( Immediate, unapologetic confirmation. He'll need the week in advance, and also probably a three day reminder, and maybe even a day-of reminder. Maybe he should set up some alerts on his phone, actually... he should find out when her birthday is. Also, put in something for Christmas, probably. Satisfied with that mental note-to-self, his brain checks it off as complete without actually doing it, and he promptly forgets all about it.
And then there's a foot on a table, which seems... grossly unsanitary, and excessively dramatic. )
...I think I'm good. I'll take the L and buy you breakfast if we can leave before they figure it out.
[ Nash might be thinking she kind of wants to stay and rubberneck along with the rest of the growing audience, but then Bridget yells, "suck on them, Omar! Suck on my fucking toes," and — actually, her stomach is a bit less stable than it was a moment ago. They certainly don't need a repeat of her throwing up everywhere like at the wedding, so — ]
Yeah, let's go.
[ Once upstairs, Nash sets the chocolates down on the table. Doesn't rush to wash off her makeup, but does pull her hair out of her face, tucks it in a scrunchie. ]
Here.
[ The book she offers him is roughly seven hundred pages, the cover design pulpy, the corners frayed, the pages slightly yellowed. It is called Director with a Space Ship and is about a film production on an intergalactic cruise liner where the financiers and cast members start being picked off one by one. Book reviewer Grackle Lyn's blurb says, "I kept reading until the end and found no spelling mistakes. Loved the tentacle scene." ]
I promise I didn't get it from the workplace lost and found. You know that bookstore on 10th? Every book you buy, you get a coupon for half off a sandwich at the shop next door. [ Yes, she left the coupon inside the book for him. ]
( Of all the days to have ears, Jack regrets this one the most. He could have gone the rest of his life without ever hearing anyone say Suck on my fucking toes, Omar and died a happy man. Or, okay, well — he'd have died an apathetic, moderately depressed man, but still.
Although, happiness seems like it might actually be an attainable goal when she presents him with an absolute unit of a tome. By the expression on his face, you'd think she just presented him with his firstborn son. He hugs it to his chest with all the equivalent reverence, and blurts out: )
Is it cool if I kiss you now?
( Because based on title alone, it sounds like the stupidest book ever, and he absolutely loves it. It's perfect.
Nothing says romance like a coupon for half off a sandwich. )
[ He's — so pleased by the gift, and that feeling, that warmth, soothes every last little ache and jolt she'd felt over the course of a long shift at work. All of it melts away as she enjoys his delight. By the time he gets around to the question, she's already quite close: one hand clutching his sleeve as she balances on a foot, fighting for her life to get one high heel off. It lands with a dull thud, the other one follows, they're back to being the same height again —
Yeah, this is pretty perfect. Even her upstairs neighbours are being quiet, hopefully laid low by Valentine's Day. ]
Only if you promise to share that sandwich with me.
[ Said as she's stepping even closer into his space, reaching for the hem of his shirt. ]
( He vows solemnly, and then clears the distance between them.
It's a slow, tentative, careful thing. The lightest brush of lips on lips, his eyes fluttering closed, a barely-there pressure. Skin catching skin, dry and soft.
It's been... so long since the last time he did this. He forgot, genuinely forgot, what it felt like. The sparking nerve endings, the world narrowing down to a single point, a hand absently finding her waist to anchor himself steady. The hyper-awareness of barely millimeters of movement when his head tilts. It feels like entire lifetimes ago, but it all comes rushing back in an instant, familiar, nostalgic. Like riding a bike.
He always liked kissing. He just... never had anybody else he wanted to do it with, after Sabine.
Now he does, for the first time in... seven years?
It's good, he thinks. Surprisingly, unbelievably, he feels ready for this. Woah. Holy shit. )
[ She meets him halfway, tilting her face just so for a smoother angle. Her nose brushes against his cheek as faint static floods from the softness of his lips and down to her knees. For Nash, it’s unusual for things to take this long — she tends to barrel forward with little provocation; most first dates end in sleepovers. Since the wedding, the shifting dynamic between her and Jack has been characterised by a back touch here, a kiss on the cheek there. Falling asleep cuddling, fully clothed, on the couch. It’s a bit like being a young girl again, coaxing the shy boy out of his shell.
(Does she mind the pace? Okay, maybe a little at the beginning. This helps. Affirms it isn’t because there’s anything wrong with her.)
This— this helps, definitely. Her hands remain clutching the hem of his shirt as she fills his immediate space. A moment or three or four more, and then she’s smiling up at him. Warmed by his kiss; the room not really existing beyond him. ]
Stay the night.
[ It’s somewhere between a murmur and a plaintive, hopeful purr. ]
( He agrees, after only a beat of consideration, and then leans down to kiss her again — just as soft, just as slow.
And he does stay the night. They don't have sex, not this time, but for the first time in years he does wind his arms around another person, and he manages to fall asleep for real an hour or two later. With the feeling of another person's weight pressing against him, the regular sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart, Jack manages a rare full night of sleep.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( Immediate, unapologetic confirmation. He'll need the week in advance, and also probably a three day reminder, and maybe even a day-of reminder. Maybe he should set up some alerts on his phone, actually... he should find out when her birthday is. Also, put in something for Christmas, probably. Satisfied with that mental note-to-self, his brain checks it off as complete without actually doing it, and he promptly forgets all about it.
And then there's a foot on a table, which seems... grossly unsanitary, and excessively dramatic. )
...I think I'm good. I'll take the L and buy you breakfast if we can leave before they figure it out.
no subject
Yeah, let's go.
[ Once upstairs, Nash sets the chocolates down on the table. Doesn't rush to wash off her makeup, but does pull her hair out of her face, tucks it in a scrunchie. ]
Here.
[ The book she offers him is roughly seven hundred pages, the cover design pulpy, the corners frayed, the pages slightly yellowed. It is called Director with a Space Ship and is about a film production on an intergalactic cruise liner where the financiers and cast members start being picked off one by one. Book reviewer Grackle Lyn's blurb says, "I kept reading until the end and found no spelling mistakes. Loved the tentacle scene." ]
I promise I didn't get it from the workplace lost and found. You know that bookstore on 10th? Every book you buy, you get a coupon for half off a sandwich at the shop next door. [ Yes, she left the coupon inside the book for him. ]
no subject
Although, happiness seems like it might actually be an attainable goal when she presents him with an absolute unit of a tome. By the expression on his face, you'd think she just presented him with his firstborn son. He hugs it to his chest with all the equivalent reverence, and blurts out: )
Is it cool if I kiss you now?
( Because based on title alone, it sounds like the stupidest book ever, and he absolutely loves it. It's perfect.
Nothing says romance like a coupon for half off a sandwich. )
no subject
Yeah, this is pretty perfect. Even her upstairs neighbours are being quiet, hopefully laid low by Valentine's Day. ]
Only if you promise to share that sandwich with me.
[ Said as she's stepping even closer into his space, reaching for the hem of his shirt. ]
no subject
( He vows solemnly, and then clears the distance between them.
It's a slow, tentative, careful thing. The lightest brush of lips on lips, his eyes fluttering closed, a barely-there pressure. Skin catching skin, dry and soft.
It's been... so long since the last time he did this. He forgot, genuinely forgot, what it felt like. The sparking nerve endings, the world narrowing down to a single point, a hand absently finding her waist to anchor himself steady. The hyper-awareness of barely millimeters of movement when his head tilts. It feels like entire lifetimes ago, but it all comes rushing back in an instant, familiar, nostalgic. Like riding a bike.
He always liked kissing. He just... never had anybody else he wanted to do it with, after Sabine.
Now he does, for the first time in... seven years?
It's good, he thinks. Surprisingly, unbelievably, he feels ready for this. Woah. Holy shit. )
no subject
(Does she mind the pace? Okay, maybe a little at the beginning. This helps. Affirms it isn’t because there’s anything wrong with her.)
This— this helps, definitely. Her hands remain clutching the hem of his shirt as she fills his immediate space. A moment or three or four more, and then she’s smiling up at him. Warmed by his kiss; the room not really existing beyond him. ]
Stay the night.
[ It’s somewhere between a murmur and a plaintive, hopeful purr. ]
no subject
( He agrees, after only a beat of consideration, and then leans down to kiss her again — just as soft, just as slow.
And he does stay the night. They don't have sex, not this time, but for the first time in years he does wind his arms around another person, and he manages to fall asleep for real an hour or two later. With the feeling of another person's weight pressing against him, the regular sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart, Jack manages a rare full night of sleep.
It's good.
It's really, really good. )