After "Rapture" by Hollywood-Violet and "Glass Slipper" by LunaEquus, for some reason I think Simon and Felicity like to visit one another randomly in their bedrooms. It happens like, every day, trust me.

Story Eight

Title: The Lucky Few

Rating: T

Summary: They're used to the game that they play, but they play it anyway.

I'm sitting at my vanity, combing out my hair after a long day. It's nice to be home on holiday and away from learning, but then again, whenever I'm here, I realize how much I dislike being at home—confined in a space full of unseemly memories. Being at Spence might be a bore, but my memories there are completely happy. I can even look past Pippa's death and remember the good times we spent there while she was alive and breathing.

I hear a small thump and someone let out a muffled curse. I place down my brush as I see a rather funny site reflected in my mirror. I can't help but let out a snort before turning around to see the real thing with my own two eyes—not just in the mirror's reflection.

"Simon Middleton, I was always under the impression that you were more coordinated than this."

Simon's righted himself by now, but is rolling his eyes at me dramatically. "You try climbing up the side of your house at nearly one in the morning when it's dark as hell out." He brushes at his sleeves and his pant-legs, which don't look the least bit dirty to me. I'm about to make a witty remark about investing in a ladder when he says, "Speaking of the time, why are you still dressed?"

He doesn't mean it that way, or at least I don't think he does, but I feign shock. I stand up, my hand covering my mouth. I step closer to him, and still closer before dropping my hand and murmuring into his ear, "Perhaps I was planning on running away."

I feel his head turning and his lips brushing delicately against my cheek and his hand rising to turn my head since I'm being such a tease but I take a large step back before he has time to react. "Anyway, what brings you here?" I ask, crossing my arms across my chest.

His eyes wander there for a second and he doesn't look away. I should be abashed, and so should he, but we're playing the same game we've played for ages now. He finally looks me in the eyes before bowing with a flourish. Doubled over, he says, "I'm here to pay a visit to the illustrious Miss Felicity Worthington."

I let out a small sigh before he stands back up. "Well you see, Sir, there's a problem there. The illustrious Miss Felicity Worthington isn't here right now."

Simon senses the joke coming—he's breaking character and a smile is forming across his face. He corrects himself, though, and solemnly asks, "Why ever not, Miss?"

I turn around, faking exasperation. I grab a small bowl off of my vanity that I often keep fresh rosewater in and face him once more. "You can leave your calling card here," I say, now sympathetic, "or you can pay a visit with the illustrious Miss Felicity Worthington's other half."

I place the bowl back on my vanity as Simon takes a step closer. He seems to only take a step, rather, but in reality he takes multiple steps until I am nearly pinned against the vanity, our faces just millimeters apart. He's taller than me, though, and with the simplest movement of my head his lips are against my hair. I feel him stroking it, familiarly, before he murmurs, "And who might that be?"

"Well she's not so illustrious," I murmur against his chest. I can feel the tension. How long have we lasted this time? Five minutes at the most? "Only…only a few people get to see her, what she's really like."

"And am I one of the lucky few?" he asks.

I suspect that he thinks that the answer is yes by the way that I kiss him. In a moment we're in another spot all together and I have him pinned up against the wall and have taken control, but in the next he's cursing about corset laces and in the next, we're lying down—perhaps on the bed or perhaps on the ground, it's all the same anymore—and exhausted.

It's time for his answer now. "No," I say, my breath coming out shallow. "No, you are not one of the lucky few."

I expect Simon to be disappointed and angry at my remark or perhaps confused, but I see that he's not when he sits up. I take in the site of him—calm as ever, and a laugh in his eyes…or perhaps it's not a laugh. It seems that I've messed up his hair a bit. It's the same light brown that it's always been but is awfully messy.

He finds his jacket and reaches into one of the pockets to pull out a small box. He opens it and pulls out a familiar object before turning to look at me. The longing's left his eyes, and I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Shouldn't I be used to this feeling? Shouldn't I be used to that look, too?

"Care for a cigarette?"