exsiliumlogs | And all our troubles in the dark

Entry tags:

And all our troubles in the dark

Date & Time: Jan 21st
Location: Chloe and Charlie's cushy little flat
Characters: Charlie Cutter, Chloe Frazer
Summary: It's her birthday; she's not right
Warnings: MAGIC??? (and an initial lack of pants)

She feels better now. No questioning the how or why, no wondering about where she belongs: it's all as simple as common sense these days, right down to the tailored sweater she's taken to wearing round the flat or the expensive, unscuffed boots on her feet. She smells of sandalwood and magnolia, and the scent's a comfort she can't imagine living without - if there was ever anything wrong with her life before, Chloe has to suspect it had something to do with that. With the fact that she never went through all the routines or that they--

The thoughts clip there. Needle skipping across a record and she hardly notices. The sweater's on, jewelry off (save for the simpler one made of metal and leather, tucked away under a high collar) sheets tangled high around her thighs-- and her thighs round the broad bulk of his own-- and she's quick to nudge Charlie, voice low in his ear:

"Oi. Wake up, darling."

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He's been-- busy. Not that that's an excuse, but god knows she's been a touch distant these past weeks. Frustrating? Absolutely, but it means that when she does choose to shift back in, he isn't keen to question it. And he has been busy. Really. There's been strings to pull and rubbish networking to do, keeping people up to date with Lowell's negotiations with the New Initiative and all that nonsense. He certainly hasn't been getting much sleep.

Which is part of why it takes him so long to react to the heat of her breath against his ear and neck. Charlie shifts, momentarily burrowing his face deeper into the pillow; he makes a low, guttural noise of dismay.

"Five more minutes, love."

There's no argument: he asks for it and she obliges, running the filed edges of her nails along the ridge of his spine. For all of five minutes it's calm and quiet and then, down to the precise second on the tablet clock set up atop their bedside table, Chloe speaks up yet again.

"It's my birthday." Which is all casual, like stating the day of the week or what time it is.

At some point he fell back asleep under the skim of her fingernails, so when she speaks again Charlie starts. Shifts slightly into the pillow and turns his face marginally toward the sound of her voice, the lines of his back going briefly taut before he settles into the mattress again. He says, "What?" before his brain processes what she said without any additional help.

Finally, laboriously, he rolls slightly up onto his side so he can scrub his hand across his face - blinking away sleep and squinting at her in the grey light of morning.

"Well. Happy birthday then."

Chloe's brows lift in a show of half-feigned hurt, set up on one elbow against the overly soft cushion of the pillow on her side. Imported, like the rest of her things these days. "What, you mean to tell me you forgot?"

"Of course I didn't forget," he huffs out from between his fingers, shifting to untangle their legs under the heavy pile of blankets. The coverlet can be stiflingly thick, though on a cold morning like this one (all the mornings are cold), the weight hardly outweighs the advantage of being cozy.

"I'm still waking up, that's all."

To underscore the point, he leans after her - still drowsy, still clumsy from sleep - and butts the line of his brow against hers.

She eases under the pleasant pressure, going soft as the covers themselves with an amicable enough smile. Picks idly at the hem of her sweater where it hits low across her hips with her free hand. The cashmere's quick to fray, though there isn't any damage done by it. Nothing she can't smooth out later.

"Mmm. Coffee, then?" Or tea, if she knows him at all-- and it's safe to say she does. Something to do with all the times he's fixed up breakfast for the two of them while Chloe was still wound up under sheets.

Predictably - perhaps painfully so -, Charlie makes a low, smug little noise of utter and complete disdain for the offer of coffee and then rolls up, pushing the blankets down to his lap and slowly extricating his legs from hers.

"Tea, I should think. Unless you've your heart set on the other, in which case I'd recommend tracking Helena down to see if she'll whip you up a batch." It's all mild leg pulling, punctuated by a grin and a heavy pat in the general area of her hip through the heaped blankets.

There's a face for it at the mention of Helena, but it's brief, gone in a few seconds and hardly the sort of thing he's likely to notice half-drunk from shaking off sleep even if he's managed to sit upright for however long it lasts. "Think I can manage both just fine."

Better than, as she kicks off the covers despite the inconvenient, biting chill that follows, prompting a quick tug on the hem of her sweater as she walks off: barefoot, bare-legged, dark hair only half tangled up over yesterday's curls. If not for the fact that she'd promised him tea, ten minutes later might have him thinking she's abandoned the thought as the earthy scent of brewed coffee easily eclipses his still-steeping earl grey.

If it weren't for the fact that she's been rather reliable these past few days, he might be concerned. As it is, he simply worries about gearing up enough motivation to crawl out of bed and follow in her wake to the flat's cramped (but efficiently laid out) kitchen. He does eventually manage it, shrugging into a jumper en route.

Charlie's just settling the collar round his neck as he passes through the doorway, inhaling the low bitter smell of the coffee.

"There's some venison in the fridge left over. If you'd like, I can fry a bit of that up with a nice side of hash." He butts the line of his profile against the back of her neck, wrinkling his nose at her skin.

She smells like lavender or something silly like that.

Something like that.

Her hand's hovering over the tea, heat on her neck (trapped under her collar) and the flat of her open palm, and she leans into it before skidding one fat-bottomed mug across the counter towards his side. "Tea's done, be a dearheart and pull the leaves before it gets too strong. I'll take care of breakfast."

Which is really the nicest way to go about telling someone 'no'.

And he knows it.

"You could just tell me to piss off, you know." He's all mild and grinning as he says it, catching the chain on the tea diffuser and lifting it neatly from the mug. He dumps the former in the sink, leaves and all, with a clatter of metal before moving to fetch the thick, definitively unpasteurized cream from the icebox.

"But you also shouldn't be cooking on your bloody birthday, so what do I know?"

She thins her lips at the mess in the sink. Slips in after his trip to the fridge to dump the leaves and wipe up the muddy water spots without complaint.

"Well I won't argue if you insist on needlessly spoiling me."

As a matter of fact these days she won't bother arguing with him about anything at all.

"That comes with the territory, darling. --Good for one day only, mind."

He glugs the creamer into the mug, stuffing the bottle back in the icebox once he's finished (if only because leaving it out for long is just asking it to immediately spoil). There's little proper sugar to be had, so he doesn't bother with it.

"Go on, fix your awful coffee and go take a seat. I'll handle breakfast." He underscores the order with a firm pat to her bum.

"All right, all right." There's no return for the slap though she rides out the sting with nothing more than a chiding sort of smile. Palms the edge of the coffee mug (too hot, too black) before leaning in to catch his jaw with her mouth. "Thank you, darling. Gives me time to get ready."

Time she sorely needs these days.

"Blimey, ready for what?"

Though it's really more a rhetorical question rather than one he expects her to answer - he does toss her a sidelong glance all 'Christ, what's crawls up your rear end?' before he turns to clatter about in the kitchen for the sake of making some kind of breakfast, likely slightly horrible and very grease laden.

"For my party, of course." Says it natural as anything-- which for anyone else it might be-- smoothing out a few tangled locks with her fingertips. His banging about nearly drowns the whole thing out entirely.

He's almost entirely certain he's misheard her between pulling out pans and slinging them onto the (only slightly warped) stove top. He very nearly lets it go, frowning slightly as he turns the knobs on the stove until it's finally convinced to come on. They might be well off in this version of the universe, but there's an upper limit to everything.

Finally though, he turns slightly. Looks at her again. "Sorry, what? Your party?"

"Mmm." She catches that look, well from the other end of the kitchen that is, admittedly, not far. Given how she's angled off towards the bedroom, it's clearly a conversation Chloe's not intending to draw out any longer than she has to. "Nothing fancy, I promise. Just a few friends, one of the better bottles of wine Victor managed to bring back."

There's an additional pause before she adds, belatedly (as if it would help him understand her side of things): "Well it'd be a waste not to put it to good use, wouldn't it?"

They weren't talking the last time her birthday rolled around, but he's been to one or two Chloe Frazer birthday related incidents in the past and that's always what they've been - incidents. Pints in scummy pubs and the occasional high speed car chase. Not a bottle of wine, better or otherwise.

"Is there going to be cheese and crackers at this party as well?" He's slowly pulling down a packet of meat from the icebox, unwrapping it from the butcher paper on the counter top.

"Well if you don't mind swinging around the market before three..." She's serious. Or a damn good tease.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens is again to bark out a short, incredulous little laugh. He pulls the meat free from the wrapping and slaps it down where he can saw chunks off it.

"Go get dressed, you tart."

She does, then: strolls back into the other room to leave both him and her fresh cup at the counter, stays out long enough that by the time she's back (tidy from head to toe right down to the previously unkempt curls, modern clothes and ancient bangles) he's had plenty of time to finish cooking up breakfast. Finding someone willing to take a detour on a mission to fetch her an expensive set of clothes wasn't easy, but it goes without saying that she wears them well enough. Better than, actually.

If not for the occasional scar it'd be impossible to even begin to guess at what she's spent the majority of her life doing.

"How's it coming?" Though she can guess from the crisp scent of seared meat that there's nothing left to be done.

Her guess isn't far off; Charlie is in the middle of slopping some seared black meat and potatoes off onto two separate plates. It's British Man Cooking at the highest degree, in essence a few rungs below 'completely inedible', but he hands her one of the plates with enough pride to sell the possibility that it might not taste wholly of ash and grease.

"Ta da. --You look awfully flash."

"Thank you." Whether she means the remark about her dress or the food he's passing off is anyone's guess. Still, no apparent sarcasm. That's something. And it remains the case even after she's fetched utensils for them and sat down at his makeshift trunk-table set just a touch away from the edge of the couch, after she cuts through the char that fractures like splintered glass and pops the grease-laden meat into her mouth.

Chews it with a noticeable crunch.

He let's it slide, simply gathering his own plate and cuppa from the counter, switching off the stove with a clumsy twist of his wrist, and then trailing after her. The flat's too small for a proper table to be set up anywhere, but that's hardly important. He's certainly never been above eating while leaning over the coffee table.

"How's it taste? Not bad, eh? It's a little black on the outside, I'll give you that, but it adds something to the texture." Something is right, though whether it's good or not even he's not entirely sure as he begins to wolf down breakfast, eagerly washing down mouthfuls of faintly charred meat with over sugared tea.

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