A/N: I blame this entirely on my Iphone. And on Joodiff. And many, many thanks go out to ShadowSamurai83 for the superfast beta.
Title: Sleek
Rating: T (I only hint)
Disclaimer: The BBC owns it all. Unfortunately. If they didn't, we'd get a few more series.
Warning: This story may include parts that induce condition that necessitate CPR. Be warned. Be Prepared.
Summary: There's a lot of things about him that are sleek
Enjoy!
Sleek
There's a lot of things about him that are sleek – so many, in fact, that she is certain he likes it that way. Gives him a certain kind of image that he's eager to have.
It's the car, dark, stream-lined, surprisingly sporty for a limousine of that size. That he likes to push the accelerator as far as possible only proves her point. An Audi for a service car – really now.
It's in his phone, dark, small, gleaming, a small computer in your hand. He's not constantly playing around on it like others do, but it's still permanently attached to his ear. Not an Iphone, because sleek he may want to be, but definitely not like everybody else.
It's in his clothes, the elegant dark or light suits of famous designers that he favours when working. In recent years he's also forgone the ties, less official, more sleek. The materials hug his contours, hint at the muscles and sinews that lie beneath...and sometimes, sometimes there is no hinting and it isn't sleek at all. But that's a different story.
It's in his hairstyle, now longer again and as it comes, he combs it back and she knows that there's just that small hint of gel to let it lie the way he wants it – sleek, as she's said. That also explains why he has shaved off the goatee and permanent five-o'clock shadow he's been sporting for a long time.
She isn't sure what exactly he wants to prove by all this – the fact that despite pushing 60 with a vengeance, he's still got it? Whatever 'it' is?
She notices all the small and large things, and she reacts with no more than a raised eyebrow and an internal shake of her head. What should she say anyway? He'd accuse her of trying to over-analyse and they both agreed that this was a no-go between them. So she does her utmost to just register, but not comment.
They still argue spectacularly inat regular intervals, for the sleekness is limited to his outward appearance, not necessarily to his behaviour patterns. There he is just as loud and shouty as he always was and she is loath to provoke it more than need be. They've played the game long enough and he is as tired of it as she is.
To be perfectly honest, she likes him a little rougher around the edges, at least in his looks. The beard, the goatee, the spiky silver hair, they did a lot for her on a very base level. She wonders what he would do, if he knew. Would he ditch the current look or cultivate it even more?
Sometimes she can't read him and even though they've been 'something more' for several months, the insecurity remains. In all honesty, she expects him to be gone every morning she wakes up. It's not a conscious thing, but an instinct born from having always been more brains than beauty.
She does look good, though, she knows that. Recovery first, then relaxation, and finally an extended stay in the sunny South have seen to that. Fashion is also doing her a favour these days, providing exactly the clothes that flatter her. She does look good.
But she is in her mid-60s and dating – God, how that sounds – a rather handsome, younger man, who's apparently just discovering that he's approaching or leaving late-middle age and therefore trying to claw back some youthfulness he doesn't need and she doesn't have.
Whenever they are in a larger group of people, without fail some beautiful 30-something comes by and chats him up. He's flattered by it, buoyed in his ego. Every time. But so far he has politely, but flirtily, rejected every offer.
Knowing him, though, it is only a matter of time before one of those young women really catches his interest, or his ego is that desperate to be stroked, and he will succumb. She knows that there will be nothing she can do about it. The painful reality in this youth-obsessed society is that she can only hope, but not count on anything.
Sometimes the thought makes her want to scream, rage, cry for hours, but if he caught her, he'd first laugh away her worries and then be annoyed by her continued display of emotion. It's been par de course for the good ten years of their acquaintance and just because they are now sharing a bed most of the time, this has not changed.
The thoughts are maudlin, doing nothing for her enthusiasm for tonight's event. Another party, another do he's grumbled about, but they are required to attend. It seems that the longer they are in the business and the longer their unit is tacitly allowed to carry on, the more they are forced to be part of the dog-and-pony show.
It's black tie too, so he has to don the tuxedo and she put in a prolonged effort that not only tires her, but proves without a doubt just how little she can still naturally claim in her favour.
Of course, the tuxedo enhances the sleek look. He looks debonair, worldly and almost painfully handsome. In another life and if he'd had the patience for it, he could easily have been a model – even at his age. There's no question that the ladies will flock around him tonight.
There is a hint of possessive pride in her that he will show up, as delicious looking as he does, with her on his arm. But as she stares at herself in the vanity mirror and the already applied make-up foundation doesn't smooth over the lines around her eyes and her mouth, she seriously wonders if it is all worth it. The way she looks tonight, there's a good chance that he might arrive, but not leave with her.
He's leaning against the door frame, already mostly dressed. The bow tie is not yet tied and he's missing the cuff links, which are scattered between her selection of earrings, and quite frankly, she wishes she could just get up, cross the room and drag him into her bed. Party be damned.
He doesn't look completely averse to the idea, but then, he'd do anything to get out of tonight's do.
His eyes are fixed on her, she knows that without having to directly check. After such a long time of acquaintance and friendship, and the months as lovers, it has become second nature to feel his gaze on her.
She's chosen a black dress – black slims. Tight black sleeves, for she will show her bare arms only under the threat of death. The cleavage abundant – because he has a fascination with her décolleté. Her outfit plays on all the things she can somehow count in her favour – slight, slim, fragile, cleavage – yet, she is somewhat embarrassed by the fact that she actually does it.
She shouldn't doubt him. For months he's been true to her. Supportive, protective, patient and more than a little ardent. He's been passionate to the point of obsession where she is concerned. It should give her some security. In herself, in him, in them.
"You should stop thinking so much and get on with it," he quietly says and the hint of amusement is very audible in his voice.
She blushes, both at being caught and being called on it.
The eyeliner is on, the mascara too, and if she may say so herself, the smokey eyes-look comes out well. Her eyes stare back at her, larger than usual, the blue even more pronounced.
She. Does. Look. Good.
Yet...
He's suddenly behind her, his hands on her shoulder. Very sleek, very debonair.
Her gaze rakes up and down his body thrown back at her in the mirror, the tingle of arousal magnifying with every inch her eyes cover. For a moment she loves and desires him so much that it is almost painful and it must show in her expression, because his hands tighten to a squeeze of her skin. It does nothing against her arousal, neither does the expression in his deep dark eyes.
He leans down a little, so that his chin rests in the crook if her neck. Clean-shaven, sleek.
"I like the beard better," she suddenly blurts out.
"Do you?" he asks after a seemingly endless pause during which their gazes meet in the vanity mirror.
She nods, once again feeling yet another embarrassed blush creeping into her cheeks. He smiles at that, amused and affectionate at the same time.
"Anything else you don't like about my looks?" The amusement clearly wins out this time.
Since she is already embarrassed and he's going to milk it for all that its worth, she shrugs. "I like my men a little rougher, not so...sleek."
He's still grinning, but there is a touch of something else in his eyes now too. "Men? Plural?"
It's enough to pull her back on some sort of equal footing, so she only raises an eyebrow.
Without warning, his hands begin to wander over the sleek crêpe of her dress. They smooth over her thighs, then along her waist, only to slip around her middle to pull her body back against his. Finally, and this comes as no surprise to her whatsoever, they close around her breasts and squeeze.
Her reaction is just as instinctive as his is. She moans lightly, then louder as she can feel him grow hard against her back. Definitely not sleek.
She grins, so does he.
He doesn't tell her what he doesn't like. He tells her even less what he likes. But it isn't necessary.
They will be late to the party. She will have to reapply her make-up. They will have to do some fancy manoeuvring to hide their somewhat crumpled clothing.
They will also leave early, after putting on a rather clear display that neither of them is still on the market. The gorgeous and only scantily dressed 30-year old will be ignored – much to her dismay. As will some gentlemen who won't know what hit them when they find themselves confronted with a sleek-looking man, who rather bullishly warns them off his woman.
The sleek Audi will be parked in front of the house, the sleek Blackberry will lie forgotten on the table in the hallway.
Amongst the crumpled sheets, they will lie, hopelessly entwined, she tousled, he dishevelled.
And not sleek at all.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.