Brody walked with a spring in his step, whistling despite the fact that he was dripping wet and currently locked out of the house. Such a punishment was well worth it, he decided, since it had meant getting a taste of the lovely Violet Baudelaire.
Smiling fondly, he recalled the smell of her, the feel of her pressed against him in the water. Oh, she'd remembered herself soon enough, he thought, and wanted to laugh when he remembered the way she'd frozen, jerking back as though burned. And she'd stuttered. She'd stuttered a lot. And that, he mused, was adorable as well as satisfying. He'd let her go, but only because that, besides the panic in her eyes, there had been a genuine flicker of fear.
He'd never forced himself on a woman, and he wouldn't start now. He didn't count that little trick in the sand as force. If she'd said no –and meant it- he would have stopped, maybe lightened the mood with a few jokes. But she hadn't said no –or if she had the look in her eyes had contradicted her words. And because she hadn't, things had gone far better than he'd hoped.
She could deny it all she wanted, but there was something there between them, something more than simple lust on his part. He'd lusted after women before, and he knew what that felt like. And sure, there was some of that with Violet, but it was more, so much more, with her. He loved her brain just as much as her body –and that was saying something considering his newest obsession with her legs- and took more care with her than any other woman he'd ever courted.
There was no doubt in his mind that this woman, and this woman alone, was what he'd been waiting for. She needed the care, just as much as he needed to give it to her. And hell, how could you not love a woman who kissed you in the sea one minute and slammed the front door in your face the next? Who could rebuild a boat just as well as she could cook a chicken? How could you not positively adore a lonely brown eyed angel who built crosses on cliffs and snuggled her cat? It would take a stronger man than he to turn from her, and a very stupid man to ever consider turning in the first place.
Since he wasn't stupid, he felt no guilt about –subtly- slowing down the pace of her work on the old boat in the shed. Perhaps some might have called taking a crowbar to the wooden planks and ruining hours of work childish, even insane. He called it strategy. And really, it wasn't even that noticeable. If she hadn't wanted him 'fooling around' with the boat, she shouldn't have locked him out of the house. He'd been laughing to himself when he slipped out of the shed again, the crowbar stowed back in its slot. And now he was walking aimlessly on the beach, whistling to himself and contemplating his next plan.
The whistling stopped, however, when a bolt of lightning lit the sky, and he noticed, shocked, that it had suddenly gotten darker, the sky above an angry swirl of dark storm clouds. Even as he swore, thunder clapped, all but shaking the ground he walked on, and the rain let loose, pouring down in fast, stinging drops that had him running for the house. Thunder rolled, and he quickened his pace, feeling the water hit his bare back.
Even as he reached the house, the front door swung open, and he barreled through it, skidding to a halt in the front hall, sliding a bit on the wood floor. At the sound of the door shutting again, he turned; saw Violet standing there, the cat cradled in one arm. She raised a brow, and he took a moment to just look at her, his heart sighing even as his lips curved into a smile. And then that smile turned into an all out grin as he realized what she was wearing.
"Well, look at you, darling." She was dressed, not in the old fashioned nightgowns she usually wore, but thick flannel pajama bottoms and a heavy hooded black sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a wet ponytail. There were fuzzy red slippers on her feet. It was obvious that she'd chosen such an outfit deliberately. It hid absolutely all of her figure, and was anything but inviting. Tilting his head to the side, he made a show out of studying her.
"I have to say, princess, flannel is never flattering." He almost burst out laughing at the satisfied relief in her eyes, but instead leaned against the wall, dripping water.
"But in this case," He continued, "I think you managed to pull it off. I could just eat you up." He did laugh now at the horror on her face, and all but doubled over with mirth, bracing a hand on the wall for support. Oh, God, he was a goner.
"I'm glad you find this all so amusing. Get in the shower before you catch a cold. You're dripping all over the floor." She said stiffly, fighting back the urge to blush. When he straightened, his laughing eyes latching on hers, her heart all but leaped up into her throat, and her pulse went unsteady. It was those eyes of his, she told herself. No one's eyes should gleam like that, like they could see right through her, right into her.
"I'll clean it up, Vi. That storm came out of nowhere." He spoke cheerfully, and she sighed heavily, as she often did when he was stubbornly upbeat.
"I'm surprised we haven't had one before this. It usually rains like this a couple of times a week around the island." She said, glancing towards the window. Following her gaze, he looked out, and saw what she meant. It seemed the storm encircled the island, surrounded by clear blue sky. Frowning, he stepped closer, absently brushed a hand over her arm. He didn't notice her stiffen, too focused on what he saw.
"I'll be damned…It really is just the island. It's just…Violet." He turned to her then, and his fingertips brushed over her cheek. She didn't react, only continued to look out the window, her eyes dark as she watched lightning rip through the sky and rain pound as the previously calm waters that they'd been in less than two hours before now churned fiercely. Angry waves shot up, crashing against the sand, turning the calm blue into churning black.
"My God…" He murmured, and because she seemed to see nothing but the black outside, he cupped her face in his hands, turned her to face him. She was so cold, he thought, so very cold despite the heavy pajamas. She looked at him then, and those dark eyes seemed to hold all the misery in the world. The cat, leaping down from her arms, rubbed against her legs, perhaps in comfort.
"It won't claim you, when it's time for you to leave. I won't let the water take you too. You've my word on that." She spoke tonelessly, as though in a trance, her gaze going right through him. Cursing mentally, he rubbed his thumbs over her pale cheeks, ignoring the fact that he was soaking wet and likely warping the wood beneath his feet.
"Nothing's taking me from you, baby. I promise." He kissed her temple, her forehead, soothing. In that moment she looked so vulnerable, so young, and so…fragile. And because she was, because he thought both of them needed it, he backed away from her, reached over and pulled down the blinds on the window.
"You're cold, darling. You should go have some tea." He murmured, and watched her draw herself back, draw herself in. Those eyes of hers cleared, and she didn't have it in her to blush or stutter. She was just tired, so very, very tired. Instead she rested her hand on his arm for a moment, perhaps in thanks, perhaps to steady herself since she suddenly felt so heavy, so…she didn't have the words, really.
"Yes…Yes, I'll make some. Go shower, Brody." Too weary to care about what she called him, she walked around him, made her way into the kitchen, the cat following close behind. And it was Quigley who looked back in the doorway, his wise eyes studying Brody for a moment or two before he faced forward and followed his mistress.
There was pain there, Brody thought, pain and resignation, and something else entirely. As he walked to the bathroom, peeled off his soaked trousers, he tried to explain to himself how the storm could exist only over the island. Wincing as he stepped beneath a spray of hot water, he felt his chilled skin warm quickly, and sighed as his tense body relaxed under the spray.
He'd made a promise just now, and it was one he intended to keep. Maybe he didn't know all there was to know about the mysterious Violet Baudelaire. But he would. Maybe he didn't understand what made this island so treacherous to outsiders. But he would. And maybe the woman he'd left in the kitchen didn't trust him enough to share all those secrets of hers, to let him into that heart of hers. But she would.
And she'd looked so…lost back there, so lost and broken. He'd give up several vital limbs if it meant never seeing that look on her face again. Her eyes had been so big, so dark, her skin so cold. Her face had been so…bleak when she'd looked out at the storm, at the crashing waves that had replaced the calm, cool waters. And for the life of him, he didn't know how to fix it. He couldn't fight against Mother Nature's elements, for God's sake. If he'd been a man prone to religious thoughts, he might've said that it had been like God himself had sent the heavens crashing down on them, smashing the calm that had settled over the island for just a bit.
Shaking his head, he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist. He padded down the hall to the kitchen, looking in, and what he saw all but broke his heart. She was sitting at the table in his chair –for over the past week it had become his- a cup of steaming tea at her elbow. Her arms were folded on top of the table, her head resting on them. From her deep, even breathing, it was easy enough to see she was fast asleep, and his heart ached as he saw the shadows under her eyes, the tense way her fingers dug into her arms, even in sleep.
With a deep sigh, he walked upstairs, pulled on a pair of sleep pants. Walking back downstairs, he paused a moment at the harsh rumble of thunder, noted it didn't disturb Violet's sleep. She was used to it, he thought, remembering she'd told him it rained like this every week. Walking to her, he took a moment to brush a lock of hair back from her face, to trace his fingertip over her cheek.
She barely stirred, sighing and shifting a bit. Feeling a well of tenderness rise up inside him, he slid his arms around her, managed to lift her relatively easily from the chair. When she stirred, murmuring under her breath, he pressed a kiss to her temple, held her in his arms for a moment.
"Brody," Her eyes opened, just a bit, closed again as her head came to rest on his shoulder.
"Go back to sleep, darling. I've got you." When she drifted off easily, he realized just how exhausted she'd been, and wondered what she'd been up to that would take that much out of her.
Shaking his head, and tired himself, he walked into the sitting room, where the fire smoldered and the soft light of the candles she always lit flickered. Ignoring the rain pounding against the window, he walked over to the couch, sat down with her, and somehow managed to maneuver so that they were both lying down on the generous cushions of the couch. Her head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm locking her in place beside him, he tugged the blanket she kept on the back of the couch over them. She sighed again –it seemed she was always sighing- but burrowed into him, her cool skin warming against his.
"Sleep now, princess. The sun will be shining again when you wake up." He took his own advice, falling off to sleep as she did. And though the sky was black as pitch, the exhaustion settling on both of them like a heavy cloak, none of them realized that it wasn't even two o'clock in the afternoon. But then, stranger things had happened within the borders of Baudelaire Island.
