notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

Morning comes slowly, which is something of a novelty to McCoy - he heads in early, and heads out late, just due to the nature of his work.

The second novelty comes when he wakes up enough to place himself, and there is a warm presence curled up beside him, heavy in the hollow of his shoulder. Memory flares back into existence, and he smiles into the early-morning dark.

He is really not sure how he got to be this lucky. He has no idea why she stayed with him, or even went forward with anything after he over-reacted.

He wonders if she meant what she made him promise.

There's only one way to find out, for certain. Very gently, almost regretfully, he smooths her hair back from her face (so peaceful, so beautiful) and presses a kiss to her brow.

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She looks up at him, that same ghost of a smile moving over her features. Her hand rests on his chest for just a moment (an eternity between heartbeats) and then she's moving into the corridor.

"What are -- pee-cans?"

That particular outrage against southern cooking distracts him, and carries him through breakfast, where he does his level best to introduce her to and convince her of the superiority of the foods from his youth. Grits are, perhaps, a hard sell, but buttery, nutty, fluffy, syrup-drenched pancakes would win the heart of the hardest skeptic, and paired with sweet, mildly tangy grapefruit from Florida? Angels couldn't ask for better.

Breakfast is still something of a painful affair, despite the distraction - he can't quite figure out what happened up in the room, for the life of him, and it doesn't help he can't quite keep from blushing every time he reaches for the syrup.

She does eventually start to smile a bit more easily, and the cuisine is certainly enlightening. (It's no where near as endearing as his enthusiasm, or the way his cheeks keep flushing when he reaches for the syrup.)

She's smoking one more cigarette over her last cup of coffee, and she can't take the strangeness of the moment anymore.

"Lyonya."

Her head falls to one side, and she purses her lips.

"I come here often."

He wishes, deeply, fervently, that he could read her. He decides to play the optimist for once, and ignore the thought that this may be her way of asking him to not make things awkward for her.

He also, briefly, wonders if this really is the best instance to try out that optimism thing, but he plows ahead anyway.

"I don't seem to come in quite so often." Sometimes, sure, but every once in a while there are alarming gaps of missing time here. "But if you're around...?"

Dear God, he didn't mean it to come out sounding quite so pathetically hopeful, but there it is.

She laughs, a dry little cough of a sound, and glances away. When she looks back, she's smirking properly.

"Such a sweet talker. How could I ever resist."

She stuffs the cigarettes back in her pocket and shrugs into her coat. When she stands, she rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't stay away long."

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