Christmas tended to come and go like any other day for Keith; it wasn’t something he’d ever celebrated, because…there had never really been anyone to celebrate with. Cubone had been with him for years, of course, but neither of them really had kept track of the days, not when time had mostly passed with the two of them wandering from town to town, hoping that the next day would bring food or a place to sleep.
Except now they had both, in the Day Care that Shiro ran with his dad. And when the festive lights started going up around the house, Keith noticed that Cubone became increasingly interested in the changes to the décor, where before they were just concerned with having enough food to eat. Given the rapt way that Cubone was watching Shiro cart around tinsel and fairy lights, Keith should’ve known that it would get up to some sort of mischief. So he really shouldn’t have been surprised when he chanced upon a hoard of baubles under its bed, after Shiro had made an offhand comment about missing a few decorations.
“You can’t just take all of them,” Keith tried to explain, but his words were getting nowhere in the face of a stubborn frown. “They’re Shiro’s; you have to give them back.”
But Cubone simply shook its head, crossing small arms and glaring.
“You know,” someone said from behind Keith, “I think it learned that from you.”
Keith turned around, glaring at Shiro. “Did not.”
When Shiro prodded at Keith’s forehead, Keith ignored the rapid beating of his heart. “Right there. See? It’s your legendary glare.” Shiro grinned at Keith before looking down at their resident thief. “So that’s where all my baubles went.”
Keith sighed. “I’m sorry, I tried to explain that they’re not for the taking.”
Shiro shrugged. “I don’t mind. I have told you, this is your home too now.”
“But still—”
“Cubone seems to like all the Christmassy stuff going on. You guys ever do much of it?” Shiro’s tone was delicate, and Keith knew that he probably already realised the answer to that question. Still, he appreciated the politeness.
“No,” he said quietly. “Never had the…time.” Or money. Or house.
“Well, how about this.” Shiro sat down on the floor, meeting Cubone’s eye. “I’ll let you keep them. But you have to help me decorate the tree.” He smiled, and Cubone look enamoured with the gentle tilt of his smile and the glint in his eye.
Keith knew that feeling all too well.
“How about it?”
Slowly, Cubone nodded, before it picked up one bauble solemnly to place in Shiro’s hand. Then it grabbed another, depositing it carefully in Shiro’s lap.
Shiro laughed. “That’s gonna take a while, why don’t you get Keith to help too? After all, he figured out the mystery of the missing baubles. Must be Christmas magic.”
Keith couldn’t help but smile when Cubone turned to him as well, handing him one of its treasured decorations. It looked happier than Keith had seen it in years, and when Keith watched Shiro smiling widely, his gentle kindness pouring from his heart, he thought that maybe it was more Shiro’s magic than anything else.
Here goes, Steve thinks, then closes his eyes and leans.
“Whoa! Pal, whoa.” Bucky dances back a step and Steve opens his eyes. His mouth’s caught half-way to a pucker and oh, oh God, could he be more embarrassed? Being stood up by Sally Lindstrom in ‘36 wasn’t as bad as this.
“Sorry,” Steve says. “Sorry. Sorry, I-“
“Hey,” Bucky says. “Look. It’s not – you-you're fucking gorgeous.”
Steve’s deadpan look is all the warning Bucky gets before Steve opens his mouth.
“Really? ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’ It was a lousy excuse then, and it still is now. It’s okay,” Steve says. He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, the long line of his triceps on display. Then he straightens and looks Bucky in the eye before offering a weak grin. “Thanks for trying to let me down easy.”
“Whoa,” Bucky says, because that is – he is so wrong. “Not trying to let you down easy, pal, believe me.”
Bucky turns and walks to the sofa, sit down and pats the seat next to him.
Studying him, Steve considers, then moves toward the sofa, keeping a most of a cushion between the two of them.
“Look,” Bucky says, his voice soft as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “In your when, being gay, that was a problem. From what I read, you could get arrested for it, right?”
Steve nods, folding and unfolding his hands in his lap. “Yeah and I’m not gay –“
“Yeah, bi, I figured. It’s different now. A lot different.” When Steve flicks his eyes toward Bucky’s all he sees is that soft gray-blue, and how careful Bucky’s being with Steve’s precious little feelings.
He doesn’t want to stare – he’s bisexual, he’s not a creep.
“All I’m saying,” Bucky says, “is everything is different now. All of a sudden you’re allowed to want what you want, and everyone’s looking at you like you’re something to eat and this whole world is a buffet. And then you find out I’m gay, and it’s natural, you know? To want to try things out with someone you already trust. And I’m flattered, believe me.” Bucky’s mouth twists into a wry smile he as rolls his eyes, and none of it is making Steve feel any less like an ass. Not any less like that 95-pound kid that all the girls tried to avoid.
“Buck,” Steve says, voice soft. “You don’t have to do this. It’s okay that you’re not into me. You don’t have to let me down easy.” Steve can feel the embarrassment crawling down his neck, flushing bright red.
Bucky stares at him, mouth open. “Buddy, if I thought you were into me, I would bang you into next week and still not get enough.”
Steve’s mouth drops open as his mind provides visuals – Steve on his back with Bucky over him. Steve bend over the coffee table, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter, Bucky with his hand fisted into Steve’s hair, pulling his head up and back as he fucks into Steve hard and fast.
Definitely not helping the blush situation.
“Point is,” Bucky continues, “you’re gonna get out there and you’re gonna meet someone you really like. You know,” Bucky says, shrugging. “You’re gonna meet someone who gives you butterflies and who makes you smile every time you think about ‘em. That’s who you should be doing stuff like this with. Not some SHIELD agent who’s been living in your back pocket tryin’ to introduce you to the new century. You deserve that, Steve.”
Steve’s breath catches. Bucky breaks eye contact and looks down at his hands, shoulders slumped in a way that makes Steve want to reach out and put his arm around them.
“Oh,” Steve says, as all the things Bucky’s said start adding up in his mind. “Oh.” He turns to look at Bucky, notices the way his hair’s hanging down, laying across his cheek, eyes focused on the carpet.
“There, uhm, there actually is someone,” Steve says.
He watches as Bucky swallows, a smile plastered onto his face before he even turns to look at Steve.
“Yeah? That’s great, Steve. Really great. He’s a lucky guy. You tell him I said that.
“About that,” Steve says. “Maybe you can give me some advice?”
Bucky wipes his hands on his knees before getting up and going to the kitchen. The smile is still plastered on his face, so fierce that it hurts Steve a little to see it. Bucky wears his sincerity like armor and now it’s like he’s naked, vulnerable. Steve hates it.
A moment later, Bucky comes back with a glass of water and busies himself drinking it.
“It’s just,” Steve says, and then stands to pace. “It’s – I mean, he’s - every time I look at him, I just want to grab my sketch pad, get him on paper, you know? And when he smiles at me, it’s like,” and Steve swallows because he knows he has to get this out, but he’s never been so honest before. It’s almost enough to make him laugh – where the hell is Captain America’s bravery now?
“When he smiles at me, I feel like maybe – like maybe there’s a reason they found me in all that ice, you know? Maybe the reason’s so I can be here now. With him.” Steve shrugs. Bucky still won’t look at him, and for the first time, Steve wonders if maybe he’s read this whole thing all wrong.
“Buck?” Steve asks, and Bucky finally meets his eye, and he just looks miserable.
Giving Steve a soft smile, Bucky shrugs. “I’m real happy for you, man. I should,” he says, looking around Steve’s apartment. “I gotta go. I’ll, uhm….” His words trail off and Steve crosses the room to get to him.
“Buck,” he says, and reaches out for Bucky’s hand. “You gotta tell me if I got this wrong, Buck,” Steve says. He brings his hand up to brush that lock of hair back behind Bucky’s ear, before thumbing along Bucky’s cheekbone. “This drives me crazy,” Steve says, stroking his thumb along Bucky’s lip.
Bucky stares at him like he’s crazy. “What?” he asks, sounding dazed.
“The way your lip curls, right here,” Steve says, and leans forward, slow and easy, and kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “I must have drawn that a hundred times,” Steve says. “Still can’t get it right.”
“Steve,” Bucky says, eyes wide. “Steve.”
It’s all the warning he gets before Bucky fists Steve’s shirt into both hands and drags him down for a kiss. It’s lips and tongues and clacking teeth, with Bucky pulling him close, close, slotting a leg between his thighs.
He’s dizzy by the time they break for air. Somehow he’s been pushed up back against the wall, and Bucky’s got both of Steve’s wrists wrapped up with one hand while his other slides up under Steve’s shirt.
The grin Bucky gives him is feral, but his eyes are the happiest that Steve’s ever seen them. “I hope to God,” Bucky says, before leaning in to bite at Steve’s bottom lip. “I hope to God you don’t have plans for the next few days.”
Steve grins and arches into Bucky. “Wouldn’t you know? My dance card just got lost.”
[For @gettibucket. Ed’s companion fic can be found here.]
Roy has always been...reserved, in the way he shows his affections.
All right. Untrue. He had scarcely given it much thought, was all. But after Ishval, after death and depression and a drunkenness that never ended, he has been careful. And never is he any more careful than when he is with Ed.
At the beginning, he marvelled at the fact that Ed would accept him, in any way, so Roy had to touch, had to hold, to remind himself that it was real. Would remain real, if he worked at it. And never had he wanted to work harder at anything, to pour his whole heart and soul into something, than when Ed smiled, brilliant and gorgeous, every time their fingers brushed together.
Later on, it was awe at the fact that he was staying. That it was all working, and he held Ed close at every opportunity, as a promise to both of them that he would cherish his Edward, and keep him from what harm he could.
Now having Ed with him grounds him. Makes him steady in a way that he hadn’t known was possible, hadn’t even realised was missing, really. The touches, light as they are and casual though they might be, remind him that in Ed he has found the most dear of friends, and all the best parts of Roy himself. He is still careful, yes, but differently now. Careful to treasure Ed as he ought to be treasured, but with him Roy has learned that with the people he loves, being himself is a little more bearable.
Roy has also learned more of Ed than he had ever dreamed of, more of love and friendship and life than he realised he had ever missed. And Roy knows, more than anyone, how often the world has tried to take that away. Tried to extinguish that flame and darken that light, so Roy does what he can to make sure it never gets another damn chance to do it. When their fingers tangle together, Ed smiles and the world is a little brighter. When they are warm in bed at night, Roy tucks himself around Ed’s smaller form so that he might feel loved, he might feel even a shadow of what he’s given Roy.
Ed’s hands are small, like the rest of him. But strong, like the rest of him: his body, his mind, his generous heart. Not surprising; after all, this is the man who punched a self-proclaimed god in the face. Which makes it all that much sweeter every time he offers his hand, gentle and open and inviting, for Roy to take. Every time he rushes to Roy and wraps his arms around him, and lets Roy hold him close in turn.
And when Roy does, he feels a little calmer, a little steadier.
Today they hung up your photo on a wall and talked for hours about your achievements.
I felt like I was breaking the whole time. I still do because I am broken and I don’t think anything can ever fix this.
You left a hole in me, you know that? I was doing fine without you I didn’t know that I needed you until you came along and then
Well.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I don’t know where I’m going with anything. I can’t sleep. I’m so damn tired but I can’t sleep. And you used to tell me to write out my thoughts remember? so that's what I'm doing right now. Though that was when I had five assignments due in a week. It was pretty solid advice then. It doesn’t work so well when your best friend dies on you.
You used to say Keith, youre too smart sometimes and your brain goes too fast. You gotta clear out your head and let yourself shut down sometimes.
I’m shutting down. I’m shutting down and it’s so cold when you’re not here and
And I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know what the point of writing this was except to say that they hung your photo on a wall next to matt’s and his dad’s and they lowered the flags to half mast and talked about bravery and being noble and hardworking. they went on about duty and the greater good and the acehivements of mankind.
But no one talked about YOU. No one talked about the way you used to wink at me sometimes when you stood up on that stage. No one talked about how you walked through the searing heat to take a stray cat to the shelter and ended up scratched all over. No one talked about how you snorted when you laugh, how you used to mix all your potatoes in with your gravy and meat until it was all one gross pile of goop, or how you’re stupidly scared of butterflies but deal with spiders just fine and I’m the only one left to remember that.
I’m the only you left to carry that, and it’s too much. It’s done for them. Everyone else. They put your photo on the wall, said a bunch of stuff that didn’t mean anything, and that’s it for them. Youre done. You’re gone.
I’ll never see you again and I’m so scared shiro. Im scared of forgetting your voice, Im scared of not remember the way you felt or what you looked like. I’m so scared cause if the worlds forgotten you already, what hope do I have against the world? If they never even saw you for everything that you were, how the hell do I cling to it?
Ive lost you already. And Im so scared I’m only gonna lose you again, bit by stupid bit.
I just want you to come back.
That’s all Im asking just please PLEASE come back to me.
[For @cariisms. Roy’s companion fic can be found here.]
In the four years (and counting) that they’ve been together, Ed’s noticed that Roy likes to hold Ed. A lot.
It wasn’t really something he noticed at the start. Honeymoon periods and the thrill of the chase and all that, so he just filed Roy’s touches under a boxed marked ‘Giddy Hormones’, and let him do his thing. After all, Ed felt the same way, smiling every time they held hands, or his heart thumping wildly whenever they cuddled with Roy curled around him, playing with his hair and brushing his fingers over Ed’s skin.
But now, it’s four years down the track, and he doesn’t think it belongs in Giddy Hormones anymore. Sure, Ed still smiles when Roy’s hand reaches for his, and feels his heart settle when Roy wraps his arms around his waist. But now he’s moved Roy’s touches from Giddy Hormones (Which Will Definitely End) to something more stable. Less of a cardboard box, and more a little treasure chest.
Something like ‘Love’. Something like ‘Heart’.
Something like ‘This Man Is My Soulmate and I’ll Never Get Sick of Touching Him Either’.
It’s simple, but constant. It’s Roy’s arm around his waist when they stand in line for something. His hand curling around Ed’s even when his automail must be freezing against Roy’s fingers, even if he’s wearing gloves. And sometimes when they hug, Roy just...lifts him. He’ll wrap his arms, strong and sure, around Ed’s waist and literally sweep him off his feet, smiling up at him as if he can’t imagine anywhere else in the world that’s better than being a foot shorter than Ed, with aching arms. And when he lowers him, he always rubs his hands up and down Ed’s arms, and it makes Ed’s heart beat a little faster with the...protectiveness of the gesture.
Over the years, Ed’s noticed more things about Roy. The careful way he is around people, his little bell laugh when he’s relaxed and happy. With all the hand-holding, Ed’s also noticed that Roy’s fingers are delicate, and slim. Which is surprising, when you think about the destruction that he can bring by shifting them just a little, all the death he’s brought through these hands alone. Maybe it’s ‘cause Roy knows that too, that he holds Ed like he’s something precious, something to take care of.
No, Ed doesn’t need Roy’s protection, ‘cause he can take care of himself. But in Roy’s arms, Ed feels a little less like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, a little less like he needs to take care of himself. Because Roy has offered to do so, and so willingly, that Ed feels a little less scared. A little less lost.
I recently read something about how having only one eye will probably result in neck pains, and that's how I got an idea for a small snippet about the secret pairing of my Alexander novel.
Bellow the cut: Kleitos and Philippos haven't seen each other for months, and of course, the royal dumbass hasn't been taking care of himself.
Finding Philippos alone is a rare thing – not only because he’s the king, but because he’s one of the most gregarious creatures Kleitos ever met: he must have someone to laugh with, someone to drink with, someone to warm the bed, someone to cover with his shield. The years apart and the sour mood of the failing siege of Byzantium changed nothing; before Mieza, his lover always surrounded himself with the noises of people, and after, well… he just looks a bit older, with some grey at the edge of the beard.
Yet, he’s alone now. Kleitos knows the beast too well: smells like premeditation. And they have a real room with a lock, not the fragile flap of a tent to secure their privacy.
So the officer locks the door, very quietly, and moves to the side of the room with the desk, half buried under various opened letters, the chair, and the man sitting in the chair, who is pretending he hasn’t seen or heard him.
Kleitos says nothing, at first. Floors like that conceal nothing, and what he means to say cannot be heard. They are too old for this, bearded, full of scars, with too high a rank. They should have outgrown the affair more than a decade ago – and that’s just the start of what would be said about them, if the mob knew everything.
He wounds his arms around the shoulders of his lover. Philippos answers with a deep hum, lets his head rest on the shoulder of the younger man. They won’t have time for much more than this… they hardly ever do, when they campaign, even with their oldest friends covering their secret – or their self-destructive stupidity, as Parmenion likes to comment, pretending to disapprove the never-ending antics of his best friend.
In the silence the room affords them, for the first time since Kleitos brought Alexandros north from his regency at Pella and the short war that followed, he takes his time for a deep breath. He’s known only one man’s body in his life, and he knows his scent as if it were his own – the sweat, the discreet spices and wine of the God’s presence in his servant’s blood, the very slightly perfumed oil that suggests exotic woods.
There is something lacking, though. Kleitos pulls back; Philippos groans and finally lets go of his letter to turn toward his lover.
“Are you using the salves you physician gave you for your neck?” Kleitos asks.
The king blinks and then offers a blank, innocent face, the one that screams of mischief to any who knows him well.
“Of course,” he lies.
“You’re a brat,” Kleitos growls, fists hitting his hips. What in Hades has Parmenion been doing? Is old age eating at his sight? “Ma Dia Philippos, is it that hard to do what you’re told once in a while? What do you want? For you neck to be stuck again? You had one job and that was to use the blasted salve!”
“I have way too many jobs!”
“And taking care of yourself is obviously not one you care about.”
“It smells like shite.”
“And you have one eye and neck pains.” And what gives Kleitos pains, right now, is to keep his voice to an angry whisper – what he needs is to shout at someone, or throw something, because it’s the same thing every-fucking-time with this family… and when it’s not Philippos losing an eye or a shoulder or a leg, it’s Alexandros throwing himself into a war Antipatros was perfectly able to deal with. At sixteen! Sixteen!
Clan of crazy dumbasses.
“And here I was, thinking I would get a kiss for our reunion,” Philippos declares with a pout. “You’re a nagging old nurse.”
“Yeah, that’s why you asked my sister to be the actual nurse of your son, remember?”
“But I missed you…”
Bah! Kleitos steps closer. His lover is giving him his best puppy look. That’s probably what people never expect from Philippos: the range of his acting ability. He can be scary as a storm, playful as a young dog, considerate like he’s got a mellow heart and hard as iron. Give him a lyre, he’ll torture it with the most astonishing lack of talent – give him a crowd and he’ll make them dance to his tune in a heartbeat.
The officer raises a hand. He starts with a very light caress, just grazing at the base of the neck, a caress that gets must rougher, much more dominating as it reaches the jaw, pulling for a kiss. Philippos may have a new lover at the turn of each season, none of them know what he truly likes – and none of them ever will, because that’s not the tastes a king can afford.
Kleitos lowers his head until his lips are a breath away from those of his lover.
And then he whispers: “Take care of your neck.”
He withdraws; Philippos slaps a hand atop the desk, suddenly thunderous, though they have been playing this game for too long for Kleitos to be afraid.
“Traitorous…”
But Kleitos has stepped away already, and the only answer he gives is his middle finger… and a slightly mocking smile that means he knows who will give in first.
Because even if Kleitos really wanted that kiss, what he truly needs is to know this self-destructive idiot will take care of himself.
Hai hai! Sorry, I'm a bit shy >//< wanna try to inspire you tho! I'm feeling a little Royed deprived, so... I've been thinking about Ed and Roy meeting again after a long time and they stumble a little awkwardly on each other like "so... uh... how are you?" and the old atraction blows up in their face like they have never been apart >u<
When they find each other again, it’s almost like they never left.
Like Roy never went on his long trip to Xing, right when their…something had possibly been about to bloom. But when he’d returned, Ed had gone back to Risembool, and Roy…Roy, the fool, had promised himself that he’d call. But then some disaster led to some other crisis, and pathetic excuses, and the phone had remained untouched for months.
When Roy’s initial reaction is to blink and say “Ed, is that you?” (as though that shade of gold and the strong set of his shoulders could be anyone else), he wants to bury his face in the fancy pot plant at this fancy dinner.
But after a few minutes of odd silence, it’s like that time has never been lost. As though all the travelling and living in between had only made them more alike, in how they realised how little they both knew, in their exasperation at politics and politicians.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t one of them too, Roy,” Ed says, nudging him in the ribs when he expresses that particular sentiment.
“I might be, but at least I still have your favour, so I am arguably in a better position.”
“Does my ‘favour’ mean that much to you?”
The stars shine off the gold of Ed’s hair, and despite the chill evening breeze, Roy’s filled with warmth.
“Of course,” he says, and he likes to think that the darkening of Ed’s cheeks is a blush.
And this time—after Hawkeye comes to tell him the car is ready outside, and after Roy has thought of and dismissed all the other higher-ups he should’ve been mingling with while he’d been spending time with Ed—this time, he can’t let it all slip away again.
“Have dinner with me,” he blurts, eyes honest and heart raw, after they shuffle their feet for several minutes over a goodbye that neither of them wants to finish.
Ed blinks at him, and Roy’s heart sinks at the thought that maybe he’s moved on, maybe he has something else.
But then Ed smiles, and Roy can’t breathe.
“When?” he asks, and reignites the flame in Roy’s heart.
So this story appeared nearly complete in my head this morning as I walked from my ridiculously distant parking spot to my building on campus, my newly broken toe throbbing at me unhappily. Apparently distracting myself from pain with Supercat stories is a thing now. You’re welcome.
The text Kara had received at 5:11am had been short and to the point.
I am working from home today. Be here by 6:30am.
She arrived closer to 6:15am, latte in hand, because she still had to wait for Michael, the doorman, to buzz her in and then had to endure roughly three minutes of casual chit-chat with him because apparently his "type" was twenty-something blondes and she fit that bill to a T, unfortunately, making the walk to the elevator bank that much more awkward.
Outside the penthouse, Kara heard her frustrated boss shouting at someone.
Inside the penthouse, she made her way toward the sound of Cat's voice, surprised to find herself walking deeper and deeper into the private wing where the bedrooms were. As she rounded the corner in one hallway, she met the eyes of two of the regular cleaning staff--Julie and Truc. Truc stood defiantly with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a deepening scowl etched into her features. Julie took one look at Kara and bolted into her arms like a frightened chick seeking the shelter of a mother hen.
"Oh!" said Kara, juggling her messenger bag with her pads and tablet and other work supplies and the latte to make way for Julie. "Okay. So you're upset. I can see that." She patted the young woman on the back hesitantly and frowned.
Another volley in what was, apparently, a long recounting of Cat's displeasure erupted from the room.
"I'M ASKING YOU AS NICELY AS I CAN TO ASSIST ME IN STANDING UP!" she shouted and Kara could hear the slightest edge of desperation in Cat's voice. "I TRIED AND FAILED MYSELF ALREADY AND--"
Kara wasn't about to keep Cat waiting for one more second and she nodded to Julie as she shooed Truc and her down the hall. "I've got this," she whispered, waving them both away. "Go on."
Julie didn't need a second invitation to flee and Truc hmmphed, annoyed and disapproving, before wandering away herself. Kara watched them turn the corner, then squared her shoulders, and entered her boss' bedroom as if it was just another day at work.
Which lasted all of three seconds.
"I'm here with your latte, Miss--Oh, my God, Miss Grant, are you okay?"
Kara walked in to see Cat reclining in her voluptuous king-sized bed with her right foot bundled up in make-shift bandages and elevated on several pillows. She practically ran to the woman's bedside and gaped down at the injury, her features twisted with shock and concern. She could see swollen, purple flesh peeking through the gauze and the sight made her cringe with empathy.
"Oh, Kiera, thank God," said Cat, struggling to sit more fully upright. "Put the latte down and help me. I need to get up--"
Kara put the latte and her bag down as ordered but didn't look very convinced Cat should be getting up.
"Are you sure, Miss Grant?" she asked worriedly.
"Of course, I'm sure!" snapped Cat. Her tone did not invite debate. "I need to get up so I can use the restroom. I asked those two useless--" Whatever else she had been about to say died as Kara, face determined and resolute, leaned over, scooped her out of the bed, and began to carry her to her bathroom. Cat swallowed carefully and put her arms around Kara's neck, trying not to pay too much attention to the fact she was clad only in a silk nightgown and that Kara had lifted her easily--too easily--into surprisingly strong arms.
"What happened?" asked the young woman, looking down at her with soft, sad eyes, as blue as the sea on a summer's day.
"I broke two toes doing laundry," said Cat, scowling to cover the reckless beat of her heart. "Because apparently that is a thing that can happen to award-winning media moguls on Sunday nights when they are home alone. This is why I have people come in to do these things. So they can break their toes when they get distracted in the laundry room!"
Kara didn’t ask what had distracted Cat, though her curiosity burned to know, but instead put the older woman gingerly on her feet just inside the bathroom door when they reached it. "Does it hurt?" she asked, her arms still around Cat, steadying her until she could find her balance.
Cat looked at her balefully but did not move away from her. "I am not going to justify that question by answering it," she said.
Kara grimaced. "Of course it hurts, Kara," she muttered under her breath, scolding herself. She still held onto Cat in the bathroom doorway and looked down, gasping lightly when she found Cat's large green eyes much closer than she expected. "Do you...?" She glanced further into the palatial en suite and bit her lip, knowing she would do anything to help Cat but also knowing Cat wouldn't want to be seen in such a vulnerable state.
"I can take it from here," said Cat softly, smirking at the young woman. When Kara didn't immediately release her, she cleared her throat.
"Oh. Oh!" Kara blushed and stepped backwards, relinquishing her hold on Cat reluctantly. "Of course. I'm sorry, Miss Grant."
Kara blushing was quite possibly the sweetest thing Cat Grant had seen in a long time and she smiled shyly at the young woman. "No need to apologize, Kara," she said, watching the younger woman's eyes light up when she said her name. "Would it be too much trouble if I were to ask you for a return trip when I'm through? The thought of hobbling back to bed...."
Kara grinned as if the entire world were suddenly made of puppies and ice cream cones. "I'll wait right here, Miss Grant," she promised, her hands folded together demurely in front of her.
Cat crooked her index finger, beckoning the young woman toward her, and Kara leaned closer, a confused frown settling between her eyebrows. "Yes, Miss Grant?" she asked.
Cat cupped Kara's cheek in her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the young woman's lips, eyes fluttering closed with satisfaction when she heard Kara's soft moan at the contact. The needful way the young woman returned the kiss--all earnestness and shivers--made her heart ache. When they parted, Cat gazed up at Kara with sparkling green eyes.
"I think it's time you started calling me Cat," she whispered huskily, imagining Kara calling her exactly that, over and over, tangled up with her in bed all morning. "Don't you agree?"
Kara could only nod eagerly, her eyes wide and very, very blue.
