Good Night, Sweetheart
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 1,262
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Intimacy between two people takes many different forms.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Notes: A little vignette I was compelled to write (from Mark's POV) after thinking about a certain scene in Time After Time. In keeping with the thematic titling, lyrics from an old song (lyrics to follow).
It was a chance he never thought he'd have, and even though he'd seen her every day, every night, since he'd first kissed her, he could barely restrain himself from taking his own skin between his thumb and forefinger and pinching as hard as he could. When he'd seen her for the first time that evening, clad in a dress in a shade of indigo so dark it was nearly black, her eyes brightly glittering an equally stunning blue, her flaxen hair arranged prettily around her face, it had taken his breath away. If not for the intervention of his daughter, he might still have been standing in a silent stupor on the threshold into her flat.
Dinner had gone better than he could have imagined in his wildest dreams; he really felt that she and his daughter had hit it off well. Reading a fifteen-year-old girl was never easy though, so until he could talk to her, ask her what her true feelings and opinions were, he tried to quell his optimism lest he be disappointed. Thoughts of that discussion were not what occupied his mind at present. He focused only on dessert and their entertainment for the evening.
As he settled onto the sofa, he smirked, realising that his daughter had adjusted the position and the angle of her chair to his advantage, and he allowed himself a hair more optimism than before. The woman he hadn't been able to take his eyes from all evening emerged from the kitchen with a tray bearing cups of chocolate mousse and steaming coffee, a smile on her lips that rivaled anything that Leonardo had ever painted. She brought it to the low coffee table then took a seat beside him, and he silently thanked the heavens for his daughter's cleverness when she sat with her hip touching his.
From the reaction his daughter had, the dessert must have been an overwhelming success where her dinner had fallen short, but he'd barely tasted it. He vaguely remembered offering his own compliments before she took his hand in his, which further obliterated all sense or reason. The black coffee was hot and strong enough as it passed his lips, but he focused only on drinking to get to the bottom so that he might give her his undivided attention, DVD be damned.
He released her hand then slipped it across the back of the sofa, which sloped down in fainting-chair style, then curled his fingers around her shoulder and with a light pressure pulled her into him. Without turning away from the screen, she settled into his embrace. He closed his eyes as he felt her fingers brush against his knee and he could not help but pull her even closer, raising his hand to comb his fingers into her hair, press a kiss into the soft skin at her temple.
He spent many moments in this fashion, taking in the scent of her hair, of her, before he felt her chuckle softly. "What's so funny?" he whispered close to her ear, raising his lids to look at her.
She turned slightly and whispered in return, "Are you even watching this?" He noticed she had closed her eyes, too.
"Are you?" he said quietly in reply, then moved his lips to kiss the most prominent curve of her ear.
"Not really," she admitted, "but then again, I've seen this a hundred times."
He considered answering her initial question with words, but instead chose to convey his preference for his current endeavour by taking her earlobe between his lips, pulling it gently between his teeth. He heard her sigh, then say in a horrified whisper, "Mark, Ella is right there."
He chuckled low in his throat. "Dairy knocks her out like a light." Even now, over the dialogue on the telly, he could hear his daughter's soft snoring.
She gasped, turning to look at him. "You're not suggesting…"
"Oh, heavens no," he said, laughing a little more loudly, before dropping his head to kiss her. "I just like sitting here with you very much. Holding you." He brought his hand up to stroke the line of her jaw, then down along where her pulse beat strongly. "Touching you." It had been something he'd thought of often over the past fifteen-plus years.
She closed her eyes again, leaning against his collarbone; he then felt her soft lips upon the underside of his chin, felt her fingers touch his chest then rise towards his neck and tug down on his tie, work loose the knot, push the top button of his shirt through its hole. Goosebumps raised where her nails traced along the hollow of his neck. "I see what you mean," she said, then slipped her hand over his shoulder and around him to embrace him around the waist, her breath racing along the skin of his throat. For once he was thankful that he was not a younger man; he simply reveled in her touch, her caresses, without the inconvenience of embarrassing physical reactions that might have plagued him in younger years.
She turned in her seat slightly, pressing her lips against his throat with a series of feather-light kisses. When he felt her open her mouth and touch her tongue against his skin, he raised his hand and cupped her face, drawing her into a deep and delicious kiss. He felt himself leaning back against the arm of the sofa and pulling her across his lap.
When he broke away to catch his breath, he found he had completely stretched out on the sofa with her still in his arms; the sofa was deep enough that it was unlikely she'd fall off, but he was taking no chances, so he held her close, his left arm about her waist and his right cradling her shoulders. When he glanced down he could see by the reflecting light of the telly that she still had a residual smile upon her lips and her eyes were closed again. He raised his left hand and brushed the hair from her face; her eyes fluttered open once more, and she blinked sleepily as she met his gaze.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Sorry? What for?" he asked, leaning forward to plant a kiss in the center of her forehead.
She yawned jaw-crackingly broadly. "I'm afraid dairy has a rather similar effect on me as your daughter."
He chuckled; his hand trailed down to her shoulder, lingering briefly on her skin before traveling over the fabric of her dress on her upper arm; it took a moment to realise he could hardly discern between silk and skin. He watched as her eyes fell shut once more, even as her hand brushed over his chest, down his stomach, and then around his hip to grasp briefly then embrace him. He said at last, "Don't apologise."
Her smile did not fade even as the arm stretched around his hip went slightly limp, signaling to him that she'd well and truly fallen asleep. He shifted so that she could rest solidly against him; he loved the feel of her body along the length of his. He'd had the pleasure of her love but not the intimacy of shared slumber until now, and he found he quite liked it, indeed. Amidst thoughts of drifting off to sleep this way every possible night he could in future, his mind racing with thoughts of the quickest way to make that a reality, he soon fell into one of the easiest, deepest sleeps he had in some time.
The end.
Note:
GOOD NIGHT, SWEETHEART
(Ray Noble, Jimmy Campbell, Reg Connelly, and Rudy Vallee)
Good night, sweetheart, till we meet tomorrow.
Good night, sweetheart, sleep will banish sorrow.
Tears and parting may make us forlorn,
But with the dawn, a new day is born.
So I'll say good night, sweetheart, though I'm not beside you,
Good night, sweetheart, still my love will guide you,
Dreams enfold you, in each one I'll hold you.
Good night, sweetheart, good night.