He looks down at their hands in surprise, but is easily persuaded to take it. He so badly wants to kiss her, but he can't do that, so he can at least accept her hand in his. That's much better, if still questionable. And that's how he leads her to a spare bedroom, hand in hand with a small blush and a smile that he thinks are private to himself. "Here you are. If there is anything you need, do tell me. My sleep is always so varied that you would not be disturbing me. ...He will be dealt with later, have no fear of that."
The blush misses her, but she notices the particular curve of his cheek, and finds hers to be following the same curve.
Holding and being held should suffice. Should satisfy. It's a far sight better than the terror after her kill and imagining a short lifespan spent on the run. He's warmer than she'll ever be on her own.
"I do not have fear of that," Paloma promises quietly. "You have made me very less afraid."
"I am more glad for it than you can know." With another smile, Jekyll kisses her hand and bids her goodnight, before heading back down the hall to his bedroom. Safe from his shameful feelings surrounding her.
When she's very sure he has gone, Paloma presses her lips to the spot he'd kissed and marvels at her foolishness.
To give her credit, she tries. The problem doesn't lie with the bed in the room he graciously afforded her. Its blankets are above standard. The cushions should be comfortable.
Embroidered patterns distract her. She discards the outer robe, leaves it in a heap. In an hour's frustration her blankets, gown, and all but one cushion join it until Paloma's naked and restlessly turning above foreign sheets. This gives her oodles of time to acknowledge and accept the root of the problem; out of bed she slithers, takes up his robe to wrap in haphazardly, and exits.
Once again she darkens his doorway. Her curls seem longer, like black tendrils down the length of her neck, but then it hasn't dried. She wavers. Knocks on the wooden frame twice, thrice.
Out of bed he climbs, only half asleep, and pulls on a robe to answer the door. He'd said to come to him for anything, but he hadn't really expected that there would be anything. One of the first things he notices is her single layer. The one that's meant only to go over another, not to stand alone. Oh. Maybe it's a foreign thing...?
Somehow, in the brief interlude between him giving her the robe and her wearing it and only it to his bedroom, it's become hideously wrinkled. That and the nervous shifting she does, switching the weight on her feet at random, betray her restlessness.
That wording has another meaning, and his heart races for it. But after the moment of shock he knows what is really meant. "-Oh. Well..." He does need to think about it, it isn't proper, but... "Alright..." And so he opens the door wider to let her in, and to get back into bed. Hugging the edge.
Her relief is as visible to Jekyll as the racing of his heart is audible to Paloma. She pretends not to hear and hopes he won't dwell on what he sees in her.
Clutching the collar of her-- his robe, she touches his shoulder in passing. Gladdened to be out of the hall. Lost as to what she ought to do once they've hugged their respective edges of the bed.
"It is your right to sleep where you like, Harry. Behave like I am not here?"
But then he would be dangerously close to her, he can't possibly do that. And certainly not in her state of dress. "I am!" Yes, pressed right up against the far side is exactly how he sleeps all the time. "And you may of course do as you will."
He will adamantly lie there trying not to think about anything but sleep. Don't give in to the impulse to do what she says and get closer, to kiss her or be her big spoon!!
Oh. He's being stubborn about giving her space to be proper.
"You will fall," she points out. Paloma turns over and faces him, ignoring how the robe tugs into a licentious slit down her front. It's dark, anyway. "And I cannot sleep."
Light pressures on the small of his back are her fingers, extended to suggest peace.
"No, no, I shall be just fine, I assure you!" So long as he keeps that chub down, anyway. But she's making this all terribly difficult. It would be awfully nice just to hold someone in bed, even ignoring any sexual aspects. Which would also be nice. But all the more inappropriate. "Sleep will be good for your stress levels."
He tries too not to react to her fingers on his back, but there's a small startle nonetheless.
As if on cue, he does turn to her, not quite his entire body, but it does shift along with his head. Curiosity has the better of him. "No? Is there anything I can do to help?"
There he goes. The biggest dickest weenie around, hugging her with his pelvis awkwardly angled away.
Paloma does not read the problem accurately and snuggles in nice and close, nosing in against his chest. She thinks that poking issue is his bony hip for all of two seconds.
UHHHHHHHHHH they can pretend it's his bony hip, right. That's definitely all it is. He does not have the biggest weeniest boner, he is nnnoooottt remembering that they fucked before and definitely no details of it!!!! nope. he is innocent. And will just...hope that she doesn't notice and let her keep her nose in his chest!
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moritat2015-08-17 04:59 pm
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But Paloma says, "I would be so grateful to you," and at last remembers to keep the blanket decent as she stands tall.
Well, as she can.
Darting her eyes away, two of her fingers tap, then curl into his palm. It's a request-- a knock at his door.
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Holding and being held should suffice. Should satisfy. It's a far sight better than the terror after her kill and imagining a short lifespan spent on the run. He's warmer than she'll ever be on her own.
"I do not have fear of that," Paloma promises quietly. "You have made me very less afraid."
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To give her credit, she tries. The problem doesn't lie with the bed in the room he graciously afforded her. Its blankets are above standard. The cushions should be comfortable.
Embroidered patterns distract her. She discards the outer robe, leaves it in a heap. In an hour's frustration her blankets, gown, and all but one cushion join it until Paloma's naked and restlessly turning above foreign sheets. This gives her oodles of time to acknowledge and accept the root of the problem; out of bed she slithers, takes up his robe to wrap in haphazardly, and exits.
Once again she darkens his doorway. Her curls seem longer, like black tendrils down the length of her neck, but then it hasn't dried. She wavers. Knocks on the wooden frame twice, thrice.
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"Yes...?"
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Somehow, in the brief interlude between him giving her the robe and her wearing it and only it to his bedroom, it's become hideously wrinkled. That and the nervous shifting she does, switching the weight on her feet at random, betray her restlessness.
"Hello," she starts tentatively.
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"I cannot sleep at night, but it has been ... long years since I go to bed alone."
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Paloma can't seem to find his eyes. "May I lie with you?"
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Clutching the collar of her-- his robe, she touches his shoulder in passing. Gladdened to be out of the hall. Lost as to what she ought to do once they've hugged their respective edges of the bed.
"It is your right to sleep where you like, Harry. Behave like I am not here?"
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He will adamantly lie there trying not to think about anything but sleep. Don't give in to the impulse to do what she says and get closer, to kiss her or be her big spoon!!
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"You will fall," she points out. Paloma turns over and faces him, ignoring how the robe tugs into a licentious slit down her front. It's dark, anyway. "And I cannot sleep."
Light pressures on the small of his back are her fingers, extended to suggest peace.
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He tries too not to react to her fingers on his back, but there's a small startle nonetheless.
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She stays even after that twitch, despite an instinct to retreat. "I do not ... drift like you can. Nor dream."
Please, please turn and look.
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"No ... ah," Paloma stutters and curls her fingers. "Yes. I fear you may not wish to be improper?"
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"I am not your wife, so begging you to hold me could be seen as improper." The boldest thing she's said all night, if not done.
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He can't say anything, all he can do is turn to and wrap his arms around her. Although he has to be sure to keep his hips away.
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Paloma does not read the problem accurately and snuggles in nice and close, nosing in against his chest. She thinks that poking issue is his bony hip for all of two seconds.
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She is content. Kind of. Understanding of why he kept his lower half ... distanced, too.
"Harry?" she pipes up, a hand dropping lower between them. Her knuckles bump against his actual not-erect hip.
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