Given the supernatural turn her life has taken these past thirteen or so years, she can safely say that sharing a cab with the Goblin King is not the strangest experience she's had to endure. If anything, Jareth is more 'normal' than she's ever seen him, and the epitome of courtesy. He gets into a good-natured debate with the driver over where in the city is best to find decent Japanese food, and then leaves the guy a generous tip he's conjured from who knows where. It is a surreal experience, though, as he deftly manoeuvres them both from the car, escorting her as politely as any date might.
The chain that binds them means he won't stop at walking her to her door, though.
They take the short stroll up the stairs to her apartment together, as if he has all the right in the world to be there. As she fishes in her purse for her keys, it occurs to her that he's never actually entered through her front door before – always the window, or else seeming to appear from the air itself. This will be a new experience for them both.
"I don't understand why you wouldn't let me just will us here," he says, the moment the door closes behind them. She can't help but notice just how familiar with her apartment he's gotten, ever the gentleman as he slides the jacket off her shoulders and hangs it in the hallway closet like she'll actually wear it again.
"We went through this while we were waiting for the cab – no magic, at least while you're in my world. If I'm stuck with this wish for the duration, I'm taking no chances on you making it worse," she says, grateful to hear how firm she sounds.
He sighs. "As you command, love, though it's hardly practical," he has the audacity to say, in his carefully chosen clothes and eyeliner. "Have you any idea on what you want to do for the immediate future?" She hasn't, and when it shows in her face, he takes them on a decisive march through to her tiny living room, leaving her no choice but to follow. There, he collapses onto her couch, dragging her down with him. "Well then, I suggest we at least get comfortable."
He pulls her feet onto his lap, and slips first one, and then the other high heel from them. The pleasure such freedom brings is too great for her to protest, and she actually gives a little sigh as he starts to massage the life back into each toe. His thumbs press into the ball of first her left foot, and then the right, and oh, he knows what he's doing.
Who would have thought the Goblin King knew how to rub feet? He's amazing – a goddamn expert at this – soothing away all the built-up tension, but at the same time causing an entirely different sort of tension to build inside her. He's good enough to make her melt in his hands; good enough to almost make her forget everything but his magic fingers as they curl around her ankles and start to rub higher. He's actually started to massage her left calf, before she finds herself in real danger of moaning for him.
Knowing she'll kick herself for this later, she bats his busy hands away and reclaims her feet, tucking them safely beneath her.
He only sighs, bending to wrench off his own boots, before settling back to look at her. "You look lovely tonight, by the way."
That almost makes her smile, and she forces a frown instead. Distracted, she sees he isn't wearing socks – doesn't know if socks are even a thing in his realm – and the sight of his bare feet, pale and graceful as any dancer's, is a strangely erotic one. She quickly looks away. "You too, I guess. You pass for mortal, at least."
"And, evidently, will continue to do so until your wish is ended."
That causes her to stop and think outside of her own predicament for a minute. "Does it bother you that much to look like a human?"
He shrugs. "The look itself, no. It's just the bother of it – the enchantment is a costume in itself, you see, like a tie you have to put up with the nuisance of, until such time as you can remove it. Tiresome, but tolerable."
Oh, good, and now she's starting to feel sorry for him. She heaves her own sigh. "Take it off, then. Be yourself. We should both be comfortable, right? But only in here," she hastens to add. "Outside, you'd be a walking glitter-bomb, just waiting to go off."
He gives a low chuckle. "You say the sweetest things."
There's no little burlesque show for her benefit, this time. He just sweeps a hand through the air in front of him, and then he simply is the Jareth she has always known, wild hair and wild eye-markings and all. His flowing shirt means there's a little more of his chest on show, now, but his leggings aren't really that much worse than those almost indecent pants he had on. It's somewhat satisfying to see that his feet remain bare. He smirks when he sees her looking.
She forces herself to focus on the task at hand – freeing herself from the Goblin King, rather than letting herself get snared further by his charms.
They go over her wish – her exact words – analysing each one, at her insistence, until every option is exhausted. They try holding hands again, try looking into each other's eyes, but it only makes her blush – positively humiliates her – and she breaks away almost at once. They can go no further down that unsafe path of emotional attachment.
She's thinking 'attached', thinking string, velcro, glue – anything human-made that might be used to bind them instead, and that will be much easier to remove, should their magical shackles crumble away. She's on her feet and urging him towards the door, towards a craft store, before she remembers it's a Saturday night, and everything will be closed. They dig an old scarf out of her closet anyway, and tying it tightly over the top of the cuffs makes no difference, nor does tying their free wrists together as well. Clearly, the only attachment they're getting is from those godforsaken golden cuffs.
Attached. She drags him to the bookcase and pulls out her well-thumbed dictionary. Attached. She ponders the word until it loses all meaning, and then sends the book crashing into the opposite wall.
"Temper, temper," Jareth chides her.
"Oh, cram it."
"All right," he replies at once. "What and where, exactly? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, given the predicament your last choice of words has gotten us into."
She sulks in silence for at least half an hour after that.
After a while, denied of the use of any more of his magic, he politely asks her for a drink. The two of them shuffle into her apartment's cramped little kitchen, in pursuit of glasses and red wine. She pops the cork quickly, resisting the urge to have something much stronger. As Jareth fills their glasses, Sarah can only imagine her stepmother's horror at how rude she's being, not even bothering to offer her guest refreshments, and then dragging him to fetch his own drink, and she can't help chuckling. She refuses to tell him what's so funny.
They share the full bottle out between the two of them, the same way they share her couch. The wine warms her belly going down, but not as much as seeing the way the burgundy liquid stains Jareth's lips just a little bit darker does. She keeps shooting little glances at his mouth as he drinks, remembering the heat of their earlier kiss. It's a mid-range wine, nothing special – they aren't celebrating, after all – but she thinks it might taste like ambrosia, coming from that mouth, kissing it from those remarkably soft lips.
If they're going to be stuck together much longer, she's going to need to find a better distraction.
They drink mostly in silence, after Jareth's attempts at starting polite conversation fall flat, and she herself is too agitated to try. She puts on a little relaxing music, but it only seems to mock their situation, and she switches it off soon after. Normally, she would be thrilled to be curled up on her couch with him this way, but there's only anger – at him, and at herself – and a growing sense of embarrassment and gloom. He has an entire kingdom to run, but she's trapping him here, drinking her crappy wine and staring at her living room's crappy four walls. It's already late and getting later, and what hope she had of them being free before bedtime is rapidly starting to dwindle.
Jareth's voice brings her out of one despairing reverie, and immediately sends her crashing down into the next. "Would you be greatly offended if I said I needed to piss, love? It's been a good couple of hours, now, and the drink hasn't helped."
She sets down her own glass and pushes it away at once, though it's almost empty by now. There's a flare of heat in her cheeks, and she knows she's turning the same shade as the last dregs of wine. "Do you have to be so crude?" she asks, glaring at him.
He puts his empty glass down beside hers. "I thought we were past such things. Very well – I need to use the facilities, if you'd be so kind as to cooperate."
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no no no nonono- "You mean come with you?"
He grins, giving their binds a little shake. "Well, I can't very well detach my hand, and I certainly can't detach it, now can I? Just be thankful I'm left-handed."
Oh, god, he means the hand he uses to hold his-" Can't you hold… um … can't you just wait? Magically, or something?" She feels a small clench in her own bladder, followed immediately by her face falling in dismay. "Oh, I … I don't think I can wait much longer, actually."
He chuckles a little. "A shared predicament, then. Are you going to be all right? I know you're fortunate enough to be right-handed, but-"
"I think even if I was left-handed, I could manage to be ambidextrous for the time being, thank you," she snaps quickly back, cheeks burning hot.
"Fair play, wouldn't want to have you struggling, is all." He winks at her, and unfolds himself with deceptive speed from the couch, dragging her onto her feet with him. "I promise I'll be a complete gentleman, and give you as much privacy as I can." It's humiliating enough, but then he adds: "I'd ask you not to sneak a peek as well – it can be a little shy when it's not hard, you see, and I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea."
That little thought leaves her mouth opening and closing like a fish, but it only widens his smirk. "Ladies first? No? Very well then." He hums to himself as he sets off to the bathroom without waiting further for a reply, slinging her arm over his shoulder and gently tugging her, still spluttering for a response, along with him.
"I wish you could use your own fucking bathroom!" she finally manages.
"You know it doesn't work that way," he singsongs back, and even without seeing his face, she just know she's still grinning.
"This is ridiculous." She's huddled beneath the shower, swiping at the shampoo that's trying to run into her eyes with the one hand she dares use. Her other arm is stretched rigid, pushed out past the shower's spray.
"I have no idea what you mean, love." He's standing beside the tub, bundled behind the shower curtain, his arm yanked back to give her as much space as possible. His back is to her bathtub – she's checked this at least a hundred times, in her embarrassed state – and the scarf she insisted he wear is still knotted firmly over his face, covering his eyes.
"Do not give me shit right now – just don't." It's a rushed, uncomfortable shower, but it's better than none at all. Still, when she shuts the water off and accepts the towel he blindly offers over his shoulder, she can't help but think they're forgetting something. By the time she's towelled herself off – one-handed, of course – it hits her. "Oh. No. Clothes."
"You're telling me, sweetness." Her dress and bra are still tangled around their joined wrists, after all, half-soaked from the shower's spray, as is most of his shirt.
"Maybe … maybe it's time for more magic."
"Oh, good." His tone is drier than the rough towel. "Any preferences?"
She takes a second to imagine the least revealing night-shirt she owns – an oversized Cure tee she's had for years that's almost long enough to cover her knees entirely. "There's an old t-shirt in the top drawer of my dresser. Can you manage that?"
"Certainly. And underwear?" He pauses for a moment. "I realise that's a rather intimate question, but unless you'd prefer me to choose … or go without entirely-"
"Third drawer. Black bra, black panties," she grumbles.
"A wise choice."
He snatches off his improvised blindfold with a flourish, and turns to face her before she's even registered that she's wearing the clothes she asked for. A little whimper escapes her as he helps her to step out of the bathtub. Her towel, along with her sodden dress and bra, are gone, and later she'll find them neatly tucked into the laundry hamper. At least he's a tidy menace. It takes her a moment to realise that, rather than practical and plain, the lingerie she's wearing is one of her nicer sets – a push-up bra and thong panties, both in sensual black lace.
"You just had to go for the sexy panties, didn't you?" she barks.
When he meets her eyes, he's smirking. "You gave me no other preference than colour, love. As always, I only did as you wished by conjuring you some underwear – no need to get them twisted."
At that point, she can think of a hundred things she'd rather do with her panties – shoving them in his smug mouth, for one. Somehow, she knows he'd only enjoy it. She's about to lay into him for his nerve, when a huge yawn escapes her, and she covers her mouth instead. Great. She's been putting off talking about bedtime for far too long, and even with the fun of their shower arrangement, it's obvious both of them are getting a little drowsy now.
"Do you have …" Anyone to get home to, she wants to ask. " … anything you need to go back to your kingdom for first – to take care of, since you're stuck here for the night?"
He smiles lazily, stifling his own yawn. "Kingdom can run itself for the time being. Long term, we might need to arrange something, but right now, my only concern is arranging myself into a nice warm bed. I take it you have no problem putting up a poor traveller for the night, particularly once here solely at his lady's wish, and so very far from home?"
She's glowering at him, and no, it isn't helping anything, but she can't help it. "My bed's big enough, if that's what you mean," she finally concedes.
"I think it is more practical to share, given the circumstances." He grins. "Lead the way."
The two of them troop into her bedroom, and her double bed looks both smaller and larger than it normally does – a suggestion of just how closely they'll be snuggled in it, yet at the the same time dominating the entire room with its presence, the punchline to some awful joke.
"Do you have a particular side in mind – a position, even?" There's far too much humour in his voice, and she shoots him a hard sidelong stare. He seems not to notice. "Myself, I have no problem with being on my back, but if you'd prefer to spoon …"
She lifts their chain to dangle deliberately between them, turning so that she's glaring into his face. "This is so going around your throat while you sleep."
"Breath play as well as handcuffs, hmm? My, you have become quite the adventuress since our last bit of pillow talk."
"Pillow talk?" she chokes out.
"Oh, it was quite some time ago, now – you might not recall. I believe you had another delightful gentleman's mouth between your legs, and you made such a-"
The memory floods her with its clarity – of being spread wide, Jay's lips and tongue attacking her wet cunt, and wishing, oh, god, wishing that- "I … I didn't know any better back then!"
"Oh, good, you do remember. Although, if you'll recall, you were twenty-one, and rather … experienced. Quite old enough to know what you wanted, by then," he points out, with a rather knowing grin.
She groans, because he's right. He's always right, and he knows exactly how much she wants – wanted– him. "You manage not to mention that for seven goddamn years, and you decide to bring it up now?" There's some deeper longing she can only call humiliation as she eyes the chain again. "Okay, it's going around my neck instead."
He tuts softly. "Don't be embarrassed, precious. It's not entirely unheard of for good friends to fantasise about one another, particularly after all these years."
Before her flustered mind can think to ask if she sometimes plays a part in his fantasies, he waves a hand, and every single one of her internal organs all but cease to function when she thinks he's magicked himself naked before her. Her brain warns her not to immediately look down, but her eyes are moving too fast for it to catch up. They rake downwards, but not too quickly to ignore the tight muscles of his bare chest and stomach, and she's both disappointed and relieved to see he's wearing a pair of white silk pyjama pants. They flow loosely around his calves, almost like harem pants, but where they hang from his bare hips, the material is pulled much tighter.
Her relief is dampened somewhat – not to mention her panties – when she sees just how thin and clinging silk can be, revealing more than even the tightest of his leggings ever have. If she looks closely – and she does– she can almost see the colour of the bare skin that lies beneath the fabric. She can feel her cheeks burning when she realises that the Goblin King does not, in bed at least, bother with such silly things as underwear. Embarrassment allows her only a brief, longing look at him, but even in that short stare she sees that his earlier comment about shyness was completely unnecessary. If there is a Goblin Queen, she's a very lucky lady indeed.
"This is what you wear normally?" she all but cries, gesturing at his legs while she stares resolutely into his face.
"Only when it's cold, or modesty calls. Otherwise …"
He lets the words hang between them, until she's blushing at the mere thought of his normal bedtime attire – or lack thereof. She finally knows something intimate about his life, and it couldn't have come at a worse possible time. Whilst her mind is reeling, her eyes turn traitor again, edging downwards for another look. She quickly diverts her gaze from those pants, but it's hard to avoid his bare chest, too. She thinks she hears herself whimper again when she forces herself to look back at his face, trying to ignore his ever-present smirk. After a moment, she notices something different about him. His hair lies damp against his shoulders, and there are small droplets of water still dotting his skin.
"Wait … you showered?" she demands, the irritation boiling back.
"Well, I thought it gentlemanly to get myself clean, seeing as you have."
"And you couldn't have just done that for me? You couldn't have …" she trails off in disbelief, waving a hand in an attempt at a vaguely magical gesture.
"Could have, love, if you'd only allowed magic … and bothered to ask."
She sighs, resigned to him. "You are the worst person in the world."
He smiles, seeming not to mind in the least. "Then it's a good thing we come from entirely different worlds, isn't it? Now, shall we go to bed?"
"Just so long as you don't get any ideas."
Jareth only laughs, and it's surprising just how disappointing that is.
They move around under the covers until they find a position that's relatively comfortable to sleep in, and means her cheeks won't catch fire from having to actually look at him all night. She's on her right side with her back to him, his right arm tucked between her neck and right shoulder, her left arm crossed over her breasts. The effect is almost that of being spooned after all, if it wasn't for his stubborn refusal to move in any closer. It only drives home just how little he wants to be here, despite his teasing, and she can't help airing a little of her annoyance.
"I realise this isn't ideal, but do you have to act so repulsed by me? I'm not going to bite you if you scooch in a little."
That makes him shuffle closer – but only a little. "Sarah, under normal circumstances, nothing would thrill me more than sharing a bed with you, but as it's against your will, I find the idea less than appealing. However, since the idea of my indifference also seems to distress you, allow me to say just this – I am a man, after all, and you are very attractive, which is why I'm extending you the courtesy of such space."
Her heart starts to dance wildly in her chest, and she has to fight to keep her voice steady. "You … you think I'm attractive?"
"Of course – any red-blooded fae man would find you so. If you were any other woman, and if this had occurred any other way, I'd have you on your back before you could blink, coming so hard you'd forget your own name." He laughs gently against her ear, and god, it makes her shiver. "I'd make certain you remembered mine, though."
The words 'any other woman' – any other woman – echo loudly in her head, and she scrunches her eyes shut as if it might drive them away. "Goodnight, Jareth," she mutters.
"Hmm. Sleep well, love."
Tucked up with him, she hardly thinks it's possible, but after a while of lying awake and getting absolutely no attention from him, she finds her eyelids drooping all the same.
A/N: More chapters to be added soon, spacing/italics issues should be fixed by then.