't help herself... she looks back even as you pull up your boxers.
Oh, the faces you make! Laughter soon fills the small room as she watches you in the mirror. A hand covers her mouth in an attempt to stifle it, but she just can't. It's a good release, even if it's partially nervous laughter. And what is she nervous of? Of losing control? Of giving in? Perhaps it's more anxiousness than anything. The electricity between you that seems to have not disappeared.
As you lean against the counter, she can't help but look you up and down again. Ach, this is utter torture, and do you know this? "That sound great. Breakfast, I mean. And no, you will not stay on the floor...but you will stay here." And I'll not hear another damned argument, bloody Romanian.
She can feel your gaze on her so intensely that it is nearly tangible. Drawing in a deep breath, she drags her eyes down and back up you in an exaggerated manner with a wink, letting out a chuckled, "Tease.." in hopes that this will diffuse some of the...tension in here. Boy, it's warm in here. She starts to move, as though to move back out of the bathroom to give you some space.
He laughs at that, an earthy, mischievous laugh. Did he mean to tease? Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, he'll take it. "I'll be right out..."
It's strange, some would say. At one time, you and he were as good as married -- course, your kind don't really do that, do they? But companions, mated, settled, happy. But wars always come. And inevitably, War and Time create fissures of space, fissures that can become schisms or chasms. Soon it's a century and you wondered what happened. Then two, and you wonder if you ever knew the truth, or loved, or any of it.
But then, when one crosses a bridge and you come face-to-face and before one another stand, distance disappears and Time is like... nothing. Less than air. It dissolves. And so, that is how this has been...
He comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, a handful of several, dressed in last night's clothing but with today's understanding. And hope. Nicu reaches for his overcoat, his scarf, his gloves. He looks for you -- have you gone to dress? or does he walk in on you doing so?
Your bed. He looks at it, and his eyes glance downward to his hands, as he pulls on his gloves. Your bed will become my bed. Maybe, it will become our bed. Do I hope too much? In such a bloody time, when else is someone supposed to hope? You hope when all else would tumble to despair...
When you emerge, she is facing away from you, perhaps not hearing that you have entered the room. She is mostly dressed, just pulling on a heavy woolen jumper over her head. It is a soft grey with lots of cabling patterns in it, infamous in this part of the world.
The most you would see would be a bare back with a bra strap across it. But do you remember the paleness of it? The softness of it? Then it is covered with the thick grey wool, the turtle neck being fussed with as it gets caught over her head. A moment later, her head pops out through the neckline and she lets out a breath, muttering something about 'blasted jumper'.
She reaches for her hair brush as she drops down onto the bed which you now look at to relax and begins to brush her hair. It is more than large enough for both of you, certainly, and looks extremely comfortable -- much more so than the couch or floor. She calls out, as though you're not in the room yet, "What do you want to go to get first? Aside from breakfast... do you want to look for pants first? Shirts?"
Dreadfully comfortable. That's the problem. "Let's get some food... and I'm in need of both, I ... sort of came on the fly. I need... a little of everything. You can help me though. I remember you had an eye for fashion. And if I should look like an Irishman at the end of the day," he touches your hand, he takes the brush from it. "All the better. Please, allow me..." he whispers. This was one of his prime pleasures. Brushing your wealth of hair. It is soothing to the soul.
And he has a gentle touch. Nothing has changed...
"I got out of Eastern Europe as quickly as possible, leaving no trail. No purchases. No phone calls," the old spy knows the ways. "I rented the auto under a client's name. I will pay cash for another one. Maybe next week. Trying to lay low." Nicu looks to you, pale green eyes getting an eyeful of beautiful red hair. Curls smoothen and come to life as they are brushed. "Especially now," he whispers. "I will not put you in jeopardy, you know this. You know... we may have to move quickly... should things not end in Germany and Russia." Nicu tilts his head, trying to make eye contact with you. "You and I have been through such things before," he comforts. "I just say this..." Because I care for you.
One last stroke of the brush and he relinquishes it back to your grasp. His arms surround you and he draws you in, bending, placing another kiss on your neck. He exhales there. "I am a foolish man. Forgive me. Now..." A hug and his arms slip away. "Let's... go eat..."
You get no argument from her as you take the brush from her. A soft sigh escapes her. Remember when you used to do this? She would close her eyes, as she does now, just enjoying the moment. It was a thing that relaxed her, and it obviously still does.
But it also fans the fires that are rekindling within her. Anytime she feels your touch, it's the same. But she's managing to remain so contained...for now. Getting out for some fresh air will do her some good, she hopes. It's getting very close in here, like in the bathroom.
Her voice whispers up to you, "I can handle myself. But perhaps we should prepare some bags, just in case. That way we don't leave everything behind, hm? I can make arrangements, have them ready." She has her own resources, afterall. It would be easy to hide in Ireland, if you know where you're going. And if Eire can't hide us, then there are other places to go.
Her breath nearly catches in her throat as you speak of your caring for her. It brings a smile, full of emotion, to her soft lips that you cannot see just yet. Another sigh can be heard as another kiss is felt upon her neck. She looks over her shoulder at you, emerald eyes flashing as she takes the brush. "You are not foolish. You never were." Standing, she murmurs, "Breakfast awaits." She already has a pair of hiking boots on, the same colour as her black jeans.
Setting the brush aside on the nightstand, she steps away from the inviting bed and grabs her coat, already heading for the door.
Posted by rowan at March 01, 2001 07:24 PM
