xp_logs | [log/summary] Marie, Logan: Chingoteague/Assateague, Feb 6-9

Summary of the weekend. Character stuff only, kids, of course. Not-work-safe in places.

There are many forms and colours of bliss. This one is cool grey and white with hints of green. The grey is the winter sky. The white is the curtains, the lace that is pulled back to show the sky. The green is an empty glass bottle on the windowsill. It's all she could see from where she lies in bed, and Marie isn't going to move right now.

Logan's arm around her waist is sleep-heavy and warm, the cotton of his sweatshirt slightly rough on her bare skin. It's probably close to nine in the morning. At the school, they would have been up for hours already, training. She pushes the thought out of her mind and focuses instead on the intermittent heat of Logan's slow, steady breath on her shoulder. She suspects that he isn't sleeping but is, like her, clinging to the moment as though the minutes could be slowed by will alone. Marie winds her bare fingers around his leather-clad ones and holds on, making it last.

They sleep in, though neither of them is really fully asleep, in the shoreline silence. In retrospect, she knows it had not been silent at all, it had simply been free of the sounds that made either of them stop and listen, tense with anticipation. Later, they dress while the coffee maker, a ubiquitous part of their lives, burbles through its cycle. Then, cups in hand, both still sleep-quiet and pensive, they wander down the thin path to the beach where they sit on the faded sand and watch the green-black sea wash back and forth between this shoreline and the other.

His chin on her shoulder, her back warmed against his chest, they see the silhouettes of wild horses crest the near ridge on the other island. The mares filter down the slope and the stocky little stallion that herds them stands guard above, ears pricked and head high. Even at a distance, his head turns toward them briefly and Marie is certain that he's aware of them. Logan's soft snort in her ear mimicks the puff of cloud that emerges from the stallion's muzzle as he paws at the snow-heavy grasses and shakes his unruly head.

Amused by the symmetry, she turns her head nuzzle the angle of his jaw. Logan nudges her back to watching with another snort so he can lip at the hollow behind her ear. When she lets her chin drop, exposing the curve of the back of her neck to him, he bites her there gently with a soft rumble of contentment. This, too, is bliss; the smell of coffee and sea-salt and the scrape of his teeth against her skin. Her tension is as distant as the black speck of a gull out beyond the breakwater and, leaning into him, she lets her sleepy head on his shoulder and the languid sprawl of her body speak her happiness for her.

"Do you like the nails painted or not? Is it just that they're pretty?" She reaches for the base coat and shakes it gently. The bottle flashes in the light. "Or is it more that you like what they can do?" She holds her free hand up, palm out to him, fingers spread wide, as she looks over to meet his eyes.

The hunger in his eyes is open and obvious when he meets her gaze this time. "Painted or not, doesn't matter. They look good either way." He takes a drink of his beer, a long one. "They're beautiful and I like that." He takes another long drink of his beer, pretending for a moment that it will actually do something for him. "But I like what they can do, too. Y'know that." He'd shown her, once, exactly how he felt about her skin.

He watches her for a second, his lips parted in preparation for speech, and instead he takes another drink of beer. Swallowing, he meets her eyes again. "An' I like that I'm th'only one who gets t'see 'em, most days."

"I like it." Marie slides the brush over her nails rhythmically. "I mean, that you're the only one who sees them. Makes having to cover them feel different." She looks up from her work through the shimmer of her bangs.

It takes supreme effort on Logan's part to stay seated on the counter, because what he'd really rather be doing right now is scraping his teeth carefully over the pads of her fingers. One hand grips the edge of the counter; it squeaks. "I thought about tellin' y'not t'cover 'em up anymore," he admits, "'cause nobody's gonna touch you 'less y'want 'em to. But I didn't want anybody else t'see 'em, really, so I never said it."

"You should have just said so," Marie says quietly, a small, contented smile curving her mouth. "I'm used to it anyway, and it's safest around the children. But I like doing it for your reasoning too." She blows gently across the clear coat on her nails to speed the drying process.

Her hair shivers each time he breathes. And each time he breathes, he can taste her shampoo, her conditioner, and /her/.

She is breathing slowly and evenly, content in her sleep, and occasionally she snuggles back against him. The couch isn't really large enough for both of them to lay down like this, but they make do. It's better this way, really, because he can feel her heartbeat through her back, thudding quietly against his chest.

He isn't a large man by any measure and she is tiny, curled up against him. Tiny and young, so very young, but also very old. It's difficult to reconcile the pieces of her, when she is sleeping and peaceful and innocent. The growling wild man, the innocent Southern boy, the aging revolutionary, the various killers and the child too weak for his powers. All of them are in her. They crowd her, he thinks, crowd the young woman who's seen and done too much to be normal, ever again.

But each time he breathes, he can taste her.

She knows that on some level, she's not playing fair. Maybe on every level. He's off balance in every way and she pushes more, taking from him until the last possible second. She feels the balance start to tip too far in her favour and she relents, letting go of his mouth to look down into his eyes.

Logan's breathing is quick and pained. And aroused. Blood drips from the still-open cut on his lip. Still open. He can still feel the pain; his eyes widen as he realises what's happened and he grins up at her. It probably won't last, but for now, he appreciates the sensation, the possibility.

Balance. A gift for him in return for everything she takes. She smiles down at him and then kisses him softly, kissing it better. Or is that worse? The lines are blurred and there's no absolutes left now. This is the man she loves. In his recklessness are pieces of her safety and her comfort.

The little stallion stares him in the face and they breathe at each other, slow and even. Neither wants to spook the other. They stand that way for a long time before a mare whinnies at the stallion. He gives Logan one last puff of breath before turning to canter away.

Later, Logan stands in the open doorway of the cottage, watching Marie. She is preparing lunch and, rather than a cookbook, a text on child psychology sits open on the counter beside her. Under her breath, she sings about southern crosses and breath on the water while pulling a knife from a drawer. Her first grip on the handle, he notices, is not that of a professional chef, but that of a professional killer. Her grip shifts, though, and she slices a tomato neatly into disks.

He watches her that way for a long time before she turns to smile at him. Logan turns and takes one last breath of the outdoor air, then steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Like this, she can straddle his hips and sit back, rocking against him gently, to drop her robe from her shoulders and strip her nightgown away. She looks down on him, hands cupped over her breasts, and studies him as he has a chance to regain awareness of his surroundings. The haze clears from his mind slowly; it will take some time for his healing factor to reappear sufficiently for him to be able to recover quickly from her pull. Finally, he feels the soft bed beneath him and laughs, realising what she's done, but the laughter is cut short by a quiet moan as she rocks against him. He takes a slow breath and smirks. "Impatient, huh?" He knows how she feels. Or, rather, she knows how he feels.

"I'd hardly call eighteen months impatient," she whispers. The smirk slips off his face immediately and he reaches up to bury his hands in her hair, dragging her mouth down to his. It's all he can think to do, so it's what he does. He's wanted her, this, everything for so long...

He understands. Tears burn along her lashes, pure relief and happiness escaping. When he pulls her to him, hands rough in her hair, the pieces click into place, the door swings open and she's finally home. His and home. A long moment passes before he draws away from the kiss, but it's still far too soon. His fingers still tangled in her hair, he looks up at her, just the inch or two gap he's allowed between their faces, and feels her breath on his lips. He still can't find the words, doesn't know how to say what he should be saying.

"I'm so in love with you." Her voice trembles a little when she speaks and her lashes are wet.

"I love you, too," he whispers, then corrects himself, remembering her surprise in the car on Friday. "I'm in love with you, too. I love you more'n anythin'." His hands slide from her hair and down her bare shoulders to the bed beside her knees.

She kisses him again, just feather touches over his mouth and jaw, and reaches under his pillow with one hand as she does. A moment later, she presses the gloves found there into one of his hands and then continues to kiss down his throat. Reaching the hollow of his collarbone, she bites him softly. The leather creaks against his hand and he arches his neck to allow her more access. He wraps his arms around her back, slipping his hands into the gloves and fastening them. He runs his hands up both sides of her spine, then back down, fingers brushing the curve of her hips. His touch brings up a chill on her skin before the leather warms. She licks lightly at his throat, then bites deep, but not enough to break the skin. -Mine.- He shifts beneath her, arching, offering. His hands slip lower, cupping her bottom, and then curling around her upper thighs. His thumbs creep in slowly, teasing over her abdomen. Balance. Her fingers tight on his shoulders, her thighs tight on his hips, she tips the scale. A heartbeat later she is lying under him, hair like a silver-lined storm cloud on the white cotton pillow. -Yours.- There is a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Logan pushes a shirt into his already-full backpack, not really watching what he's doing. He's watching her. This place, this weekend has been perfect. And now it's time to go.

Marie's already packed her books and clothes and she checks to see whether or not a lesson plan she'd had in her hand one night ever got fully reassembled after Logan objected to her paying attention to things-not-him (especially work) in bed. Missing a page. It had skidded under the dresser and she retrieves it from the shadows. "You ready to go?" she asks, straightening.

He shoves one last pair of jeans into the backpack, stretching its seams, then looks up at her with one eyebrow raised. "No," he says bluntly. "Are you?"

She takes in the fact that he's done packing and the empty little room and she lets the lesson plan slide on top of the books, then zips the bag. "No," she says quietly, not wanting to look at him. She's got to go back. She's got responsibilities there.

He hadn't expected to be the one not wanting to go back. When they left, he'd been the one saying they had to go back. And now, here he is, dragging his feet. "We'll drive slow," he promises her -- and himself -- with a sigh.

"It wouldn't last," Marie murmurs, picking her things up from the bed. She pauses to smooth the quilt with her free hand.

He slings his backpack over his shoulder and walks toward her. Tugging on a lock of her hair, he wishes there were more time. More time to sit on the beach and watch the horses with her, more time to sleep in front of the fireplace, and more time for the quiet. "The drive, y'mean?"

"I mean being happy." Marie closes her eyes and exhales slowly. "Something would come. And we'd just have another place to pick up the pieces in... best to leave it while we're sorry to go, instead of any other ways." When she looks up at him, her gaze is sad and steady.

She's just so /old/ sometimes. Logan looks at her for a long moment, then finally nods his agreement. He's just as much a cynic as she is and he knows what she's saying is probably true. Someone would come after them, a local would get suspicious of them, something would happen elsewhere they could've stopped... "We'll do it again, sometime soon."

She reaches up and twines her fingers in his hair, pulling him down to brush her mouth over his. "We'll make a habit of it," she promises. "It was perfect."

Logan breathes her in, a slow smile stretching over his face. "It was." Drawing back from her a bit, he wraps one arm over her shoulders and turns them both toward the door. He tilts his head to the side and kisses her hair. "Now let's get outta here 'fore them dumbasses at the mansion forget who we are."

Marie laughs and leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting him guide her out. "Yes, dear."

Current Mood: blissed
Current Music: Like a Stone -- Audioslave