just friends.

Celia

Erich never sees what happens after he leaves Celia in Chesapeake Beach. How she comes out, her makeup smudged and then carefully re-applied, sniffling and talking to her date, 'Jack'. How she explains her step-brother Derek and his behavior as well as her own reaction. How the rest of that day goes for her. How that night is for her. But he's only met her a handful of times now, and their friendly moments so far are heavily outweighed by their arguments.

It's twelve hours later, maybe more, when he gets a text from her. Middle of the night.

Are you back in dc? COME VISIT ME. Room ###.

A few moments later:

The hay adams remember?

And then:

Bring laptop

Erich

It's only because she said she was going to text him later, and because he's kindasorta worried about leaving her alone with 'Jack' even though he knows he shouldn't be, she can take care of herself, she's been taking care of herself all along, she's a fucking professional at this, way better than he'll ever be and he saw that today but he's still kindasorta worried, that he leaves his phone turned up loud. Even so, the first text falls on deaf ears. The second jars him toward consciousness. And the third seals the deal, makes his head pop up from the jumbled blankets and sleeping bag in the back of his car.

He's parked in a Walmart lot. Classy, but at least the security doesn't care much about him sleeping in his car. He fumbles for his phone, fishes it up from the floor by its charging cord. Blinks at the last text, and then unlocks it and goes back to the first. Reads.

A little later she gets a text back:

should i just walk in or pop or what?

Celia

Whatever! :) :) :)

Erich

What the hell, he thinks, sleepy, fuzzy-headed, staring at the smileys. Doesn't even seem like her. Doesn't seem like the girl that wadded up his hoodie -- the same one he was wearing today when he barged in on her and her date -- and threw it at his face. Or the one that grumpily informed him she was going to vomit purple all over his car, maybe she's possessed by the Wyrm.

He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. He knows when he's being ridiculous; it's just that he can't help it sometimes. Muttering, or really just grumbling, he pulls himself out of his bedroll and sits up -- thumps his head on the roof -- slumps over all hibernating-bear-like and taps a short message back.

i'll try to take the back door or smth

So he shows up at room # # # maybe ten minutes later. He's still kind of rumpled, his shoes on bare feet, his hoodie hanging from his shoulders. He appears to be wearing pajamas under it, though really the only way to tell is because his pants aren't denim or thick sweats. They're thinnish sweats. And his t-shirt is orange and soft from a million washes. And he has his laptop under his arm, the charging cables in his other hand.

"Everything all right?" is the first thing he asks when she opens the door. "What happened after I left?"

Celia

She's done more with that hoodie than wad it up and throw it at him. She's worn it, and his sweatpants, while curled up on his couch-esque construction in this car, watching Aliens. But that's neither here nor there. It was weeks ago.

When Erich gets to the Hay Adams and knocks on her door, he can see the peephole blink when she peeks through it. Then it swings open -- he can hear the click of a lock being undone as well -- and there she is, wearing a two-sizes-too-big bathrobe with the hotel's insignia on the chest, her hair still quite wet, but she's been out of the shower since the time she texted him.

She's beaming. "Hi!" she says brightly, then realizes it's late and they're in a hallway. "Hi," she whispers, and steps back to let him in. The door gets closed. Then locked.

The room is expansive. Palatial. And a complete wreck. Clothes are strewn wherever she dropped them after trying them on, and it's hard to tell what is clean and what is not. The bed is rumpled and undone but is roughly twice the size of his car, or seems like it. The television is on a music station, playing Top 40 quietly. There are protein bar wrappers in the trash and a half-eaten one on the desk. There's some empty cans of All Natural energy drinks with funky names, as well as some Go Girl Blueberry-Pomegranate Tea somethingsomething. The can is pink. Because of course it is.

Celia dances over some piles and bounds onto the bed, bouncing on her knees when she gets there, grinning at him. "Everything is awesome," she tells him. "Come on! Come. Come come come, sit," she says, patting the bed. Whether he comes over or not, she starts in:

"So, okay, this is why the whole stepbrother thing is genius -- now you can actually be seen with me, for one, because if anyone is watching and telling him that you're hanging around then what is he going to do? He doesn't think I know he's probably watching me, so that would be him showing his hand and then I'd pitch a godawful fit because after all, why is he giving me crap about my brother hanging around, right?"

Celia nearly explodes from excitement at this next: "But that's not even the best part. Because I'm totally going to make him think that you want to fuck me only I'm totally oblivious and think you're just a mean old jerk who picks on me, nevermind that you hate any guy who looks twice at me and magically find reasons to come to D.C. instead of Harvard --"

She stops there, her grin almost manic at this point. "Okay. You have to admit, the Harvard bit was great, because what kind of a spoiled little douchebag ditches Harvard after his step-dad pulled all these strings to get him in? The kind of douchebag who would fucking hate my father for all kinds of warped psychological reasons. Oh god, I'm so fucking good at this, Erich."

Celia's hands flap in midair. How can she be this energetic?

Well. There are all those cans of drinks with 80+ milligrams of caffeine per.

"So with all this melodrama and him driving himself insane every time my dad 'makes' me hang out with you or every time you 'just won't leave me alone' so I can't see him, and the fact that he'll be obsessing over every hint he gets that you do things like come to my room in the middle of the night and then completely losing his mind every time he does get me alone... Erich, he's going to be so distracted he won't even see the end coming. It's going to be so much worse for him now."

She looks full of energy there, and not just manic excitement. Something real, some rush of purpose that comes from deep within. She clenches her hands into fists around the edges of her bathrobe as though to channel some of that energy. And then, overcome by it, she lets go of her bathrobe, puts her hands on either side of Erich's face, and is kissing him before he has quite finished processing everything she just said. As kisses go, he's... probably had better, actually. It's a firm, mindless press of her lips on his, full of fervor more than passion, and it's just weird. Shouldn't she kiss better than that? Shouldn't she, if she wanted to, be able to melt his mind when she kisses him?

Celia nearly bruises his mouth, then pulls back. She's silent a moment, but doesn't look stunned at herself. She just looks lost and a little bewildered for a moment, her hands still on his face. Then she laughs.

"I'm sorry, that was so weird. I'm just so excited."

Erich

This might be the biggest hotel room Erich has ever seen. It's certainly the nicest. In his mind, hotels are the dingy little crapholes by the side of the road that's he's crashed in on rare occasion because he just really needed to stretch to his full length, just for a night. Or maybe -- even rarer, this -- he met someone and she's actually interested in getting a room for a while instead of, y'know. Running away.

Regardless: the room is enormous. It's swanky. He'd be looking around trying not to gape like a country bumpkin, except she's also in a bathrobe and he's just thinking why, why, why would you do that as she takes him to the bed and tells him to sit, sit, sit and listen to her brilliant plan. He notices the room is not just palatial; it's also a wreck,

oh god please let the bed not be rumpled from sex,

and if it is rumpled from sex then at least let the sheets be clean. Because he does sit, listening to her tell him all about her evil plan. Which is actually a virtuous plan, he supposes, given which side she's on. She's going on about how he's just her stepbrother, 'Jack' can't get mad about him hanging around, except he wants to fuck her only she's totally oblivious and --

"Wow," Erich manages to get a couple words in edgewise, and they are dry as saltine crackers, "you're not basing this even remotely on reality at all, are you."

Genius! Distracted. The end. She kisses him.

His spine bolts straight. His eyes close and his mouth tries to open to hers but her lips stay together. His mind doesn't melt, and that's a mercy, because it means he has the ability to regain his sanity and raise his hand a moment later to push her gently but firmly back. She's drawn away by then anyway. They're both silent, and he looks at her, and she laughs but he doesn't.

"It's all right," he says. A beat. "It is pretty brilliant." So that's the way he's going to play it: he's going to pretend she never kissed him; he's going to pretend they're just talking about how everything's falling into place. "I thought I played Ivy League dudebro pretty well too," he adds. "Next time I should probably show up in a polo with a popped collar."

Celia

[empathy!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 3, 5) ( botch x 1 )

Erich

[sheeeee now thinks:

he's not even remotely interested in being kissed by her. he thinks she's being weird and desperate, throwing herself at him in a bathrobe. he also thinks her whole AND MY PLAN IS ABOUT TO COME TO FRUITION AND THAT IS WHY I AM SO HAPPY EEEEE is just a front; this is obviously a booty call and he's just like ugh.]

Celia

He might remember her telling him that 'Jack' never comes to her room. He can't be seen there, just a stone's throw from the White House. He can't fuck her here. But even forgetting that, even not being sure that the sheets are clean, Erich sits down with her and bears up under her delight, her speed-talking, all of it. He says that sarcastic you're not basing this even remotely on reality line, but she doesn't seem to pause for breath long enough to register it.

Oh, but she does. And a few moments later she remembers it, hearing that dry tone, and it feels like mockery. Cruelty, really. She's thinking about it because of the way he stiffened when she kissed him, opened his mouth like he had something to say, and then pushed her back and didn't laugh, didn't laugh at all. Celia stares at him and gives that awkward laugh, apologizing.

Erich pretends she never kissed him and he thought he did a good job. She's silent a moment, then huffs a little laugh. "Yeah, that would kinda nail it."

Reaching up, Celia pushes her hair back, fingers spreading through the twists of wet locks. Sitting where she is a moment, she scoots back and slides off the bed, going over to fiddle with something at the side of the television. "Anyway, I thought I should at least tell you what I told him so you'd know how to act if you're ever around. But if it's boring or weird or whatever, you don't have to. It's all going to happen anyway even without the stepbrother angle."

Her hand comes up again, tucking one of those loose locks behind her ear. She doesn't look at him, but picks up the pamphlet with the pay-per-view options in it, examining it quite thoroughly. "I was just going to watch a movie because I'm all wired, but... you know, it's actually pretty late. I should probably just go to bed."

Erich

[one day ... one day, i will play a character that has a lot of dice for this *wistful*]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 7) ( fail )

Erich

And just like that, she changes entirely. Folds up on herself and becomes simultaneously withdrawn and glossy, unreadable as a -- he can't even come up with a good analogy. Just unreadable. He had a better chance of reading her expression when his frisbee hit the window earlier today; he thought he saw surprise and shock and oh shit and maybe, maybe, maybe just a little hint of delight because, hey! her friend is here.

He doesn't feel very much like her friend right now. She's looking at her movie choices, but she thinks she should just go to bed. He still has his laptop, and he's sort of confused; why did she call him here just to monologue for three minutes and then ask him to leave? But then -- she probably didn't mean to kiss him. He doesn't want to be pushy. Maybe she's awkward because she doesn't want him to get the wrong idea. He wouldn't blame her. She did catch him staring at her while she changed in his car.

"I guess I should get out of your hair," he says. The bed is too fine, too soft, too grand to creak as he gets up. He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, glances at the door. A pause.

"It's not boring. Or weird." He shrugs. "I want to." And another pause. "Help, I mean."

Celia

That's probably it. She was going to watch a movie with him, like they did in the car, but now she's worn herself out and she's realized she's tired and if she lets him stay now he's going to think she might kiss him again or he'll kiss her and that would be so awkward.

That's what Erich comes up with, and that's all he can gather from looking at Celia as she stands there in her robe, looking at movie choices that she isn't going to bother with. He gets up; she hears that movement and sees him out of the corner of her eye but she catches herself glancing at him and looks away again. Truthfully, she doesn't even know what she feels at the moment. It all ends up being a knot in her stomach.

"Yeah," she says, idly, offhandedly, the word empty. "It's our duty and all." Those words aren't empty, they just fall flat, like an overcooked souffle. She can't help but think about how badly she sucks at this,

but then she can't help but think that she doesn't really know what she means by 'this'.

"Sorry if I woke you up or something just to effuse at you," she says, quietly, looking at him as he stands somewhere between her and the door. "But for the record, you can always tell me to fuck off or whatever."

Erich

Our duty and all, she says, and that's as far as she gets because he interrupts:

"I meant I want to kiss you."

And then he's sort of standing there, a deer in the headlight of his own words. Nevermind what he said ten seconds ago. Anyway, he told her, that night when he enacted a change in his environment and called it a couch: he's a liar, a big fat cowardly liar who lies when he feels threatened or uncertain or dumb.

"That's what I really meant," he adds, inadequately. "It's not a good idea. And I think we both know that. But if you're being all awkward right now because you regret what just happened and you don't want me to get the wrong idea or whatever ... you shouldn't be. I'm not fifteen and mindless, and you're a bonafide professional black widow. We both know where the line is."

He comes back a step or two. Cautiously, like she's a wild animal that might bolt. Or strike. There's a remote control in her hand; if she threw that at his face, it's actually going to hurt.

"I'll leave if you're actually tired. But if you still want to watch a movie, I can just chill on the couch if you don't trust me on the bed."

Celia

He's seen that look before, the one she gives him. Not in the eyes of a woman throwing something at his head, or the sneer of someone too good for him who knows it. The thing is, when Celia isn't wearing makeup, that round innocence to her eyes is lessened. He can see their actual shape, more exotic despite the blueness of her irises. Without layer upon layer of gloss making her lips look constantly moistened and light-catching, her mouth does not compete for attention with those eyes but seems simple, thoughtful, and forgotten. There is too much going on in her thoughts for her to ever consider her expression, at least when she isn't on stage with the sort of men she traps.

And on that face, when he says that he meant he wants to kiss her, is an expression he's only over seen on the faces of prey, frozen in mid-step when they hear a twig snap or see headlights bearing down on them.

She's stunned into silence.

He's not a kid, but sometimes he gets so excited at the thought of having a friend, sharing his weird little mobile den, watching a movie. And she's a professional black widow but she looks at him like she's twelve or thirteen and someone just said I want to kiss you to her for the first time ever. Shellshocked. Yearning without quite knowing how or why or for what.

It's not a good idea. They both know where the line is. If she doesn't trust him. On the bed.

Celia blinks a few times and inhales through her mouth after a number of seconds, the first time in a while. When she exhales, it's voiced, sighed, audible across the room. When she speaks, it's... highly unsatisfactory. The words all come in a rush:

"I should put some clothes on."

Erich

Celia knows what she's doing. She entangles and entraps men with her body and her beauty and her charm, and right now she's in the process of dismantling a brutish, arrogant, vengeful man. When she plays the part for her mark she looks so young, she seems so innocent, she makes him believe he's the first man who's ever wined her, dined her, romanced her, fucked her. Even if he wasn't really her first, she's so unspoiled. He's her first man. She wears makeup that made her eyes seem big and round as a doe's. She wears clothes that emphasize her youth, her tenderness, how perky and pert and tight and luscious she is. She gasps, she giggles, she squeals, she makes the most delicious little sounds in bed. She does all these things, but the truth is it's all an act, calculated and vicious. When she's with 'Jack', she's a bonafide professional black widow. Beneath that rich little girl veneer is a hunter's heart. She is the bait, and she is the trap.

Tonight she's taken that mask off. She's wiped the makeup off her eyes, and they aren't big dewy doe-eyes after all. Her lips aren't always moist, always parted, always asking to be kissed. Her breasts aren't lifted and offered; her ass isn't framed and displayed. She's not in lingerie under an overcoat. She's in a bathrobe. That comes with its own treachery, to be fair, but then it's a big bathrobe. It enshrouds her.

She isn't bait tonight. She isn't hunting anyone. She looks comfortable, and she looks on the verge of triumph. She looks closer to her real age, which is -- ironically enough, given their little song and dance earlier today -- probably not far from Erich's age. She looks smart, and cunning, and driven, and

she looks innocent. Like no one's ever told her before: I want to kiss you. Like somehow, the way he watched her undress in his car and the way she looked right back at him, wise and sly and oddly tender, was completely different from what he just said.

So they stare at each other for a while. And then suddenly she says she needs to put her clothes on. And he exhales abruptly, half-turning. He finds something to do: he thumps his big old laptop down on the dresser. "Yeah," he says. "Please do. Is it okay if I get a sprite or something from your minibar?"

Celia

They both fidget, in the most graceful way either of them can. He puts his laptop on the dresser while she re-folds the pamphlet and puts it down. She says she's going to get dressed; the way he says please do makes her look sidelong at him, sharp and quick and not a little wary. She looks away a heartbeat later and she nods to the question. "Sure. It's fine."

Celia digs around in one of the drawers of the dresser -- she's been here long enough, and will be here long enough, to warrant putting her things away -- to pull out a small pair of cotton underwear in a lean cut and bearing stripes of black, white, gray, pale pink. There's a pair of orange pajama pants with little pairs of plumply stylized white birds on it giving each other smooches, and she picks those up from where they're draped over the back of an armchair. A red tank top sits on the ottoman; Celia lifts it, sniffs it, and

does not quite know what to do after that. She meant it in the car the last time she saw him; she doesn't give a fuck. She took off her lingerie and put his clothes on her naked body and she didn't care, it didn't mean something. She undressed in front of him, and for a few moments at least, he watched her, and that did not make her awkward or uncertain or ashamed. Nothing of the sort. Truth be told, even a few seconds ago she was just going to untie her robe, drop it from her shoulders, and get dressed piecemeal.

Except Erich said please do, and Erich also said I want to kiss you. It doesn't really make sense to her that he would say both of those things. And even if they did make sense, well, dammit, it's her hotel room. Celia frowns to herself. She sets her pajamas down on the corner of the rumpled bed and unties the knot in her robe's sash. She opens it to either side of her body, which is no longer pink or flushed from the heat of her shower, and shrugs herself out of it. It's heavy, high-quality, and it drags on the ground a little when she turns to drape it over a chair. Then, yes: she gets dressed. Underwear and tank top, then hopping into her pajama pants. Their ends scuff on the carpet.

Celia vanishes into the bathroom for a moment when she takes the robe to hang it up on a hook in there instead of just leaving it on the chair. When she comes out her hair is combed and woven into a thick braid straight down her back. Almost instantly, and surprisingly, it makes her look like the creatures his soul remembers better than his mind: golden-skinned, sharp-eyed Furies, their hair out of their way if it isn't chopped short or shaven off. Even as slender as she is, there are hints of muscle tone to Celia's arms. Briefly, it is not difficult to imagine her pulling back the string of a bow.

She crawls onto the bed, about halfway up the mattress.

Erich

While Celia gets her clothes together, Erich picks that pamphlet up and skims over it. He doesn't fool anyone. They both know damned well he's only doing this to have something to do so he's not staring at her

when she drops her robe.

Except he does look at her, then. The thick cotton thing huffs to the floor and he looks over his shoulder like he can't help it. His eyes skim the wings of her shoulderblades. The dimples on her back. He swallows as she puts the robe over a chair, and then he turns away, stares at the TV guide until he hears her go into the bathroom.

She's putting her hair up when she sees him reflected in the mirror. He nudges the door open and sets his shoulder to the jamb, looking at her in reflection. Short of anger, it's the most serious expression she's ever seen on his face.

"Do you want me?" he asks.

Celia

Does she?

Celia looks up as soon as the door swings part of the way open, catching Erich behind her. She has her braid over her shoulder then, her hands winding the elastic around the saturated tips. And he doesn't hesitate. He doesn't apologize for walking in on her or ask her if they can talk. He doesn't come up behind her and touch her. He doesn't say he's going to leave, that he can't be around her when she does things like take off her clothes in front of him.

What he does is ask, right out there, if she wants him. Celia just stares at his reflection, their eyes focused on each other by separation of one degree. Not for the first time tonight, and not for the first time in the past ten minutes, he has her stunned into silence. All she can do is look at him the way that he looked at her when she was in his car's backseat.

Slowly, she lowers her hands from her braid and glances at the sink, the clean white gleam of it. Her fingertips rest on the edge of the counter. "I don't know."

Erich

What is not remarked upon is that he's not breathing in the moments between his question and her answer.

What is not remarked upon is that while she's stunned into silence -- again -- his pulse is beating slow and hard in his throat. And at his temple. And behind his breast bone.

She answers him, then. She's put her hair into a braid. Most of the way, anyway. It makes her look different. It makes her look like a huntress. Strong and agile and capable. She is a huntress; this is not the first time he's thought this tonight. You are vulnerable, he said to her once, and this is still true, but --

you are a huntress.

That's true too.

He takes a breath when she answers him. "Okay," he says. It's absurdly simple. He straightens up then, and he takes a step back. In reflection she sees his eyes trace from the mirror to her back, halfway down. Then he turns and walks out.

Celia

It can't be that simple. It can't be that easy. He says okay and walks out. Celia stares at the mirror where he was standing a minute ago, stunned all over again that it's okay with him.

A few minutes later she comes out, looking past the bathroom door and at him, wherever he is. There is the anteroom where the t.v. is, where the little loveseat is that folds out into a small bed of its own. The separation between the two 'rooms' of the suite is minimal; one can see the television from either the bed or the loveseat. Erich is not on the bed.

Celia walks out of the bathroom and just stands there a moment, looking at him.

Erich

Can't be that simple. Can't be that easy. Must be a trick in it, the same way all her allure is barbed and all her sexuality is a trap -- right?

But it is. Or at least it seems to be. He turns and he walks out, and when she comes out a few minutes later, he's not on the bed. But he's not on the couch either. He's pulled an armchair over by the bed. His feet are up on the bed. He's forgotten he wanted a sprite. He's watching something without really watching it, and the remote is in his hand, and he looks over at her as she looks at him.

A quiet. It goes on a while.

Then he nods her at the bed. "Finding Nemo? I was thinking of getting some takeout too."

Celia

Celia ignores him. Well: the fact that he spoke. She ignores his question, his mention of takeout. She pauses a moment, then walks over to him. "I don't mean that I don't know because... I don't know you well or that I don't like you or something like that. I --"

She crawls onto the bed, kneeling a few inches from his feet, watching him. Her hands on atop her thighs. They pat there, then turn over, as though trying to offer him something. "I've never... I've never been with anyone that..."

Celia stops, and takes a breath. A deep one. She exhales slowly. When she talks again, she's quieter, her voice just a few notches above a whisper. "I hadn't really thought about it until you said you thought about kissing me. In your car?" She swallows. "And I think I almost kissed you at the restaurant today, too. And for some reason it bothered me when you pushed me away just a few minutes ago."

There's a beat of a pause. Just one beat, though. A heartbeat. "I've thought about fucking you," she tells him, even quieter than before, watching him closely. "It's just that... I've never been with a man that I wasn't trying to destroy.

"I haven't even kissed one."

Erich

There's a quick contraction of his brow -- she can see it so clearly. He feels bad for her. Maybe he pities her. What an unenlightened and chauvinistic mindset, that somehow she's missing out because she's only been with men she was trying to destroy. How unsurprising that he should have such a mindset.

He can't help it, though. He might not even be able to explain it to her; explain why it wasn't chauvinism at all. Humanism, maybe. Compassion in general. He isn't sure. He looks away from her, and then his eyes are pulled back. After a moment the furrow in his brow clears a little. His smile is quiet.

"You've kissed one," he corrects. "Even if it was just a celebratory I'm going to bury this fucker sort of kiss."

It's an inadequate answer. But then tonight's been full of inadequate answers. It might be how they're choosing to deal with all this. A coping mechanism, as they say. He glances at the TV; then he mutes it.

"It's easier if we're just friends." Somehow it seems like a question.

Celia

That quick flicker of pity on his face makes Celia scowl. It's just as quick, as sudden, but contracts her brow deeper and for a few extra moments. He tells her she's kissed one, even if it was just --

And there she cuts him off. "I know. I... I know that."

Erich says it's easier if they're friends. Celia glances down at her hands. She has never done more than implicitly agree that they should just be friends or that any of these things are bad ideas. It's as she said: she hadn't really thought about, and then... she thought about it. And she doesn't quite know what to make of her own thoughts.

But when she looks back at him, she doesn't argue, or explicitly disagree, either.

"Do you want me?"

Erich

Erich blurts out an disbelieving laugh. "You're joking, right?"

Celia

Celia scowls at him again. "Look, you said you wanted to kiss me but you also keep telling me we should be friends and this is a bad idea and you pushed me away when I kissed you, so I don't know what you want. It's a completely valid question."

Erich

-- so I don't know is as far as she gets. He sits up and his feet hit the floor; he leans forward and there's not so much room between them at all. Not so much room between them that he can't just reach out and touch her.

He doesn't put his hands behind her head. He doesn't hold her in place. His hands are on either side of her legs, curled into loose fists, knuckles to the mattress. He wants to give her room to be able to pull away. Or smack him.

And he kisses her. It's no more expert or considered than her kiss was. It is ferocious, though. And when it's done he doesn't apologize. He sits back down -- or is pushed back.

Celia

Well, she doesn't smack him. So there's that, at least for now. She's still talking when his feet thump down, affronted that he laughed like that and dismissed her question because it's serious, dammit, and then he kisses her, and she's gotten to it's a completely -- out of sheer spite.

That kiss does not melt into some grasping, passionate tangle. Her hands don't flail and then pull at his back to keep him in place. She doesn't even open her mouth to him. They are really sucking at this whole 'kissing' thing.

Erich stops kissing her. He sits back down. Celia stares at him. Then reaches over and punches him in the thigh.

"I was talking!" she huffs.

Erich

Improbably, this makes Erich throw his head back and laugh. "And I was answering. Do you need it in words, too? Or maybe spelled out." It's like he wants to get smacked.

Celia

This time she does smack him. Whether he wants it or not. Whether he's expecting it or not. Her hand flies out, sharp and sudden, giving him a slap that's more like the lash of a whip than the fall of a hammer. There's color in her cheeks, high and bright and pink. "Stop laughing at me," she orders him, genuinely furious.

And maybe a little pleading.

Erich

It's a quick sort of strike; feline in its speed and viciousness. He doesn't go sprawling, but his head does snap quickly to the side; his hand jerks up in instinctive warding.

It comes back down. He's not laughing now. He's looking at her, nostrils flared. A moment goes by.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I just thought it was obvious. I thought you were hot the minute I saw you. I started wanting you when you got in my car all drunk and grouchy. I don't keep telling you it's a bad idea because I don't want you. I keep saying that because it's true, and if I say it enough I might start believing it again."

Celia

Maybe Erich thinks he deserved that slap, because he doesn't stop her, or send her to the ground, or break her arm. Or maybe he's just being generous. It isn't like either of them is mistaken about the disparities between them, as far as physical strength goes. All the same, it takes him a moment to speak again. His skin is fair, and that slap shows up in pink on the side of his face for a scant few seconds before it fades completely, like it never even happened.

Celia exhales.

For what seems like the umpteenth time tonight, they just stare at each other. Finding Nemo may or may not happen at this point, nevermind grabbing some food. She was showering off the remnants of whatever 'Jack' and she did after their lunch date before she texted him, delighted, asking him to come over, watch movies, be her friend and delight in her triumph. Her hair is still wet from that shower. Her body, however, still remembers the entire afternoon and evening. Her mouth does.

She reaches down, without saying a word, and lifts the hem of her tank top, peeling it up and stripping it off, putting it down on the bed beside her. He's seen her naked a couple of times now, but not quite so boldly, not quite so... accessible. He can look away if he wants, again, but it doesn't change that she's in arm's reach. He knows that. He was kissing her just a second ago.

Her nipples are a dark rose color, her aerolae just a little bigger than quarters. Celia licks her lips, exhales, and waits.

Erich

He wants to ask her what she's doing when her hands drop to her hem, but it's obvious. He knows what she's doing even before she does it. There's a ruddy flush creeping up his cheek again, the slapped one and the uninjured.

He doesn't look away. He doesn't reach for her either. He stays where he is, sitting in that armchair an arm's reach away, his eyes taking in her body. It's not that he's never seen her naked before. More naked than this, even. Never quite so deliberately though. Never quite so --

accessible. That's a good word for it. Because it's not quite an offering. He doesn't know what she did with 'Jack' after he left. He'd rather not think about it. He doesn't know that it might be on her mind right now; he does know she was happy, and worn out, and ready to curl up and watch movies, and now she's half-naked and waiting.

His eyes come back to her face. "You don't really want me right now," no louder now than he was a moment again, "do you? Why are you doing this?"

Celia

So: they've said it, and it's a known quantity now. He wants her. He thinks she's hot, he wants her, and it's a bad idea and they should just be friends even if he isn't explaining why he thinks that. She doesn't really know: she's thought about fucking him -- that's what she said, just like that: fucking -- and until those two sudden, awkward, forceful kisses, the only men she's kissed have been men she was out to ruin. But she kissed him first, and now she's taking off her shirt while kneeling on a bed that he could easily, so easily, climb onto with her.

Celia leans forward, her hands spread and pressed onto the comforter for a moment when she moves to all fours, and then lifting again when she crawls off the bed and onto

...him. For a moment she's half-suspended in the air between one solid place and another, but then her hand is atop his thigh and then her other hand is on his shoulder and, just a few seconds later, she is on his lap, knees to either side of his hips, hands on his chest.

"Maybe I do," she says quietly, watching his eyes and not his mouth or his breathing or anything else. She isn't playing coy or trying to be standoffish. She isn't playing hard to get. Her hands have slid up to his shoulders, both of them this time, using him for leverage as she re-adjusts herself to be more comfortable while sitting atop him. "And maybe it is easier if we're friends."

Only when she says this, 'it' means something entirely different.

Erich

Reflexively, his thigh tenses as her hand goes to it. It's hard as oak, taking her weight as it transfers. The bedsheets sigh. Her trailing foot leaves the mattress, and then she's climbing onto his lap, and he has a sudden errant memory of being in the car with her, joking about her doing exactly this.

Her hands slide up his chest. Find purchase on his shoulders. His hoodie feels thick and soft, cushioning, but the body underneath is as hard as his thigh had been: carved from stone. He holds himself so tense. She tries to get comfortable. He takes her by the hips and shifts her away from him an inch or two. He doesn't want her to notice, if she hasn't already, how aroused he is. He doesn't want her to touch him because he thinks he might lose the very last of his self-control then.

And there's something a little sad in his eyes as he looks back at her. Neither of them are looking at each other's hands, bodies, mouths anymore. "You know what won't be any easier though?" he whispers. "Watching you dress up for your mark. Walk out that door to see him. Climb out of his limo. Giggle at his jokes.

"None of that is going to get any easier. And that's not even getting into what our tribes are gonna say once they find out."

Celia

Whether he lets her sit comfortably on his lap or not, she notices. He's wearing pajama pants, sweatpants, something loose. He's looking at her with color up his throat and on his cheeks. If he'd let her sit on him she would have felt him, hard and solid through those intervening layers of clothing. That he puts his hands on her hips and moves her back, well, that tells her just as much.

"So don't watch all that," Celia says quietly, of her mark. Limousines, jokes, dressing up for him. Nevermind the logic: it's not like he was ever going to be okay with that, even as her friend. It's not like he is ever going to be, especially now.

Her hands are on his neck, and one fingertip traces the back of his ear, strokes slowly along the underside of his lobe. "As for what I do with my own body, I'm pretty sure the sisters would sooner throat someone for shaming me than scold me themselves." She tips forward and kisses the underside of his lower jaw, softly, more breath than contact. "The Furies were the first tribe to stop keeping their kin in breeding pens, Erich," she murmurs.

Erich

[WHAT IS GOING ON HERE]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (5, 7) ( success x 1 )

Celia

[It's hard to tell how she really feels about this. There's definitely a sense of curiosity and exploration, but there's also definitely... desire for him. But there's also something a little off about how she's approaching him.]

Erich

She destroys bad men for a living. He flat-out kills them. Yet there's something naive about them both. She's not the only one who's strangely inexperienced here. The way she's touching him melts his mind. He didn't even now he was sensitive in these places: the underside of his jaw, the back of his ear. It seems quite natural for his hands to slide up a little, and now,

now he's found skin. She's as warm as he thought she would be, slim but solid at the waist; there's strength in her. Her kiss is more the intimation than the real thing. He shivers: it doesn't make sense. She changes so quickly. She's changed from the girl who was all but bouncing with glee, telling him everything, oh everything about how she was going to Accomplish Her Mission, kissing him so suddenly and inexpertly that he wondered for a second:

seriously? this is what the lords of the wyrm are falling over themselves for?

Well; he believes it now. He believes men would give up their wives, their ambition, their vision, their paranoia, their survival instinct for this. He turns into that withholding, seductive kiss of hers, and that is when it clicks for him.

"Wait." The first time it comes out a muffled murmur, like he doesn't really mean it. So he reaches up and he puts his hand on her shoulder again, pushes her gently and firmly back again. "Wait." Stronger this time. "I don't want you to -- " god, he sounds like such a prude, " -- I don't want you to seduce me."

Enough room to look at her now. Enough room to find her eyes, meet them, search them.

"Not like you do with them. All right?"

Celia

This works. This is familiar -- at least for her -- and she knows how well it works. The way some of his bones seem to melt and the way he almost shivers when she touches his ear just so, the way he does shiver when she breathes against his jaw. His hands move thoughtlessly but naturally from her hips to her waist, his fingers circling around to her lower back. And that does feel good. Making him look like that, a little lost and a little mindless, feels good. How warm he is, and how strong he is, and even his rage -- that feels good in a way that is wholly new and yet instinctively familiar, itself.

He isn't arguing with her about their tribes now, at least. But he tells her to wait, even as he's starting to lean into that kiss, encouraging her despite how close her mouth is to his throat, to his jugular.

Erich feels the tip of her tongue touch his skin, but not because she's licking him. She's just wetting her own lips, and he happens to be close enough to feel it. That's a moment before he reaches up and pushes her back. Celia draws back, but only a bit. She watches his eyes, her own hooded and dark. Strands have fallen loose from her braid, thin wisps that have dried now. They curve around her face; she lets her hand begin to run down his chest, feeling him through the hoodie. Hard to tell if she's conscious of what she's doing, intentional, or just... feeling him.

She might not know, herself.

And he tells her no. He doesn't want that. Not like with them. Celia doesn't slap him again or start crying. She doesn't shove him away and storm off. She doesn't lean forward and kiss him again, draw his hands to her breasts, turn his brain off like flipping a switch. She just looks at him, and blinks, and then her brow wrinkles.

"I don't... really know how else to be, Erich."

Erich

Which makes him look at her like that again, like he's hurting for her or because of her. He reaches up with a thoughtless, heedless hand. His thumb is big and rough, but he scrubs at the furrows on her brow quite gently: like she has a smudge there, something a little spit-n-shine will take care of.

His hand cups her cheek. He tilts his chin up to kiss her forehead, right where he'd rubbed away her frown. Or tried, anyway. And a moment later -- maybe this is unexpected -- he wraps his arms around her. His hoodie is soft against her bare torso. The zipper is a little bit cold. His arms and his body: all that is warm, warm right through his outerwear.

He hugs her. That's what this is. It's a hug, a tight embrace. It's a little absurd because while he's hugging her like this he's telling her: "God, I want to fuck you so badly. I just don't want to get up tomorrow and realize we can't be friends anymore because everything's changed and gotten weird."

Celia

This time she doesn't glare at him. She just frowns harder, defiantly, even as he's reaching up to try and rub the frown off, which is just stupid of him, like he's some kind of idiot douchebro jock or something, so she just goes on frowning til he gives up and kisses it instead. Celia is, quite frankly, about to give Erich a piece of her mind -- again -- about his raging desire to protect her, heal her, make everything all better all the time or something, but

he hugs her, and it seems like it could be kind of jerkish of her to snap at him then. Which wouldn't stop her, except... he really is hugging her quite tightly, and after a moment she realizes

she did need to be hugged.

The coldness of the zipper makes her gasp a bit, but she doesn't pull away. Without meaning to, he's brought them closer, and Celia can feel the hard curve of his erection against her leg. Suddenly and wantonly she wants to rub against him, wants to rut like an animal, and it's not helped when he swears, telling her how badly he wants to fuck her.

She exhales, and she's moving against him, a little mindlessly, and if it weren't for two layers of pajama pants his cock would be stroking her inner thigh, which would be okay. It would be pretty nice on its own. "So don't get weird," she mutters, like this is obvious.

Erich

He laughs -- it slips sideways and trips and falls into a gasp. Because she's moving against him, and it might be mindless but it's certainly not aimless; it sends a jolt down the nerve-nets of his body. His hands drop to her waist and he grabs her, he holds her still.

"What if I don't know how else to be either?" He's laughing a little still, but the question is serious. He's serious. "I wanted to slap 'Jack' upside the head today. I wanted to see if I could knock his forked tongue right out of his mouth if I hit him hard enough. I can't imagine I'll feel any more reasonable about it all if you blow my mind tonight."

Celia

That makes something flicker through her. Not click. Not snap. She just seems uncomfortable somehow, no longer reaching for his neck or his earlobe or his mouth but not willing to quite pull away, let go, stop...feeling him like this. Her breathing is faster than before, and it makes her breasts move on every cycle of air that goes through her.

Celia shrugs, a little tightly. "Well... are you going to magically get more reasonable if..." that expression washes over her face again, troubled and, in a way, crawling out of her own skin. "Wait, I don't get how you can not want me to be like I am with 'them' but then you say stuff like... me blowing your mind, like it's a performance or a thing I'm doing to you, which is all that's going on with them. Him."

Her hands come off his shoulders. She shakes them out like a musician about to play, or someone who doesn't quite know how she fits in her body, in this moment, on top of him. "Why can't it just be about what I want and not how all of you feel about what I do?" she ends up muttering, more to herself than him, because by then her hands are in front of her face, her mouth is against her palms.

Erich

More so than the sudden tension in her, more so than her hands coming off his shoulders and covering her mouth, there are two words that give him pause. Here they are:

all of.

As in: all of you. Not just you, but all of you. There puts a frown on Erich's face again. He leans back. A gulf opens between them. His hands slide off her waist after all, and they're just sitting together now; not really touching in any way other than the incidental.

"All of us?" he echoes. Now there's tension in him too, but he's trying not to assume, trying not to leap to conclusions. "All of who?"

Celia

Celia's hands drop again. She glares at him. "Men." She exhales, and slides back from him a couple of inches. "Like right now, the way you're acting. What's suddenly important isn't that you're saying stuff that makes me feel weird or upset, it's how you feel all bent out of shape that I might be fucking more than the one guy you already know about. God, Erich."

Erich

Men, she says, and he feels his temper come flaring right to the surface. "Jesus Christ, really?" he spits, and she slides back, and he just gets up and picks her up with him, puts her on the bed. Turns away -- walks the few steps to the minibar after all, where he yanks that long-awaited Sprite off the rack.

"You know why it can't just be about what you want? Because there's two of us here, that's why. And if we do fuck, there's going to be two of us fucking. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not a dildo. What I want is going to factor into the picture. And what you want. And what we mutually want.

"As for the rest of it -- now you're the one jumping to conclusions. I never for a minute thought you had someone else on the side besides Wyrm McWyrminess. That's not what upsets me. It upsets me to think you weren't even sure you wanted me ten minutes ago, and then you were all over me, and then tomorrow you're going back to 'Jack'. I'm sorry I'm not open-minded enough to deal with that shit, but maybe you can understand.

"And," he's not quite done yet, "just for the record: I was asking who 'all of us' are because I was afraid you were going to say exactly what you did: men. It's not fair for you to say that. It's not fair for you to stereotype me based on whether I have a dick or a vag. You're smarter than that, for fuck's sake."

Celia

He dumps her on the bed. Celia nearly claws his eyes out. She stares at him, barechested and suddenly livid, just like he is. "I'm not the one being reductive here, Erich," she snaps. "You hear one word and think I'm 'stereotyping' you. You know what? Since I was a virgin, everything I've ever done to a guy has been about me 'blowing his mind'. And when you said that about me and you it made me sad."

She is sitting on the bed, her knees bent and legs to one side, like a statue of a mermaid who gave up her tail for legs. There are tears in her eyes. "I wasn't wanting it to 'just' be about what I want, Erich. I just didn't want it to be about me 'blowing your mind'. And if you want to be my friend, for god's sake, listen to what I've been saying for those past ten minutes and figure out that I don't know what I'm doing with you."

Those tears aren't just in her eyes anymore. Celia reaches up, wiping them off with the heels of her hands, exhaling sharply. "You're such an asshole. Every time I talk you make it about my tribe and how I must hate and disdain all men and that's all I see about you and everything I say is just proof that I'm exactly the kind of raging man-eating bulldyke you think all Black Furies are." She sniffs. "You don't even wait to find out what I mean, you just...throw me on the fucking bed and start telling me how stupid I am. Fuck you."

That last bit should be more vehement than it is. It comes out more like a whimper, and her face is twisted with the effort to express emotion as well as conceal it in the same moment, so she just looks away.

Erich

She looks away.

So she can't see the look on his face when she's done. She can't see what effect, if any, that sudden outburst had on him. She can't see what he's doing, but she can hear -- after a while -- the dull thump of the sprite bottle going back on the bartop.

Nice minibar in here. Not just a little fridge but an actual bar with tiny jewel-like bottles of liquor, wine, beer, soda. Some snacks too. Pringles and popcorn and brownies, cookies, even some ramen noodles. He doesn't know why he notices these things now, except that they keep him from dwelling on the fact that he,

mighty hero of the Garou Nation,

has just managed to make Celia cry yet again. He's lost track how many times it's been. He bets none of her marks have ever made her cry so much. If at all. There's something scary about holding another person's emotions in his hands, he thinks. They're so much more easily bruised than bodies, and bodies are easy enough to bruise as it is.

The bed dips. He comes to sit beside her. He's looking at his hands, which are idling together. Then he's looking at her. After a moment he puts his arm around her, carefully and slowly, and only if she lets him. He pulls her against his side, if she lets him.

"I didn't mean you were going to blow my mind like... like I expected you to put on your red lights and rock my world or something. That's not how I meant it. You just ... kind of ... do blow my mind. You blew my mind when you cooked up that plot at the restaurant and told me I was awesome and then pushed me out there to ad lib, too." His shrug feels weird when he's sidehugging her like this. His arm does this little slide over her upper back, and then settles again. "I guess you didn't mean 'men' quite the way I heard it, either.

"And I kinda get it. I think. I get that you want this just to be something you can have for yourself, because you want it. Not 'cause it's your job or your mission. Maybe not even because I want it. And I get that you want it divorced from everything else, you want the rest of it not to matter.

"I can try to not let the rest matter. What you do with 'Jack', what you might or might not do with some other mark after Jack's name is all x'ed out. I can try but I can't promise. And I might get jealous or angry or weird or whatever. It might mean we can't be friends anymore. But I can try if you want me to.

"I can't take myself out the equation entirely though. I want you to be happy, but it can't just be about what you want." The words are harsh. They seem harsh. His tone isn't, though. If anything, he sounds apologetic. Sorry. "It just doesn't work that way. But I don't think you really want it to work that way either."

Celia

The truth is,

Celia just cries. As often as she might get angry, or get excited, she ...gets sad. There's as much reason for that as anything else. The whole gamut of human emotion is there for her, and she doesn't shy from one because it feels weak or avoid another because it's not palatable to others. Erich thinks surely none of her marks have made her cry so much, he's got to be really stepping in it because he keeps making tears come to her eyes, but then: Erich was raised in an environment that told him if a woman cries, it's probably his fault and it's definitely his responsibility to make it stop. Because he has a dick. Her emotions are like, literally in his hands! Of course that idea scares him. It's just as scary as any boogeyman.

She was taught different things. One of those things has to do with why she doesn't cover herself now that the sexy part of the evening seems to have gone sideways. Celia doesn't shy away or cross her arms over her chest when Erich comes over and sits beside her, either. She goes ahead and lets him hug her. Again.

That isn't how he meant it. She doesn't say anything to that. She turns to look at him, saltwater stains on her cheeks, when he admits that maybe she didn't mean what he heard, too.

But of course, argumentative as always, she shakes her head a little when he's done. "It's not that. I don't just... want this to be my own special little thing. Erich, separate from everything else and blah blah blah. You... kinda just made all of that up from conjecture." She pauses. At least she isn't yelling at him anymore. She sniffs again. "I keep trying to tell you I don't really know what I want yet. It's not like I have this formulated in my head and have a perfect idea of where the boundaries are for it. But the whole reason that 'blow my mind' thing bothered me so much was because I do know it's about two people. I'm...new to something like this, but I'm not stupid about how sex should be. Or at least... can be. You don't need to explain that to me."

Sighing, she shifts on the bed, moving so her legs are out front, bent slightly, her legs looped over her knees. She stares at her knees now.

"For the record, I don't expect you to feel one way or another about anything and I'm not even sure where you got the idea that I want you to try or promise or not be jealous or angry. You might get weird, I get that, but I'm just saying you have some choice in how much that affects your behavior. And like... it's okay if you don't know any other way to be, too. I just don't think it's going to make that big of a difference. It bugs you now, it'll keep bugging you more over time, it'll bug you whether we have sex or not. So as far as reasons-to-not-fuck go, it's one of the less compelling." So logical. So pragmatic. Valid and not valid. Sensible and not.

Celia shakes her head and looks at him again, her brow so very furrowed, like she was born with that frown. "I don't even know where you got this idea of taking yourself out of the equation or it just being about what I want. Just because I don't want to be to you what I am to Jack or whoever doesn't mean I want you to be a fucktoy." She shrugs. "Me not wanting to be objectified or used or reduced to effigy doesn't mean I want you to be. And... no, I know that's not how you meant the whole blow-my-mind thing now, but..."

The words have all gotten away from her. She sighs, and lays her head down on her knees, her back a lean curve under his arm. "I don't know. I guess all I care about is that sex isn't something one person does to the other. Or for the other. And... I wasn't sure if that was how you see it or not. Cuz if you do, then..." she stalls, plucking at the edge of her pajama pants, finishing: "then I wouldn't want to. With you."

Erich

"That's not how I see it. At all."

Quiet, but vehement. He could go on. He could protest, explain, lay it all out. He doesn't, though. That one sentence says it all for him; he doesn't think he can add to it meaningfully.

Just that. Just: no. that's not how I see it. not at all.

She's curled up on herself. He rubs a mindless, ruminative circle on her back. Then he draws in on himself too, leaning his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together.

"Let's not," he says. This too is quiet. It's decisive. "Not tonight, anyway. And not because I don't want to. Not because I might get weird or jealous or whatever whether or not we sleep together." He turns - just his head, pivoting to look at her past the line of his hunkered shoulders. "Because it's not just something we do to each other or for each other or ... anything like that. It means something. Or it should mean something, I think. And right now it kinda seems like we're just stumbling into it out of lust and curiosity, and that's not how I want it to be with you."

Celia

Sometimes saying something once, and simply, is all that's needed. It doesn't happen often between them, usually because that isn't how Celia often talks about anything -- what she says briefly is usually the tip of the iceberg, lacking all depth and context and bound to be misunderstood, as though she can't form the complexities of her thoughts into words right away -- but sometimes Erich just... says stuff. That's not how he sees it it. At all.

And that's it.

Celia watches him while he says Not Tonight. Her eyes close drowsily for a moment as he rubs her back, then open. "Don't stop," she murmurs, when he starts to take his hand away. She looks lazy, legs bent at an obtuse angle and arms relaxed to either side, fingers laced over her shins, cheek against her knees. Whether he stops or not, she listens to all of his non-reasons for not having sex. Tonight, at least.

After he's done, she's quiet. It doesn't blow her mind that he doesn't want it to be just lust or curiosity with her. As though with her equals special, meaningful, important. That's a little intimidating, more than touching, at least to her. She's just silent for a while, looking at him.

"All it has to mean is that we want each other," she says quietly, after all that.

Erich

Don't stop, she says. So he doesn't. He hesitates a moment. Then his hand comes back. He strokes her back; her skin is mindbendingly soft. She feels supple and sinuous. He could get lost in this.

What she says makes his brow furrow, though. He pauses. Then he stops after all, his hand leaving her back, his palms rubbing briskly over his face once. "That's all it has to mean," he says; it doesn't quite sound like agreement. "I don't want that to be all it means.

"Please." He sounds a little strained. "Can we just ... not cross that line tonight? It's not worth it. Not just to satisfy a little lust and curiosity."

Celia

They are in dangerous, confusing territory. She's curious and excited and wondering and wary and uncertain. He is... whatever he is. But he also wants her. Badly, he said, and meant it. And when he said that, hugging her as tightly as he did, she felt her cunt clench achingly, as though in answer. It made her stomach hurt, that hard pulse of lust his words set off in her. All of that is still there, and all the pieces of it: her bare skin, her comfort, his body, this rumpled bed that smells faintly of her sweat and her flesh and her sleep, his words, his hands rubbing her back until they're rubbing his face.

Celia has figured out that she wants him. And he wants her. It should be so simple. She wants to tell him it isn't that she wants this to be divorced from all the rest; it's all a piece, a part, all integrated into one whole. But she also knows that isn't how his mind really works. She's still sure that there's a lot about her he's never completely going to understand. She just isn't sure that this matters, right now, as much as the fact that they want each other and there is no compelling, convincing reason not to indulge in that.

She watches him. It must be hard to not be able to just say: I don't think I'm ready or I want it to be special or I like you, and I don't want to just fuck you, I want to make love with you, and we aren't there yet. She's said all of those things, to varying degrees of honesty. And she thinks that's what he's saying-and-not-saying now, has been saying-and-not-saying for a little while.

Except it took her this long to figure out that she wants him. She's not quite sure yet if she wants it to mean anything or not. She's not sure what he means when he says it's not worth it.

Celia takes a breath and slides upward, straightening her spine, and gives a little shake of her head, several lines showing up in her forehead. "You don't have to ask please for that." Her shoulders move in a small shrug, up and down without going forward or rolling back. "Especially because... I don't know. Maybe we're just being tired and horny and weird." She leans over, rubbing her brow and her face against the upper sleeve of his hoodie. "You can still stay, if you want. Even if we don't watch a movie."

Erich

Maybe that's what he's trying to say. That's what it sounds like. He's not even sure what exactly he wants to say, though.

He knows this much: if she'd said yes when he went to her in the bathroom and asked if she wanted him, that may well have been the end of the discussion. The end of all conversation. They might have ended back here on this bed, only he wouldn't be rubbing her back and trying not to think about how bare she is, how accessible, how wanting. He wouldn't be thinking about very much at all. He could be inside her right now. She could be pulling the sheets loose from their moorings. He could be finding out how she laughs on the breathless climb to orgasm, and what she sounds like coming down the other side.

That's not how it worked out. He had time to think. That moment passed. It's not coming back. He has a head full of what she'd consider non-reasons, only he considers them rather compelling. He doesn't want to get up in the morning

(or in a few hours)

and walk out knowing she's going to put on pretty lingerie and go see that nauseating man with the fleshy face and the heavy hands that clenched down every bit as hard as Erich's had. Does he grip her that hard to? Doesn't he know he can't do that, she's breakable?

He doesn't want those thoughts in his head, always, always. He doesn't want the rest of it either. He doesn't want to walk into her presence someday and find some Black Fury, some tribeswoman that isn't quite so understanding and free-handed as Celia seems to think they are. He doesn't want another friendship, or friendship-with-benefits, to end the way the last one had: an ultimatum, a lot of no's, and a permanent scar of silence. He doesn't want that.

He doesn't want:

to hurt. Not over something trivial, something casual, something ultimately born of hormones and mating drive and curiosity.

He wants:

her.

So maybe that's what it boils down to. A sort of cowardice, he supposes, but then he's already admitted to being a liar and a coward. And somehow right now it seems like he can't have one without risking the other, and right now the balance seems disproportionate. So, all right. Not tonight. Don't cross that line. Not ready. Please.

She leans against his shoulder. He remembers the last time she did this. He turns, wordless and animal; he rubs his face against the top of her head even as she's rubbing hers against his arm. Stay, she says. If you want. He opens his arm and pulls her against his side, flops back on the bed with a great heave of a sigh.

"Of course I want to stay. Let's just stay here and sleep, okay? And maybe tomorrow my head won't be so complicated and I'll stop being so ... so emo."

Celia

The times they have hung out and fought viciously still outnumber the times they have seen each other and had an uncomplicatedly good time. No, wait, scratch that: none of their good times have been all that uncomplicated. He's seen her cry again, found out again that for all her wits and beauty and charm and inner strength and so forth, she's just as fallible and emotional and changeable as... well. As he is.

They have not ended up back in this bed, naked, learning to kiss each other slowly and not with brutal, sudden force. He has hardly touched her. He is still fully clothed. They feel more worn out and exhausted than lustful and curious. Erich feels troubled and resistant to things he has no way to change. Celia feels disappointed and, buried quite deep, ashamed of things he would never know she could be ashamed of. She knows she wants him, selfishly and with no eye toward the future she knows is coming but has never made any plans for.

Erich draws her close, nuzzling her, and she feels a different kind of clench, a separate sort of pang. It makes her exhale, then sigh. He doesn't want to fuck her tonight, doesn't even want to watch a movie with her anymore, doesn't want to curl up and make out like teenagers. He, apparently, wants to...

flop back, snuggling her, and go to sleep.

She is a bit startled at the initial flop. She is also gravely, powerfully turned on. That moment where he might have just hoisted her to bed and nailed her is gone, but some part of her still wants to rub against him, lick his neck, undress him and feel her tits against his chest. She wants to fuck. She thinks about what Damaris told her -- warned her -- about when it comes to Garou males. She also thinks about the way she touched his ear and his neck and made him quiver, or how she felt when he told her wanted to kiss her, when he wanted to fuck her. The two don't balance out.

"You're not emo," Celia says after some time, mildly. She scoots a little bit away from him, trying to settle in. She considers asking him if he wants to undress himself to sleep, but that's probably a bad idea. So she scoots, and then she goes and reaches for her tank top, pulling it back on and adjusting it down her waist. She comes back, though. He strips off his hoodie, a very least.

When she curls up to go to sleep, her back is to him. She's hugging the pillow under her head, yawning as she closes her eyes. The lights are turned off by a switch on the nightstand. She's used to sleeping in this bed alone.

She is not used to waking up, come morning, to find an Ahroun wrapped around her like a koala. But that is what she gets.