A/N: For RagdollPrincess. I know how much you like Amrod. What can I say? I really tried! :P
Modest Mussorgsky, "The Pictures from the Exhibition: Old Castle"
Please, please, let it be an old chatty lady! With silver curls and a bunch of photos of her children and grandchildren, and her poodle, and her flowers in the garden. You are walking through the aisle, looking for your seat, and pray to all possible deities that it is not a middle-aged businessman who will be reading his newspaper all through the flight and never look at you for a second. You really need it to be a chatty old lady.
It is not. It is one of the most attractive men you have ever seen in your life. Bugger. He is exactly your type, maybe lacking a bit in width, but all together right to the point. Dark wavy hair, floppy, thick and healthily shiny, strong jawline, striking cheekbones, dark shadow on the clean shaven cheeks. Wide shoulders, and the neck that is just asking to be licked. Seriously, the first thought you have when looking at him is giving him a lovebite. Right there, on that tendon… And another one, on the collarbone. He looks at you and smiles. Bollocks.
You smile back, "Hi, that's me, 27B." He stretches his hand to you, "August." It is May. "Pardon?" "My name. My friends call me Auggie. You can too, we will be stuck with each other for four hours." That is a hell of a voice we are having here, Auggie. Fruity, smoky, with a slight hint of Southern American accent. Texas probably.
"Wren, nice to meet you." He has amazingly sexy hands. Large, very long fingers, both strong and elegant. The sleeves of his grey cardie are rolled up, and you can see slender wrists and muscular forearms. You haven't had sex in thirteen months. You hope it doesn't show.
You buckle in and exhale sharply. Bugger, an old lady would be still better. He might be distracting, fresh masculine perfume and heat radiating from his body, but damn, you are still scared shiteless. Bugger, bugger,bugger… You don't realize, you say it outloud.
"Not a fan of planes?" His voice is like maple syrup that you got completely addicted to. There is this one brand… Good, think about pancakes, don't think about burning cartilage of a plane. Fuck. "A bit." The knuckles of your hands are white, fingernails dug into the armrests. One thing is nice, there is no one on your left. You can claw at two armrests at the same time.
"Do you want my hand?" You screw your eyes at it. Damn, it is so tempting. "I wouldn't want to draw blood." He chuckles. "I'll survive." Sod it. You tentatively move your fingers closer, and his hand envelops yours. It looks tiny in his long fingers.
"So what is it you do, Wren?" The eyes are like chocolate truffles, dark, inviting, laughing, oh poop. Everything about him is warm, coffee, chocolate, chestnut and sex in front of a fire place… What the fuck was that thought? "I am a prof at uni. Medieval European literature." He hums. "I was doing my PhD in Carlton and now on my way back home to Calgary. You?" "Oil. I am an engineer." That explains Texan accent.
"Are you actually from the Lone Star State, or is the accent fake?" He laughs. That is a nice, open laugh, eyes twinkling and white teeth. "I am. But it's sort of fading here," he smirks and drawls in an exaggerated nasal voice, "But don't get all choked up, you looker, I sure'nuff still have it in me." You laugh, and he presses your fingers in his.
The plane jerks, and you dig nails into his palm. "Breathe, Wren, it is just like a car, but with wings." "That's what worries me." "Tell me about your accent, Wren, you sound British to me. Also an alien?" You bite into your bottom lip and shake your head. "Did my Bachelor in Leeds, Master's in Leicester, brought it from there." And some other things. A six foot four hottie with icy blue eyes, for example. The plane starts gaining speed and shaking. "Bollocks, bloody bollocks..." He chuckles, "I rest my case. You do sound British."
You are, as they say, losing it. Your breathing speeds up, and you see weird black spots in front of your eyes. It feels like the plane is going to fall apart right now, and you squeeze your eyes. "Common, Wren, talk to me. What is for you in Calgary? Family, friends? You are going to be there in a few hours, safe and unscathered, what is waiting for you there?"
You take a deeper breath. Sex, a lot of sex, wild, rough, against a wall sex. Think about it, concentrate Wren. Or divorce papers, may be, divorce papers. One out of two, with equal probability.
"I sort of have a husband there." "Sort of?" You peek, his eyebrows are hiked up, amused smile on his lips. These are very, very sexy. Full lower lips, the lines are strong, willful, and you breathe easier. "Well, we sort of separated, I haven't seen him for a year. But it's still sort of there..."
The wheels of the plane leave the ground, and you squeak. "OK, Wren, tell me about your husband, what's his name?" "John, his name is John. He is a lawyer." "Criminal law?' "Divorce lawyer." The irony really doesn't elude you. "Then you are in a pickle, Wren. If anything, he'll sue the hell out of you. Say goodbye to your nice shoes." You chuckle, "He won't look that good in them."
"So what happened, Wren? Did you cheat on him with some expert of Medieval armour?" "He didn't want me to leave for four years, he wanted a home and picketed fence and cats. I hate cats." "And a baby I gather?" Your eyes fly open, and you stare at him. He has very astute eyes. You nod.
"And now what?" "And now I'm done and going back. And we haven't talked for two months, and I emailed him my itinerary, and..." Why are you bloody telling him all that? The plane shakes, and you bite into your bottom lip. "And you don't know if he will be standing in the airport with a bouquet of roses..." "Or divorce papers," you nod, "but if anything it's probably not going to be roses, I love carnations." "Good to know, in case you do get divorced after all and agree to go out with me."
You look at him sideways. He is smiling. Smooth tosser. You let go off his hand, there are indeed marks from your nails in his palm, and you lean back in your seat. The flight attendant offers wine, and you even agree on some. You can't have more than a glass, but you sip, and he drinks his beer. You chat, and you think that he is one of the lightest, easiest people you have ever met in your life. Everything about him is bubbly, cheerful, sunny… Unlike in some other people we all know and... love. He is telling you a story of how his four older brothers once decided to pull a prank at him, tying a bucket of water over the door to his room, and how they dearly paid for it. You are laughing so loud that you have to press a palm to your mouth.
He is constantly moving, his wide dark eyebrows jump up and down, long fingered hands fly in the air, he probably has ADHD. His voice is expressive, low, velvet, and he is so openly attracted to you that you feel giddy. Two hours into the flight, from wine and the sheer stress of being in the metal trap of death you start nodding off.
You wake up when the captain announces the landing. You open your eyes, enveloped in his warmth and in the fresh nutty smell of his skin. Your cheek is pressed into the soft fabric of his cardie, and you see your hand on his lap, your fingers intertwined. He is looking out the window, small soft smile on his lips. You start moving away and he turns to you, "Hey." "Hey," you feel blush spreading on your cheeks. The plane starts going down, your ears plug, and you gulp. And then it shakes. Really hard. Your eyes probably widen in panic, and you inhale to spurt a new string of terrified swearings. And then he dives in and presses his lips to yours.
He is intoxicating! Your head literally swims, your eyes close, and you shamelessly moan into his lips. It is really inconvenient to kiss over the armrest, and he jerks it up. The flight attendant goes by and turns to you to remind you two to buckle in. Your arms are already wrapped around his neck, his hands on your waist, and she just goes by chuckling.
He tastes like beer, he tastes like sunshine, he tastes like himself, warm and inviting. You push your hands into his hair, and the plane lands. Probably. You really aren't sure. You move away and open your eyes. His are smiling, and you are once again stunned by the warm dark brown. That is a dominant gene, his kids will inherit it. Bloody fuck, what was this thought?
He takes out his card from his wallet and hands it to you. "Give me a call if it is indeed divorce papers and not carnations. OK?" You nod. Everybody starts getting up and pulling out their carry-ons. He lets you out, you don't have any bags. He is fumbling with his messenger bag, and you touch his shoulder. "Bye, Auggie." He smiles, "Bye, Wren."
You walk through the corridor, and your heart is beating frantically. You take a big gulp of water from your bottle and momentarily miss the taste of his lips. And then you remember, and you stop. You close your eyes and concentrate. "Common, Wren, you can do it. Few more steps and you will have your answer." You start walking again, and here are the gates. You pull up the strap of your handbag and step out in the arrivals terminal.
He is standing in the middle of it. There are no flowers in his hands. They are pushed into his pockets, in the endlessly familiar gesture. A dark blue cashmere sweater on his broad shoulders, the collar of a white button-up, the dark beard, the blue eyes… He notices you, and his lips twitch. You cannot actually see it, but you know his face so well, all the subtle little movements. And then he smiles. You can't see the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or the curved up lips, or the way his throat bobs...
You start running, and he steps ahead as well. Your body slams into his, and he envelops you in his arms. You press your face into the hard muscles, and he crushes you into him. "Wrennie, oh Wrennie..." He cups your face and you are staring into each other's eyes. "I love you…" His voice is raspy, and you feel tears pooling in your eyes. "God, Wrennie, I love you, I missed you so much..." He leans in and you are kissing, desperately and ardently. You wrap your arms around his neck, and you are home.
He is mumbling something into your lips, but he really doesn't have to say anything. You push your hands into his hair and pull him away from you. His eyes are wet too, and you smile, "I want a baby now, John. We can start as soon as we get home." He guffaws, through tears and shaky voice, and you are kissing again.
He pulls you closer, and you press your cheek to his sweater. And then you catch Auggie's chocolate eyes across the terminal. He is smiling, a friendly melancholic smile, and then slightly waves with his large hand. You wave back, and John slightly lets you go and turns around. "Who is it?" His question is absent-minded, he is busy stroking your cheekbones with his thumbs. "We sat together on the plane, an oil engineer," John leans in and kisses you behind the ear. He hums nonchalantly and then murmurs, "Let's go home, Wren."