“Real trouble with you sounds like a lot more fun than real trouble with the party-crashers.”
It’s extremely ridiculous to be flirting with a guy in a mask like the one Drifter’s wearing, but considering everything Nick’s been through in the past four years? Considering everything about this absurd city where they’ve landed, only to get tangled up in a fight for their lives? This is barely a bullet point on the list.
Truth is, Nick misses this - the verbal volley back and forth, the weight of a pair of hands holding her in place, the heat of proximity with another body, an anchoring reminder of her own form. Except for a single short kiss years ago in Hadriel, she hasn’t allowed herself any of this since she Became, and - yeah, she misses it, more than she’d care to admit. It’s a normal, human thing to crave a connection with someone who’s similar in some way, someone who can understand something about you that others can’t. He was right in what he warned her about the first time they spoke - she misses what’s normal from the life she had before. If this flirtation weren’t just for show, Nick thinks, if it were even a fraction of something real, she really wouldn’t mind at all.
She brushes that thought aside, forces her traitor brain to focus on what’s more important at the moment - survival. She needs to clear out, before some Iteration decides to take an ill-timed interest. Slowly, she steps backward to disentangle herself, mouth curled in answering amusement.
“I always keep booze around,” she says. “If you’re lucky, I might even break out the really good stuff for ya.”
Final words finished, Nick turns toward the road out of the mansion’s grounds and slips through the scattering of attendees milling about. She returns to the apartment above the bar without incident and waits, occupying her idle time with listening to a favorite record and watching out the window at what unfolds on the street below. Couples and small groups still dressed in finery filter into the bar for post-ball drinks and back out again with laughter and excited chattering.
By the time Drifter arrives, Nick’s shed the suit jacket, tie, mask, and shoes, all draped or dropped in various places around the front room of the apartment. Her shirt collar has been loosened by a couple of undone buttons, and she’s nearly finished smoking a cigarette in the open window.
“Hey, Trouble,” she shouts out the window with a grin when she sees him, “hang on a sec and I’ll buzz you in.” A moment later, she crushes out the lit end of her cigarette in an ashtray and hops down from her window perch to make her way toward the apartment door, then presses the button to allow access into the building and pulls the door open so Drifter can enter. She then disappears into the kitchen to retrieve a pair of glasses and a bottle of whiskey that belongs on a much higher shelf than what she normally keeps on hand.
no subject
It’s extremely ridiculous to be flirting with a guy in a mask like the one Drifter’s wearing, but considering everything Nick’s been through in the past four years? Considering everything about this absurd city where they’ve landed, only to get tangled up in a fight for their lives? This is barely a bullet point on the list.
Truth is, Nick misses this - the verbal volley back and forth, the weight of a pair of hands holding her in place, the heat of proximity with another body, an anchoring reminder of her own form. Except for a single short kiss years ago in Hadriel, she hasn’t allowed herself any of this since she Became, and - yeah, she misses it, more than she’d care to admit. It’s a normal, human thing to crave a connection with someone who’s similar in some way, someone who can understand something about you that others can’t. He was right in what he warned her about the first time they spoke - she misses what’s normal from the life she had before. If this flirtation weren’t just for show, Nick thinks, if it were even a fraction of something real, she really wouldn’t mind at all.
She brushes that thought aside, forces her traitor brain to focus on what’s more important at the moment - survival. She needs to clear out, before some Iteration decides to take an ill-timed interest. Slowly, she steps backward to disentangle herself, mouth curled in answering amusement.
“I always keep booze around,” she says. “If you’re lucky, I might even break out the really good stuff for ya.”
Final words finished, Nick turns toward the road out of the mansion’s grounds and slips through the scattering of attendees milling about. She returns to the apartment above the bar without incident and waits, occupying her idle time with listening to a favorite record and watching out the window at what unfolds on the street below. Couples and small groups still dressed in finery filter into the bar for post-ball drinks and back out again with laughter and excited chattering.
By the time Drifter arrives, Nick’s shed the suit jacket, tie, mask, and shoes, all draped or dropped in various places around the front room of the apartment. Her shirt collar has been loosened by a couple of undone buttons, and she’s nearly finished smoking a cigarette in the open window.
“Hey, Trouble,” she shouts out the window with a grin when she sees him, “hang on a sec and I’ll buzz you in.” A moment later, she crushes out the lit end of her cigarette in an ashtray and hops down from her window perch to make her way toward the apartment door, then presses the button to allow access into the building and pulls the door open so Drifter can enter. She then disappears into the kitchen to retrieve a pair of glasses and a bottle of whiskey that belongs on a much higher shelf than what she normally keeps on hand.