Stolen moments
Set mid-season 3, shortly after a "A witch's calling"
The end sorta slots in with another tale set at the same time (Two-edged sword – still in progress), but I felt this one worked better on its own.
The sound of a blade slipping along a whetstone was a curious counterpoint to the gentle rustling of the wind through the jungle canopy and the various calls of bird and animal life in the area surrounding the treehouse. Marguerite paused in the act of re-threading her sewing needle, her eyes shifting to her companion who was industriously sharpening a collection of their knives. Her gaze lingered, enjoying the controlled movement of his muscular frame, the look of concentration as he worked with a powerful grace unique to him.
He paused, lifting the blade to study its sharpened surface in the morning light spilling onto the area of the balcony where he sat working. Satisfied he replaced the knife on the table, reaching for the next one as he glanced over at Marguerite, sharing a private smile with her as he caught her looking at him.
Her first reaction was to flick her gaze away, but his steady gaze and gentle smile provided her with an alternative option. It was a look not often seen on the hunter's face, and it suited his handsome features – and more so when it was directed at her. She returned his smile with a quiet one of her own, resisting the urge to distance him with an acerbic reply and instead just basked in his attention.
"Quite a domestic scene we make," he spoke quietly, his smile lifting with the undercurrent of humour evident in his voice.
"Ah, yes. Between you sharpening primitive cutting implements to defend ourselves against the horrors of the world outside the treehouse, and me stitching up the collection of holes and rips left by bullets, arrows, spears and teeth or claws of whatever ravenous beast you last ran into…I'm sure," Marguerite's smile also widened, taking the sting out of her sarcastic tone. Leaning over she lifted the next item of sewing and presenting it as an exhibit to his lordship. It was one of Roxton's own shirts, a tear down the left sleeve where a feint brownish stain still lingered, a telltale of its bloody origin.
"A fine job you are doing too," John grinned. "Whoever knew that your sewing talents would be applied not only to keeping your treehouse companions clothed, but also whole? In fact, I think you should thank us for providing you with such … interesting challenges."
"And there I thought you were just being your normal clumsy selves," Marguerite nodded sagely, her eyes twinkling as she shifted into the flirtatious teasing that flowed with such ease between them. "When in fact you were boldly throwing yourselves in front of sharp objects merely to keep me entertained. If you'd told me this earlier, I could've made a couple of suggestions."
"Now why does that sound painful?" John replied.
"Why John, I thought you're the one who said that if something doesn't exact a little blood, it's not worth the getting?" Marguerite's eyes lit with an unholy sparkle.
"What you're suggesting madam, sounds like more than just a little blood." John replied. "But for the sake of research, and the chance to recover under your gentle touch, I'm willing to give it a try." John leaned forward, chin cradled on his clasped hands with his elbows resting on the worktable - a picture of studied innocence that fooled no-one.
Marguerite opened her mouth to reply, only to freeze as they heard the sound of branches snapping down below. John rose quickly, reaching for his rifle in a movement that started off with his usual animal grace but paused halfway for an inarticulate grunt. Marguerite noticed it but focused her attention on the more immediate threat. Her gun was also lying within arms reach, quickly palmed before she joined John at the railing.
The barrel of the rifle swung slowly from side to side, following the hunter's gaze as he swept the surrounding jungle for any sign of danger. Whatever caused the sound, he was sure it wasn't their treehouse companions returning. The electric fence was quite good at keeping unwanted human guests out, but some of the larger dinosaurs were too stupid or thick-hided for it to be an effective deterrent.
They watched in tense silence for a while before a movement off to the left revealed the presence of a hulking grey-green shape.
"Only a dinosaur," Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief.
"Only?" John's gaze remained on the beast, ready to frighten it away with a shot from his rifle if needed. They'd had more than their share of run-ins with the saurians of this plateau, even if the brutes weren't necessarily aiming to kill the explorers outright. "If this one even as much as thinks of using the electric fence poles as a rubbing post, I'll have its hide."
"My, my. All this anger over a little domestic maintenance? I thought you liked the whole experience." Marguerite's easy words belied her own tension.
"A few days of backbreaking labour chopping and setting new posts? I have much better ways of spending my time." Roxton lowered his rifle, leaning back against the railing to ease the dull ache in his back.
"So it seems," Marguerite replied slyly. "Chasing after scantily dressed young woman must take up a lot of time. Or perhaps you thought they could wave their magic staffs and 'poof' have everything fixed up?"
"I wasn't chasing after anyone – Malone was convinced they knew where Veronica was." John replied tersely. The abrupt change in the tone of his voice cautioned Marguerite as to her next statement. In the past she would've forged on, shooting barbed comments with as much ability to hurt as their steel counterparts.
Before she could reply, the tense silence was broken by renewed sounds of movement below. They both leaned out, relieved to note that the dinosaur was moving away. John stepped away from the railing, his forehead creased in thought as he distractedly kneaded his back with one hand.
"I just hope that beast is out of the area by the time Challenger and Malone returns," he spoke again as he replaced his rifle.
"Perhaps he heard your threat to skin him and decided to move somewhere safer. Besides, I don't think that colour would suit you." She tried to lighten the mood again.
"Oh, and do you know what would suit me?" he asked, an appreciative smile on his face.
Marguerite moved closer, her warm scent wafting towards him as she breathed in through slightly parted lips. He leaned forward slightly, drinking in her presence and admiring the way she could make all concerns flee from his mind, however briefly. She moved closer still, until only a few indecent inches separated them. His pulse quickened, and time seemed to slow as she leaned in, only to whisper…
"A nice cup of tea. And I'll have one too, thank you," Marguerite deftly changed course and resettled herself expectantly between the bundles of sewing.
Roxton inhaled sharply, but then laughed softly, nodding in acquiescence before moving into the kitchen area. Just when you think you had her cornered she slipped away. It was a delightful game between the two of them, but one of these days he was going to catch her, make no mistake. And however much of a playful distraction bantering with her was, he was still worried about George and Ned being out their on their own. Both he and Malone were still a little sore from their recent run-in with the witches, but Malone's determination to find Veronica outweighed any physical discomfort he might have. Or perhaps the youth had healed more quickly. Grimacing he pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on the preparation of the tea, but his thoughts drifted back to the current situation...
Over the past few months so much had changed at the treehouse – Malone had disappeared, and then returned only for Veronica to vanish. And the run-ins they'd had with death seemed to be on the increase as well. It was as if the plateau had decided to up the tempo, challenging them to see if they could keep the pace and still dance.
The peaceful here and now was too much of a luxury to waste on idle banter and playful innuendos, no matter how pleasant it was. His mind made up, Roxton carried the tea over to where Marguerite sat. Like his father always said, if you wanted something done right, you'd better do it yourself.
As the tea was poured and sipped, Roxton carefully weighed his words, deciding on his next step as it was up to him to take the lead if this relationship was to go anywhere. When their tea break was nearly over, he caught Marguerite's gaze deliberately the next time she looked in his direction, and held it. They sat like that for a few moments, eyes locked as both sorted through the complex layers of what might come next. At moments like these Roxton almost felt he had to just offer his hand, and Marguerite would reach out to meet him halfway. The potential for a deeper connection between them existed in an ethereal state that was nearly tangible, if they could only bridge the remaining gap between them.
"You feel it too, don't you, the connection between us." He paused, anxiously awaiting a confirming nod that was not forthcoming. He forged on, "Marguerite, it can be so much more, so much more fulfilling, if we could only…" Roxton faltered as he saw the shutters dropping in Marguerite's eyes. He could see her pulling up her barriers; keeping herself in, and him out. She sat back, shoulders squared with a steely glint in her eyes. Whatever he was going to say or ask, he was not going to get her to open up.
Not yet, a small but determined voice at the back of his mind stated. "Woman," he breathed, somehow filling that one word with all his hopes and frustrations.
Marguerite froze, her being shivering in response to the emotion he poured into it. It rang with a truth that thrilled her, and scared her.
"Let me have a look at that shoulder." Marguerite replaced her teacup with a determined thump, the intimate conversation declared over with the ring of china. Realizing that her reaction hurt him, she sought some way of making up for it.
"Playing Florence Nightingale again?" Roxton asked with a half-grin, admitting not so much defeat as a re-grouping of his forces as he watched Marguerite circle around to stand behind his chair. He did note that she was not pulling away completely; in the past she might've stormed off to her bedroom in search of solitude.
"With the amount of scrapes you get into, I'm sure I can teach Miss Nightingale a thing or two. I guarantee you she never had to deal with pterodactyl claw marks." Marguerite was aware she was speaking too fast, betraying her nervousness. "It would help if you took off your shirt you know."
Roxton lifted an eyebrow, but complied. He was not about to complain if Marguerite wanted to get closer; even if it was only physically. Or was it her way of approaching him on her terms; perhaps a step in the right direction?
"Besides, we can't very well have you missing one of those million in one shots you've become famous for just because of a stiff shoulder." Marguerite's words carried the typical acidic flavour she used whenever she wanted to deflect attention away from whatever present subject she was trying to avoid. But her fingers were gentle as she probed the Englishman's shoulders.
"You know, I bet we can find a more mutually relaxing exercise," he rumbled, voice pitched low and soft.
"I bet you can," Marguerite's touch suddenly became more forceful, causing Roxton to grunt with surprised pain. "Oh don't be such a sissy. You're as tense as a native tiptoeing through Vantu territory."
I wonder why, Roxton grimaced. Trying to get Marguerite to open up and talk about her feelings towards him was in fact more difficult than travelling through cannibal country. And probably more dangerous too.
Silence fell as Marguerite's touch moderated despite her words. She focused all her attention on the shoulder muscles before her, and on each sun-kissed freckle that dotted his back, as she tried to push aside the emotional turmoil roiling around inside her. She felt the warmth of his skin flowing up her fingers as she kneaded his shoulders, her strong hands working their way through the muscle tension. If only she could work through her own problems as easily.
It would be so very, very easy to just give in and surrender to him. But she couldn't; not yet in any case. And the thought of how much she wanted to open up to him frightened her. The man sitting before her was a flame that burned steady and true, bringing light to this lost corner of the world. And she felt like a moth, irresistibly drawn to his power and strength; a dance that could end up in a fatal conclusion for the poor moth.
Marguerite Krux was used to running her life her way. Whenever a job presented itself, she took charge of the situation, pulling strings, manipulating, lying…whatever it took before getting out while keeping her distance emotionally. It was a plan that had worked throughout her life, until she got stranded on the plateau with these people. Or more correctly, with Lord John Roxton.
She attacked a particularly stubborn knot with more force than was strictly necessary.
"Ow Marguerite, I need to be able to use this arm afterwards." John shifted as if to escape the pain, but loathe to leave her touch.
"I've got to work through it." Marguerite realized her words applied not only to the task at hand. "You'll thank me afterwards." If we have enough time. Marguerite was also very aware of the increasing number of time in the recent few months when either she or Roxton had nearly been killed. In those moments when they were reunited, having cheated death again, Marguerite had found herself on the verge of letting him get close on whatever terms he might specify. But once the adrenaline rush had faded and reason re-established itself, she began to doubt again, her thoughts spiralling in an endless circle of what-ifs. The light that burned so strongly in him felt at times as if it was only highlighting the shadows in her. And Marguerite was afraid that she might never be able to release that part of herself she held on to so tightly, not trusting anyone else with it.
"Hmmmm," John replied noncommittally, relaxing into her more gentle attention again as he pondered her words. He was frustrated by their inability to take their relationship further, but he was a patient man. Well, mostly. Instead he surrendered himself to the moment, enjoying her touch as her hands slid over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, head dropping forward slightly as her fingers started their steady march up his neck after working out the worst of the tension in his shoulder muscles.
Lost in quiet concentration, Marguerite's touch gradually became more intimate and caressing over time. John gave a happy sigh as her fingers lingered slightly longer in the locks of hair at the base of his neck. He kept his eyes closed, every inch of his skin aware of the proximity of the woman standing oh so very close, but just out of reach. Keeping very still, he felt her hands drifting down his back, pausing here or there. The pauses confused him until he realized she was fingering his scars.
Marguerite frowned as she traced the evidence of an adventurous life lived in a hazardous environment. How many of these had he obtained on her behalf, trying to shield her from danger? The fingers of her hand drifted up to his left shoulder, a sunburst shaped scar where he'd taken a bullet in exchange for her life. Her thoughts went back to that day, when he'd instructed her to use the heated poker to sear his wound closed. She shuddered involuntarily, a movement he must've felt as he reached up with his right hand, covering her left against him.
When she didn't pull her hand away, he turned around slowly, keeping his hand in hers. She wouldn't raise her eyes to meet his, but kept them focused on his shoulder, the scar now visible from the front.
He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it was all right, and that whatever happened, he was sure it was going to work out for the best. But the words froze on his tongue, afraid she might just pull deeper into her shell. So instead he said nothing, his dark eyes searching for hope.
Marguerite took a deep breath, gathering courage to voice her thoughts and fears, when a shout from below interrupted.
"Roxton! Marguerite!" they recognized Ned's voice, rushing over to the lift as they heard its mechanism engage. They shared a brief look, a mixture of sadness and relief evident in Marguerite's eyes, concern and perhaps disappointment in John's as he reluctantly let her hand go.
"What happened?" John was all business as an out-of-breath Ned stepped out of the lift.
"It's Challenger. He needs help," Ned gasped.
"That's a fact Ned, not an explanation," Marguerite had her arms crossed in front of her, chin tilted at a stubborn angle.
"Where is he," John demanded, sparing Marguerite a brief admonishing glance before striding over to collect his rifle and ammunition. "I need details, Malone."
Marguerite watched him, recognizing the look John had in his eyes – their guardian was once again getting ready to storm out into the great unknown and save them all. It was an exasperating trait; and one of the many reasons she loved him dearly.
Marguerite missed a step, nearly tripping over her own feet as she realized what she had just admitted to herself. She, Marguerite Krux, free agent in relationships and war alike, loved him. That fact frightened her; not only due to the strength of her feelings toward him, but also because of the implications it held. In fact, it scared her more than any monster the plateau could ever throw at her. On the other hand, it was also a truth, and one that gave her strength and hope for the future, for there ever being a 'them'.
But right now the immediate future required her attention in the here and now, not foolishly daydreaming of possibilities.
"Are you all right Marguerite?" Of course John had noticed the break in her stride.
"Yes. Yes I am," Marguerite smiled at him, for once not imbuing it with anything else but honesty.
Sensing she was answering more than just his casual question, John tilted his head in query but kept his silence. Now was not the time. But he would do his damnedest to make sure they had the time to figure it out.
"Lead the way Malone," John ordered as they stepped outside, ready to face the next challenge.