AN: A little bit of news, before we get started-I'm now gainfully RL-employed! Unfortunately this means there will probably be longer stretches of downtime between chapters (y'know, like the one that just happened), but I'll try not to keep y'all in suspense for too long!
Also...OMGWTFBBQ? 140 reviews and you guys aren't tired of this yet? Whether you've favorite'd, alert'ed, reviewed, or are just stalking me (looking at you, Nameless and Mikalia), just... thank you. Seriously-thank you.
Oh and...I think I've forgotten to mention for a while now that Bioware actually owns Fenris...not me...whoops...
"So—it's a ship?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
Fenris peers dubiously through the thick pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, eyeing the aircraft's ungainly steel frame. "And it can leave the ground?" he continues inquisitively. "Completely?"
"That's the idea, yes." Anxiously I bump my carry-on bag with my heel, and feel better once I discover it hasn't moved in the last minute and a half. I pound back the cold, milky sweetness of a double-espresso-in-a-can, one eye on the back of Fenris's head. He hasn't moved in the last minute and a half, either—he's watching the ant-hive bustle of mechanics and baggage handlers mill about on the pavement and eyeing the plane with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. A corpulent gentleman sinks into the seat directly next to me with a wheeze and a creak of vinyl (Jesus H. Twinkle-toes Christ dude there are RULES and you are BREAKING THEM!), and I nudge my bag again. A small part of my brain is occupied with a continuous stream of particularly blasphemous swearing at the necessity of checking an actual suitcase. Fucking baggage claim—fucking Christmas—fucking Christianity appropriating pagan holidays—
I really hate flying.
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"
A guilty flush works its way into my cheeks as I snap out of my increasingly neurotic ruminations. Fenris has left the window and is poised in front of me, hands in pockets and looking as though he's torn between being annoyed and being amused. I don't get it. It's Christmas fucking Eve, it's crowded as shit, and it's early. How is he in such a good mood? He's positively boisterous. I strain a wan smile through all the jagged pieces of my scattered attention and try to focus on the fact that he was, apparently, trying to tell me something. It's not his fault Mark couldn't spare him for longer than two and a half days. It's not his fault I hate flying and airports and holiday travel and—focus, Erin. "Culpas," I tell him sheepishly. "What'd I miss?"
Fenris blinks in surprise at my appropriation of his native tongue, as if living with him hasn't been its own unique language immersion experience. "Nothing of consequence," he assures me with an odd, quirky smile. "Are you all right? You seem—I think the correct phrase is 'out of it'."
If he gets ANY cuter we'll be swapping more than just idioms. I feel my smile settle more easily on my face, and stand to give the rotund interloper the culturally-mandated requisite space. "Yeah, I'm okay." I hook my foot through the strap of my messenger bag and tug it out from under the seat. "Just—this is not my favorite way to travel."
He frowns quizzically, his own carry-on slung over his shoulder. "Why are we here, then?"
I let him herd me toward the windows, where the collected warmth of the (sacrilegiously) early morning sun slips under my bad-tempered anxiety. "Because a collective forty-eight hour road trip was even less appealing," I answer ruefully. I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding as the gate attendant sounds the "all aboard" (I know that's for trains but whatever). I slip my hand into his and lead him into the line of other passengers. "To be honest," I add conversationally, "I'm a little surprised at how well you're dealing."
He shrugs, unconcerned with the press and shift of the crowd as we funnel into the plane's tubular cabin. "It feels like the Docks," he explains succinctly (and I can hear the capital D). He smirks and adds, "Apart from the whores and reek of fish, anyway."
A muffled snort of laughter escapes me as the woman in front of me glances at us askance. "Aw, feeling homesick?" I tease him with a smirk of my own.
His hair practically bristles with emphasis as he shakes his head. "Not even a little," he retorts fervently. The single-file line of foot traffic clogs periodically as passengers find their seats and stow their things, Fenris and myself among them. Even the illusion of privacy is enough to send relief sighing through the knots of too much caffeine and general blegh, as Fenris claims the window seat and I keep my fingers tightly crossed against the thought of getting trapped in the middle by a stranger on my other side. I let myself untwist and relax only when the last passenger scoots past with only the barest glance at the row letter.
We kill the time between boarding and taxiing away from the gate seeing which of us can find the most outrageous gadget in the SkyMall magazine (Fenris's favorite is the necklace-wine-glass-holder, but I win with the cat box disguised as a wash stand). He's probably the only passenger on the flight who actually pays attention to the flight attendant's routine, blank-faced instructions in the event we begin a headlong plunge into a fiery doom: he follows along in the trifold safety card and nods to himself every so often. His palm skates against mine as the plane shudders into motion and lines up on the runway; our fingers tangle together with a jolt of mint and static as the engines whine. I feel the breath catch in him as suddenly we're moving, hurtling down the long stretch of cement with velocity even racecars can only enviously dream of reaching.
We take the upward plunge, and he gasps. I don't think his face is big enough to contain his giddy-boy grin as we gracefully climb into an upside-down ocean of deep sky blue.
All the hassle of travel, from finding someone to watch over Scooter to dealing with crowds and traffic to the heart-stopping moment of panic I had when I realized I don't know how lyrium reacts with electromagnetic security devices (it doesn't set them off, in case you're wondering), it drops off me like dead weight as he watches the ground fall away, as Texas and then the rest of the South unfurls under the us like a flag. I would be content to stare at him for the next few hours, except that he turns to me with a smile gone soft around the edges. An answering tenderness flip-flops somewhere under my heart, warm and fierce and trembling, and I give his hand a tight squeeze.
I glance toward the window, breaking away from the gentle intensity of Fenris's gaze before this can turn into a full-fledged gooey-eyed staring contest. "You were trying to tell me something a second ago," I remind him. The plane's wing cuts through a dense white cloud; funny how even when you're old enough to know better, clouds still look like they'd be fun to jump on.
His lips twitch in amusement as he shrugs. "I am simply wondering what to expect once we arrive."
Hopefully NOT a certain Bitch of the Wilds.
I don't say this out loud, of course. It's probably bad enough luck to even think about her. Instead, I only lift the armrest between our seats out of the way and tug his arm around my shoulders with the ease of familiarity, and join him in staring out the window. This much, at least, he's grown comfortable with—this and a seemingly endless parade of small, casual touches that are as much habit as they are slow, cautious forays into the territory of each other.
I'm in no rush, really; all signs point to him sticking around for a while. The thunderstorm came and went without a—ah—reprise of whatever landed him here. And, unless I'm grievously misjudging his overall mood, he wants to stay. Even though we haven't had a repeat performance of our shared kisses (and I'm letting HIM initiate those—personal space is personal space), the daily shift and beat of him dares me to hope he might want to stay not just in a world without magic. Just maybe, he wants to stay with me.
It may be time to start calling a duck a duck. Doesn't mean I'm gonna.
Yet.