butterflyfactor | The Calm After the Storm

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The Calm After the Storm

Layla had woken up with no Jamie beside her, and for a moment felt a queer sort of panic that made her question her sanity more than the island usually did. After a moment, during which time Richards had slunk up the bed to tuck his wet nose against her jaw and wag his tail a little, she recalled that she had been up, earlier, to let the dog in, and Jamie had been there beside her, asleep.

So she'd passed out from sheer exhaustion again. She could hardly blame herself. She gave Richards' some belly rubbing, then crawled out of bed and into jeans and a tank top, forgoing underwear or a hairbrush, and padded still-sleepily for the door.

Until she remember the Doomtech and small cylinder on her own bed. She went immediately to them and made a show- albeit for no one's sake but Richards'- of hiding them, wondering if Jamie had poked his head in when he'd gotten up and seen them anyway.

Surely, they'd talk about it later. One way or the other. It tied into her fabulous yacht party story, anyhow.

She spent a moment in her own room to twist her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck and tie it there before she slipped into her chunky rain boots, jeans scrunched up along the tops, and started out into the still storm-tossed morning. She hoped she didn't have to go far.

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This morning I woke from a fitful sleep with some better understanding of what it must be like to be Victor Von Doom -- bear with me, I'll explain in a second. You see, this particular morning, I woke up next to the very beautiful, very naked woman I professed my love to last night, which under just about any other circumstance would be great. I was up in every sense of the word, even somewhat rested, and I was about to lean over to kiss Layla awake, take advantage of our privacy, when, lo and behold, there was movement at the end of the bed.

She'd let the damn dog in. The dog, who I purposefully left outside of the room last night. The dog, who I might remind you, is named after a certain Mr. Fantastic.

Yelling Richards' name at the sky, it turns out, is remarkably therapeutic. It's no wonder Doom does it so often.

Jamie'd already been to the Rec Centre and back by the time he crossed paths with Layla, showered, if no less internally frustrated from the morning's cancelled plans. Though in reality he felt no better than he had the night before, save for having regained some of the color in his cheeks, there was nevertheless a renewed vigor to his step. His shoulders were pushed back, his head held higher -- with two fingers pressed above his temple in a sort of mock salute, he tipped his chin forward, and said, "Top o' the morning to you, Layla. You're looking.... acclimatized."

It's probably a combination of what he said last night and what he just said, just this moment, that freaks me out. Acclimatized. Growing used to it. If my ability to cope, or total lack thereof, through the past few days is any indication then no, I am not especially acclimatized. Or at least I'll fight becoming so tooth and nail.

Layla stood still for a moment while a few dozen quips whipped through her head, before she started forward at a run and only stopped when she had her arms around his neck. She kissed him.

Edited 2010-10-01 01:49 (UTC)

The truth is, she tastes a lot like she looks -- like she just woke up. I've been wandering around for hours trying to shake off any untoward intentions I might've had when I woke up, only for her to throw all that effort out the window with a simple stale tasting kiss.

Letting out a muffled sigh against her mouth, his hands easily found her hips, tugging her closer without much thought to their location. He turned them on the spot, leaning up against a nearby tree, wincing a little as a branch dug into one of his bruises, just enough to startle him into breaking away, breathless. His gaze lowering first to her mouth, and then back up to her eyes, he asked, "Jeez, if you wanted to do that, why'd you let the dog in?"

"He was sitting outside alone feeling dejected," she said, "and he missed you, probably as much as I did." She leaned against him and lifted a hand to slide her palm along his cheek.

"You're the center of his black and white universe."

"And I was laying naked next to you feeling frisky," he replied, fighting with himself to keep his eyes open when she touched him, needing to stay in check, though the way she was pressed against his body made that a more challenging feat than it might have been otherwise. With a cough, he shifted certain important parts of his anatomy away from her, twisting at the torso so he could still look at her directly. "He could've dealt, is what I'm saying."

She felt for him, so to speak, but risk of blue balls or no, she had to stay close to him.

"I thought you might be dead," Layla told him, because after days of not talking to him, flirting or shooting the shit or not talking, in pointed italics, were all great options but she had to tell him, at least something of what she'd gone through. Something to explain the crying, at least.

"Not this morning. Before."

"Statistically speaking, disappearance would've been more likely," Jamie replied, not trying to be purposefully insensitive, though he imagined it could come across as much. In truth, he simply didn't know what to say, emotions never being his strong suit at the best of times, and crying women even less so, grateful as he was to see she wasn't reprising the previous night's waterworks. He'd dealt with it as best he could at the time, but that wasn't saying much.

Lips pressed together, he lifted a hand to brush back a few stray hairs from her face, staring at her intently like she was a mystery he couldn't quite crack, though she'd just been remarkably straightforward. After a long beat, he added, "But I didn't do that, either. I'm here, Layla, and very much alive. I... don't know what else to tell you. That's all I got."

"It's all I've got, too," she said, gaze slipping downward, "because I don't know what comes next." She closed her eyes as though to gather herself for a moment.

"I can't... I thought knowing was bad enough. This is..."

"Hell?" he prompted, his hand slipping down to her jaw. He wasn't being glib. It was a serious suggestion. "Because I'm pretty sure hell covers just about everything nicely."

"Everything but this," Layla murmured, tipping her face up to brush the tip of her nose against his cheek. She sighed and bent her head forward.

"I need to hear about your expedition," she said after a moment, trying to rally.

"Not much to tell," he muttered, easing himself away from the tree -- and, coincidently, into her, though he took a step back almost immediately. He wasn't so oblivious to not notice she needed the contact, though, so his hands easily sought out hers, even as he put the space between them. She wasn't ready, that much was clear enough, and he wasn't about to take advantage of that fact just because she thought he'd died, temptation be damned. "Veni, vidi, vici, only... Without that last part."

Layla quirked an eyebrow at him, but accepted the cryptic reply. He was entitled to one or two every once in a while.

"I hit Iron Man with a folding chair before he sank his yacht."

"Iron Man sank his yacht?" he echoed, sounding understandably surprised by the development, though its implications sunk in quickly enough. "Wait, wait, wait -- you were on a sinking boat? My God, are you okay? I mean, you're obviously okay, but-- How'd you escape?"

Edited 2010-10-03 19:51 (UTC)

"Swam," she said, glancing away and flicking some of her hair away from her face with quick finger tips.

"During a hurricane?" he said, letting go of her hand only to push his own back through his hair, fingers curling in the short strands on his neck. "Jesus. What the hell was his problem, endangering people like that? Did anyone get hurt?"

Layla shrugged, not looking particularly concerned.

"I didn't follow up. I was kind of busy." She glanced up at him, eyebrows quirking toward her hairline.

"Not that I'm an expert, but it sort of looked like the last act of a desperate man. He wouldn't happen to have a terminal illness, would he?"

"Dunno. I've never actually spoken with him, but you can damn well bet I'll be looking into it now," he said, wondering if Parker might have some information. The guy still owed him a favor for the wedding, after all.

After a beat, Jamie shook his head, reaching for Layla's elbow to steer them back in the direction he'd been coming from, figuring she could probably do with a shower herself. "Start from the beginning -- what happened after you hit him with a folding chair?"

"It drew a little bit of a crowd, but it wasn't much of a disruption. The whole part had a real 'fall of Rome' feel to it." She let him guide her, although she canted an eyebrow slightly upward at the gesture.

"Then he and Spider-Man had a slightly more public than usual tete-a-tete, which ended badly for the hull. At some point, I fell off the boat. Admittedly, not the cleverest thing I ever managed."

"What?" he said off her look. "I'm concerned. I'm allowed to be concerned. The very nature of our relationship pretty much demands I be concerned, and given that the more you tell me, the more I'd like to go give both Stark and Parker a piece of my mind, be glad I'm limiting said concern to pointlessly protective gestures. Forget about me -- you could've died. Forgive me if I'm not comfortable with the notion."

"Welcome to my last few days," she said dryly, "although mine were unfortunately lacking the reassurance of you being there."

"Yeah, well, since you understand my predicament so intimately, stop with the strange looks, huh?" he said, the hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "You had your big emotional breakdown, lemme have mine, 'cause I spent the last few days out there staying sane, thinking that you were safe and sound on dry land, and that worldview has just gone up in smoke. Takes some getting used to."

"Yeah," Layla said mildly, "there's been a few major shifts to the way the world looks. Ones that have nothing to do with the hurricane."

She didn't look directly at him as she said it, because she thought it was all just a bit... precious. Three words shouldn't have any effect on how a day dawns, but she'd woken up and it had seemed different, anyhow. Go figure.

"You're getting romantic in your old age," he quipped after a beat, though he found he couldn't actually look at her as he said it, either. There was, suffice it to say, a change in their dynamic, one he hadn't anticipated in the least, though he couldn't bring himself to mind it. Which didn't mean he wasn't mildly -- Let's be honest, here... It's more than mildly. -- terrified at what this all meant, both for them as a couple and him as a reluctant individual, but he couldn't deny it was nice, which made the knowledge that she might've died because a couple of Avengers decided to assemble all the more frustrating.

"Should I pick you some flowers?"

"Nah," Layla said, "even pretty dead things make questionable gifts." In a gesture that was telling only because it happened, where usually it wouldn't have, she ran a hand over the back of her neck and down, to hook idly over her own shoulder. It stayed there.

"You're more creative than that, anyway."

"I am," he agreed with no lack of ego, his hand slipping from her elbow to the small of her back. Arching an eyebrow, he canted his head to the side, fixing her with a curious glance. "Do I need to tell you again? I don't... I'm new at this, Layla, and you're hard to read on a good day."

Layla stopped, reaching a hand out to catch Jamie's arm. The lines of her mouth managed to contract enough to facsimilate a smile, but it was brief.

"No," she said, fingers curling in his sleeve. "No, I know, now, and it's... plenty. It's enough."

Stopping as well, he turned to face her properly, though his gaze dropped down, briefly, to her hand. "Well, just in case it isn't..." he said, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "I love you, Layla Miller."

"Okay," she said, eyes widening a little, and slid a hand over his mouth.

"I believe you. Don't say it too much, I don't ever want to get used to it." She dropped her hand to his chest and leaned up on her toes to kiss him lightly on the lips.

"I love you, too."

Still weird. Still awesome. Running with it.

"Good," he said, breathing a sigh of relief as he leaned forward a little to press his forehead to hers. Much as he meant it, it felt awkward, still, to actually say so aloud, and idly, he wondered if he was really so damaged that he couldn't utter a simple I love you without feeling like a fraud. "Can you... not say it too much, either? Because the whole lovey-dovey thing, it's... Well, it's not us, you know? We're never going to be one of those couples on the cover of a romance novel, and I'm... sort of okay with that."

"I'm so beyond okay with that," Layla answered, closing her eyes briefly at the touch.

"Romance novels are for suckers."

"That they are," he agreed, pressing his lips to hers in a quick, chaste kiss. One corner of his mouth hitched up in a teasing smirk. "Now c'mon, you smell, and it's a really sad state of affairs when I'm exhibiting better personal hygiene habits than you."

"Didn't bother you this morning," she shot back, her own smile just as teasing if worlds more sly, before she started forward. Almost back to normal, she could feel it. She just had to shake the last vestiges of the fear and uncertainty that had gripped her during the storm- two things she did not cope well with, she had to admit, at this point- and she'd be back on her game.

She was sure of it.

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The Calm After the Storm

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