Written for fanfic100. Drabbles will come in the order I do them, rather than numerical order.
038. Touch.
Riff can hear the thumping of his own heart, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins as he listens to the light footsteps that pass by the door. The briskness of pace suggests that it is Bertha, the laundry maid, finished with her scrubbing and ready to retire for the night.
If only he were so lucky.
Instead, he tries to keep his composure as Cain paws insistently at his collar, his string tie and suit jacket already abandoned on the floor. Cain's bed is extremely large, and yet, Riff wonders how he has been manoeuvred into a position where he is sprawled over his charge, confined beneath the bed covers and elbows resting on either side of Cain's head; both supporting his weight, and keeping himself as distanced as he possibly can.
"Riff," Cain says plaintively, with a little sigh, "You're practically hovering."
"I'm sorry, I can't help it, sir." And it is the truth, because Riff has a feeling that if he lets go, it will be a turning point in his life that he just cannot go back on.
But the look that Cain shoots him as the honorific leaves his lips suggests how ridiculous sounding it is, especially given the current situation. It shows something about Cain; he is arrogant, domineering, and yet he is also painfully oblivious to any type of emotion that is understated, underlying between people. Riff grapples for a word, and he settles on insensitive as Cain holds the look, and sighs some more, eventually rolling over - away to the side from under Riff.
"Honestly," he says. "I didn't expect you to be such a prude."
Riff mutters something in reply, cutting himself off abruptly before he can say something damaging. But Cain's sharp ears catch it anyway, and he smirks in response.
"I think I'm flattered." He snipes, and tugs Riff's arms out from underneath him, making him fall onto the bed, springs bouncing. "Now, do you need a nightshirt or are you going to wrinkle your day clothes?"
Riff freezes at the implications and the utter impropriety, and he looks at Cain with poorly disguised horror, noting rather resentfully that Cain is grinning, Cheshire cat smug, head tilting with a hand propping up his cheek.
"I am just fine, thank you." He says, keeping his expression cool. And a small but wicked part of him relishes the look on Cain's face when he starts to unbutton his shirt, slipping the fabric off and hanging it over the bedpost. And as Cain quickly recovers and shifts closer to his side, Riff likes to think that it is a good sign, that it is he, himself who reaches out first to pull them together, touching.
end