Clouds
Disclaimer: I still don't own them, and they still don't like me. These characters are owned by the people who own them. I'm sure those people probably wouldn't like me much, either. :o)
Summary: Two lovers pass an afternoon cloud-watching. Wendy/Joker (surprise, surprise). Hint of lemon. Post ROD TV. Contains enough sap to make an entire forest weep with jealousy.
It was just the sort of afternoon for this. To flop back into the grass, soft and moist and smelling of spring, and stare up idly at the sky.
Of course, it was utterly silly for a sober, sedate, responsible woman of her age to waste her time cloud-watching. But until there was something better to do – and wandering aimlessly through the house that held them as good as prisoner most days did NOT count – she felt little guilt in this. Lying in the middle of the field just behind the isolated cottage, no doubt smearing a perfectly good dress with all manner of grass stains, and pretending that she would sink into the earth if she stayed here long enough.
Like she used to when she was a silly little kid.
There was something to be said for irresponsibility, she thought decidedly, stretching sleepily and snuggling into the grass and letting her eyes slide shut beneath the drowsily soft warmth of the sun.
"One would think that, if you were tired enough to warrant a nap, you'd have come back inside."
She is scrambling into a sitting position in an instant, blushing guiltily and carefully avoiding his curious, amused gaze as he looks down at her, arms folded.
"What are you doing, anyway?" he asks, crouching next to her and picking a blade of grass out of her hair, his annoyance fading at her shy expression as quickly as his worry had faded to annoyance when a quick glance showed her to be unharmed, despite lying in the grass for no apparent reason.
"Cloud-watching," she admits after a moment of sheepish silence, plucking a blade of grass and spinning it about absently.
He laughs softly, and she glares up at him playfully.
"You didn't do that as a child?"
"Honestly? I can't remember doing it ever. Of course, I did watch the weather channel on occasion. It had clouds, as I recall."
"That explains a lot of things about you, actually," she snickers. "But did you really never spend time cloud-watching with your friends when you were bored?"
"No, honestly, I felt no urge to stare aimlessly up at the sky for hours on end."
She shakes her head in mock sorrow.
"You poor child!"
As she flops back down into the grass, she can feel his eyes on her, astonished. This flippancy and playfulness is dimly familiar, but has not made itself apparent for some time. Perhaps, once away from the necessity of remaining calm, poised, and dignified in order to make a good impression on those he wished to impress, she feels freer to laugh.
Vaguely glad that this tendency of hers for playfulness has returned, he settles back into the grass next to her.
She turns onto her side and blinks large, bewildered eyes at him.
Very pretty eyes.
He wonders what on earth is wrong with them today; this field and this afternoon and the combination of the two must carry some charm to cause people to behave like fools.
Albeit happy fools.
"Alright, then. How does this 'cloud-watching' game of yours work?" he asks briskly.
She giggles slightly.
"I can't believe you never did this as a boy! But then," she continues mischievously, "you were probably too busy doing important things."
"As opposed to wasting my time rolling around in the grass?" he asks, delicately amused. "And I'm the odd one?"
"Just see if you can find shapes in the clouds," she explains, staring idly up at the sky again.
She is staring straight ahead, and doesn't notice, entirely, that his eyes are still on her, although something strange is happening to her heartbeat. Not quickening, just stronger and more acute.
The flush of pink in her cheeks and the soft, dreamy look in her eyes, nearly the colour of the expanse of sky above them, are doing likewise strange things to his pulse.
"That one looks like a carrot," she says suddenly, and caught off-guard, he laughs, a startled, genuine laugh.
"A carrot," he repeats, studying the sky. "I must say, I don't notice any produce hanging in the sky. Although," he continues a little grudgingly as her forehead wrinkles in slight annoyance at his unwillingness to play along, "that one may resemble a shark, if one sees it from the right angle."
She shifts closer to him and peers up at the sky.
"I think I see it. Look at that one! It's a cat!"
"That one looks like a tree."
"There's a monkey."
"An apple."
"A car."
"A horse."
"A dog."
"A dromedary."
"A penguin."
"Justice."
She turns onto her side to stare at him oddly again.
"What?!"
"It's all interpretive," he says, mock-defensively.
"How does one see justice in the clouds?" she asks, settling back into the grass with a contented sigh.
"A physical shape that recalls the concept," he replies.
"Ah. Well, I suppose all's fair in love and cloud-watching," she says stretching again and stifling a yawn.
Once again, the blue of her eyes and the smooth curve of her neck and shoulder seem far more mesmerizing than the business of cloud-watching, and he studies her carefully.
She returns his gaze, somewhat perplexed and vaguely nervous.
"Is something wrong?"
His reply is a minute shake of his head before leaning over her and, very carefully and gently, covering her lips with his own.
He ignores her sharp intake of breath and deepens the pressure of the kiss, one hand brushing through her hair and stroking the back of her neck lightly.
She reaches up and tentatively wraps both arms around him, because although this is not the first time they have behaved as lovers since coming here, there was nothing in it that could be termed loving, or even affectionate. If they turned to one another for this sort of comfort, it was because, being effectively isolated this way, it was necessary in some way and had little to do with love.
For him. For her, it has always had everything to do with love. But it hardly matters, because kindness and the fact that he needs her are enough.
His mouth lifts off of hers and she gasps softly as he rains a trail of kisses over her collarbones, collarbones that he has always thought were oddly beautiful.
Then his hand slips free of her hair, over her shoulder, and begins working at the row of buttons at the front of her dress. He pushes the thin fabric aside and runs his thumb lightly over her breast, teasing her through the white cotton of her bra.
Almost involuntarily, she grips his wrist, tugging him closer and murmuring incoherent things that might have a meaning, but neither of them cares right now as he slips one finger under the band around the bottom of the sensible choice in underclothes he knows for a fact that she does not always make, and squeezes her nipple lightly, his mouth now on her neck and shoulder, lips and tongue and teeth softly teasing the almost painfully sensitive skin.
His hand leaves her breast and skims downward to the hem of her skirt. She gasps softly as he pushes it up and slips his hand inside the plain white cotton knickers that he remarks teasingly are like something a little girl might wear.
She does not bother taking even pretended offense to this, because now he is, very gently and maddeningly lightly, stroking her where she has already grown embarrassingly wet with want of him.
At her murmured plea against the side of his neck, he struggles hastily out of his clothes, and she helps with a joyous enthusiasm that would make him laugh if his attention were not notably elsewhere.
Namely, on the texture of the grass beneath him as he now finds himself pinned effectively to the ground, her mouth open and gasping on his, soft curve of her breasts tightly pressed against him, legs gripping his hips damp with sweat and almost desperate.
He shifts beneath her, hands closing over her hips, and pulls her closer against him, and he can half-see half-feel her eyes squeeze shut and her hands tighten in his hair at the unbearably sweet-hot searing pressure and fullness where she can feel him moving against her and inside her, and she shifts against him and utters a sharp gasp in time with his and then she moves against him, slowly, establishing a rhythm and this can't last long, because even now she can feel the blood like liquid gold, seeming to tighten into a knot of unbearable pressure that she never wants to stop, and rush out in every direction as the sun seems to explode inside her eyelids and she dimly hears a shriek that might be her…
It is much later when, as a light breeze stirs her hair and nudges her back to awareness of something outside of him and the sweet, heavy echoes of sated desire, she reluctantly moves away, and both shiver at the sudden loss of contact.
"So, this is cloud-watching, is it?" he asks with a vaguely wicked smile as she blushes pinkly.
"Er. Well. It didn't usually end that way when I was a child," she admits, and he laughs softly, pulling her back against him.
"I would hope not."
Both are silent for a long while, simply enjoying what they don't allow themselves very often, even now.
She snuggles against his shoulder, and after a moment, he murmurs against her hair that he loves her, and she stiffens suddenly and pulls back, staring at him.
He frowns.
"Said the wrong thing?"
She shakes her head mutely, and seems to be swallowing desperately around something.
"It's just…you haven't said that before," she finally says, eyes still trained on his.
He seems rather floored by this, and pauses to think carefully.
"I suppose I thought you knew," he finally says.
"Well, I think I did, a little," she admits, leaning in and wrapping her arms around him.
Seconds later, she feels more than hears his laugh, and looks up at him, surprised.
"What?"
"Think we ought to be going inside?"
"Er. I suppose so. Good thing there aren't many neighbours," she says, flushing slightly and moving reluctantly away to reach for her clothes.
She can feel his gaze still on her, and turns, expression quizzical.
With a slight grin playing abut the corners of his mouth, he asks,
"And when do you suppose you'll be going cloud-watching next? Because, honestly, I think I've begun to like it."
End Notes: Fanfiction Cliché #1335 – it's always better outdoors! Yeah; that was a bit strange. Still, I thought it was kinda cute, and I thought it would have broken up the flow to have them relocate to inside. :o)
And again, a third person present tense that doesn't refer to the characters by names. I'll pretend I did it for some artistic effect. Really, I'm becoming unsettlingly fond of it for these sappy little one-shots.
And, as always, opinions are much appreciated, even if it is to tell me on no uncertain terms that I am 'teh sux0rs', as it were. Please don't just tell me that it's icky because they're past their teens or young twenties and he's not built like a Roman lust god.
Okay, so you can tell me that if you want, but I just may laugh loudly at you. ;o)