x. Idle Distractions
She was engrossed in her work, pouring over her paperwork with steadfast concentration. Her eyes were screwed up in effort, her forehead creased into deep lines. She spun the pen like a baton along her forefinger, the cap of which in her mouth, bobbing up and down as she read.
He watched her from across the table, not frustrated but frustrated by the stagnancy. He had no one to blame, either; since returning from her pregnancy leave she had a lot of work to catch up on. Between the baby and the work and everything else, he knew it was selfish to demand attention from her.
But as her foot jiggled against the ground, filling the silence in the kitchen with her rhythmic tapping, he couldn't help but desire her attention. Even if it were for a second. Even if she would fix her teal eyes upon him, and not on anything but him.
It was selfish. It was something she wouldn't condone. But that's why he did it.
He scooted his chair back and walked around their table, asking offhandedly if she wanted a glass of water. He was met with expected silence – he knew the answer anyways. He filled two glasses, reaching over her shoulder to place the water close to her hand.
And then he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
She turned to him quickly – he had strategically placed the water on the inside of her hand so she didn't knock it over – and her eyes narrowed.
"What was that for?"
He shrugged, quirking an eyebrow skyward, before taking a sip of his own glass in response.
She tried to frown, she truly did, but her grimace was lacking its usual edge. With a grumble, she turned back around and continued to write.
He gave her another five minutes before he smirked, leaned in, and pecked her other cheek.
She slammed the pencil down. "Are you going to keep kissing me?" she shot, though once more her words were probably not quite as scathing as she would've liked. He could tell by her face, the way her lip wasn't quite as dead-set, scowl not quite as deep as he knew it to be.
He smirked in response.
.
She was on the couch this time, binder nestled in her lap, the end of a pen clamped between her teeth.
Her eyes darted across the page. Occasionally her pen would circle something, scratch something out, scribble something down. Her lip curled, and curled further as she skimmed through more pages. He plopped down beside her; she gave no hint of acknowledgement as he rolled his shoulder back and took a glance over her left arm.
He anticipated some kind of rebuttal, if not a physical hand against his cheek to push him away, or a verbal lashing reprimanding, perhaps, his hot breath against her body. But none came, and for a second he felt a tad disappointed; unsatisfied.
Her work looked boring. Meticulous. Numbers- figures he didn't quite understand upon a glance and didn't bother trying to decipher. She didn't even move to accommodate his gaze. Her straw hair brushed his cheek and her arm still obscured half of the binder. He frowned.
And as she turned the page, the back of her hand hit his chin.
He retaliated by planting a kiss on it.
This time, there was no reaction. Upon turning, her eyes remained carefully fixed on the page. He frowned.
He went for her hand again, but it raised, twisting quickly and trapping his mouth.
She gave him a pointed glare.
He pressed his lips against her palm.
Her face was unimpressed. "Kissing me again?"
He smirked in response.
.
It wasn't work in front her, but a letter; the pen meeting her lips once more, her fingers drumming the table as she stared in front of her.
He didn't have to ask to know who it was addressed to. Any time she was writing for anything other than her work, it was for her brothers. Sure enough, a long arduous letter lay in front of her, one page filled with her elegant script, the other halfway through.
She hunched ever more severely, her nose growing closer to the paper. He knew better than to read her writing; knew better than to pry into her affairs. And normally, he allowed her to write. He'd leave her undisturbed. But this time, he felt differently. He wasn't naïve to question why he felt the impulse, he just liked to rattle her, liked to drive her up the wall.
He placed a kiss on the crown of her head.
He ignored the bristles of her hair, took a bit of pride as she could feel her stiffen, before she kept writing.
Perfect.
So he planted another. And another. And one more.
And then the brushed his lips along her cheek.
She slammed the pencil down. Her cheeks were only faintly dusted red, but her eyes danced liquid fire as she stood up, a hand flying to her hip. "Really, Shikamaru? You can't wait until I'm done?"
Her stance was livid, challenging, her face not embarrassed but angry, and there was some juvenile satisfaction that he drew from her expression. He smiled and drew his arms around her frame, pulling her closer toward him. He leaned in but she shoved her hand into his face, catching his cheek and twisting it away from her.
After the second of surprise, he couldn't help but to sigh.
He couldn't see her face, but her voice was unimpressed. "You really thought I'd kiss you now?"
He smirked in response.
.
He stood over the stove. The wok sizzled satisfyingly, their dinner eliciting a mouth-watering aroma. He added the vegetables in, the snaps and crackles renewed as they joined the mix. He lowered the heat to a lower simmer, letting the food stew a bit before he began to move it again.
He heard it then, her lithe footsteps as she tried to sneak up on him. She wasn't really trying – but that was the point, because he didn't try either that time.
She sidled up to him, and he couldn't discern her expression as she glanced into the wok.
"Smells good."
He didn't blink, didn't turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he reached over and added in the minced garlic.
She wasn't exactly satisfied with that. And so she tried to distract him with a kiss on his cheek.
Except he caught it with his lips.
They stayed for several moments longer, and he eventually dropped his chopsticks and wrapped his arms around her. She groaned against him, her breath blowing into his, before she finally pulled away, breathless yet at the same time, somewhat unimpressed. "I hate you," she breathed, her cheeks puffing.
He smirked in response.