I legitimately never write this pairing, so I apologise if it's at all out of character.
I aimed for it to be IN character for the characterisations of the pair of them between Black Dawn and Bitter Blood
"More wine, my dear?"
Amelie turns her head as Oliver poses his question, a smile forming on her lips as she nods her head, holding her glass out to him. She can't remember the last time that she sat quite so relaxed—half-lying on the sofa, propped up by one elbow—and neither can she remember the last time she spent the evening with a man who is slowly working his way into her heart.
She likes the way that he makes her feel; Oliver's presence, rather than a burden as it once was, almost eradicates the hole left in her life following Sam's death. He doesn't make her heart feel as though it's in one piece again, it was never broken—her heart's a place filled with contained fire, surrounded by ice, unbreakable—but he makes her feel alive.
That's something even Sam never managed to wholly achieve.
Oliver replenishes the liquid in her glass and she nods ever so slightly in gratitude; not even to her loved ones does she say thank you, but Oliver understands.
Once he's set the bottle back on the glass table in front of them, Oliver returns to his position on the sofa next to Amelie, their bodies not quite touching; her legs are so close to his that she could move one inch and touch him, yet she doesn't. It's up to him to make the first move; in this rigmarole and charade of a game that they've created for their relationship, every movement a dance move on the way to their end goal, whatever that may be. Everything's relaxed and electrically charged at the same time, and it's that which makes it interesting. She feels as though she both fits with Oliver and isn't the right person for him concurrently, and perhaps that's what makes her so keen to make this work; she wants to feel as though she's had to work for the love she deserves, rather than being given it so effortlessly like she was with Sam.
Whilst she's thinking, Oliver says something involving movement, but she's not paying attention enough for the words to make sense; even as she tries to concentrate, to look at Oliver and focus on what he's saying, she's thinking about the entire premise of love. Is she in love or is this all pretend? Does she really feel as though she could spend the rest of her life in a relationship with Oliver, or is she merely wanting for someone to drive away the feeling of loneliness, merely wanting the space in the bed next to her filled?
She can tell he knows that she can't focus and that she hasn't a clue what he's just said for the second time—and so he does something that she's not expecting.
He grabs her.
"Oliver!" she can't help the shock in her voice as he dives across the sofa. Their skin connects as he lies on her for the briefest of moments, a position Amelie wouldn't mind remaining in, before he removes her glass from her hand and pulls her to her feet in the same swift, fluid movement. "What are you doing?" He's moving her hands to place one upon his shoulder and the other at his waist, and she knows what they're doing now, she just wants to hear it from his lips. She wants him to tell her what they're doing; for once, she wants the decision making to be taken from her, for another to take responsibility for what's going on.
His voice is, again, amused as he leans in against her, pressing his lips close to her ear. "What do you think we're doing? We're dancing, of course."
And by this point they are, moving to the rhythm of absent music, twirling and circling the other in the old style. As they move, Amelie recalls with startling clarity the time they danced this very dance at the first court Oliver had attended since his death—the French court, naturally. They had danced for the entire evening, never tiring or pausing for a moment, utterly entranced by the other; they were always touching, even as they went out onto the balcony of the white castle, and looked out over the lands. As the dawn began to break, he had kissed her for the first time and they had left the castle together, repeating the dancing and the intimacy at every future convention.
She loses herself in the past as they swing to the memory of a tune, her imagination bringing the gown swinging around her legs and a top hat upon Oliver, and for an immeasurable period of time, they move together, synchronised as always. Then, almost on purpose, Amelie misses her footing at the same time as Oliver forgets to put his hand on her side, and they find themselves crashing into one another, using the other to stop them falling.
"I…I…" Amelie hesitates as she looks up to see Oliver's eyes mere inches from her own, his lips equidistant from hers. She can't recall the last time she was lost for words before now, but the words are made up for in the tension that creeps up to fill the space between their bodies: romantic but also sexual. They know what's coming, what would always follow movements like this—if she wants it, that is. Everything's Amelie's call and yet nothing is at the same time; for the first time in a long while, they're truly equals in everything they share.
He knows she wants him; she knows he wants her. It's no surprise when his hand cups her face, the other running through her long, loose hair, and their lips meet, an eruption of fire and ice. She's always been freer with Oliver, more able to relinquish the hold she places upon feeling anything other than control, and she takes advantage of that now. All the barriers within her crumble, all sense of what's right and wrong, what she should do and what she wants to do, and it feels good. She doesn't owe anyone but herself anything—and what she owes herself is happiness, the chance to feel as though the world is hers to take once again.
She remembers the old days as she pulls Oliver to the sofa, remembers how he would run his hands through her hair and tell her that she looked more beautiful than anyone else in the world when it framed her face (part of the reason she always keeps it tied back, nowadays) and how he could make her feel as though she was everything in the world that was worthwhile. He could—and still can—make her feel as though all her insecurities are nothing, as though she should never be afraid to be who she is inside.
He makes her feel alive.
"I missed you, Amelie," he whispers against her lips as her hands roam his chest. He's not the most beautiful man she's ever loved on the outside, but his mind, his soul…they're more powerful than almost anyone else's. When Oliver knows what he wants, he will not give up until he gets it, even if only for a brief moment, and that's something that's mirrored in her personality. They're identical and yet polar opposites internally as well as externally, because whilst Amelie wants nothing more than to use her power for good and peace, Oliver wants nothing but power and blood—he wants everything, no matter what the cost.
She doesn't reply to his comment because to say she missed him too would be to admit that she loved another when she was with Sam, and she didn't; Sam was—is—her everything.
Oliver's simply her guilty pleasure, someone who will never be the right thing for her, but gives her the utmost happiness as he destroys her from the inside.
In the past, they had changed the other slightly; neither had become less dominant or powerful, but she wanted revenge and to act more decisively whilst he at least considered the costs as well as the benefits of his actions—not only on himself, but on others. They had changed one another through lying side by side, a mutual promise to never hurt the other weaved between them as he kissed her and she gave him everything she could give him—he had made her stronger, she had made him more susceptible to others.
She supposes that that's the reason why he tried to kill her.
Amelie refuses to think of this any further as Oliver asks her a question, one that she hears this time. It's something that symbolises whether or not she trusts him, something which shows whether or not she wants to go back to how she was before Morganville, before Sam.
She nods immediately, her eyes on Oliver as he moves his hands from her hair, always watching her, ensuring that she doesn't change her mind before he shifts position to sweep her into his arms.
They're back to the pattern they had in the past, the chase and then the victory, and as Amelie gasps at Oliver's touch and allows the ice to entirely melt away, she's aware of the old saying: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
She can only hope that this won't ring true for them this time around.
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