Laughter
...
Wednesday 12th December
She's still laughing at him, he's still glaring at her, and – sadly for him – the injured innocence of his expression is only fuelling her mirth all the more.
Admittedly, he is totally liable. He was the one who asked her if she had any old photographs from her childhood. He didn't have to then regale her with the tale of one of his more unfortunate youthful indiscretions, and then provide the photographic proof when she failed to believe what undeniably was a rather outlandish and wildly implausible account. Still, he does find the enthusiasm with which she's approaching the hilarity of the matter faintly disconcerting now.
"Grace!" he growls, voice low and suitably threatening as he attempts to reassert some control over the situation. It's no use, and he watches with considerable disdain as she catches his eye and dissolves into fresh peals of laughter, clutching her aching ribs as tears roll steadily down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she gasps, breathlessly trying for some sort of contrition. She almost manages it too, until she makes the rather fundamental error of looking down at the photograph still clutched in her hand and the intended recovery of her composure vanishes. Entirely.
Glancing from him to the picture and back again, she finds she really can't contain herself, despite the menacing glare being directed her way. He holds her gaze, his brows drawing irritably together as he stalks toward her, making a determined grab for the visual aid responsible for her seemingly endless merriment.
She ducks and twists away from him; smaller and lighter on her feet she makes it to the end of the kitchen and near escape before he's suddenly, inexplicably there, blocking her path.
"Hand it over," he demands, taking a strong and immovable stance in the doorway.
"No chance," she cackles, and tries to squeeze past him.
"For God's sake, Grace," he growls, neatly catching hold of her and trying to wrestle the photo out of her hand.
She's not going to give up, and she determinedly squirms in his grip, twisting her arm behind her back out of his reach. She thinks he might be about to though, because his firm grip has lessened, and when she takes a careful step back, she does so without resistance. She takes a deep breath, risks another look at the image still in her possession and suddenly finds herself lifted off her feet and sitting on the edge of the work surface, decisively trapped and minus the picture he has easily plucked from her grasp and stowed safely on top of the cupboards, out of her reach.
Damn the man, he really can move very quickly when he wants to.
"You don't play fair," she informs him, expression sadly dejected as she stares straight into his eyes, which are now level with hers.
He grins, utterly unrepentant, and leans forward, placing a brief kiss on her lips. "Now will you stop laughing?" he wants to know.
"I might," she ponders, slyly wondering what he might be willing to trade in return for her not spending the rest of the evening smirking at him every time their eyes meet. He sighs in resignation, following her thought process perfectly.
"I was five, Grace. Five! The state of my hair was far beyond my control."
"Did I say it wasn't?" she asks, reaching up to comb her fingers slowly and gently through said locks, admiring the softness, the luxurious texture.
"No," he admits slowly, watching the way her eyes betray her fascination. There is something about her eyes that has always been a dangerous weakness for him. They're so expressive, so engaging. And right now, they are full of captivating interest and the kind of intense charm that makes him realise exactly how far under her spell he has fallen. Exactly how much he loves her and is willing to let her get away with. Even if she does laugh at him relentlessly on occasion.