th't s'me n'ght...
He hears the water run in the pipes more than he would like to while he waits for the kettle to boil (he's not keen on microwaves), and hums (he never hums) and tries to get distracted with the fogging window panes.
Uncle Sve is away fishing with his girlfriend and thankfully, too, because it's dreadful already even if it's only him and her upstairs taking a bath, or maybe it's dreadful exactly because of that, of it being only him and her and no Uncle Sve to keep it lovingly formal and sort of tense and uncomplicated and-
There I go again, Norge groans mentally, Just boil, damn it. And now he's mentally talking to his kettle, way to go.
Uncomplicated?
It's complicated.
He hugged her, so what? He shrugged then, when she let go, it was awkward. She'd gotten him all wet because she'd been soaking, and soon as he'd heard her climb up the wooden stairs to the bathroom he'd scurried to the fireplace to get warm. And it was really ironic, but she'd been warm, and he was shivering.
Then he decided he'd make tea, good red tea with honey and cinnamon and ginger (he still had some left, he knew), and linden he'd gathered last year himself, and he'd finish warming up. He is feeling really cold.
Inside.
But he is okay with always being reluctant. He's always been like this. He knows no different, and he doesn't care to know different either.
The house is silent and she eventually comes downstairs, in a warm bathing robe she must have smuggled from Uncle Sve's room (sometimes she knows too much about the human world for his liking), and it wells up inside him.
He hates it that she looks so damn defeated. And, it's curious, but for all that she annoys him to extents incomprehensible, he can't stand to see her like this either.
"That's not coffee, is it?" she asks, peering into his cup, invading his personal space enough to remind him he's held her in his arms once, not in a too distant past. It's unsettling.
"…" he answers her with a quick annoyed glare and she sighs, he groans inwardly, and prepares a cup for her too. It's still warm.
"It'll do you good," he mutters, leaving the cup on the counter for her to take it. She holds it in her hands, she is still close and he can smell Uncle Sve's scent on her from the robe, and it's weird and he hopes he'll never have to smell such a thing again.
She's, oddly enough, suddenly beaming at him, the sneaky little moodswinging thing. "Aww, so you care about me deep down there, eh Norge?"
He shrugs, bothered. "Think what you want."
"Aaaaw!" she goes, slightly squealing and grating on Norge's nerves, she proceeds to set the cup on the counter and glomp him. Just like that.
A furious blush spreads over his cheeks like a virus as she cuddles her nose against his taut neck, the contact lasts for as long as he's too stunned to react. Her scent mixed with Uncle Sve's scent from the robe floods him rather violently, and he soon finds himself pushing her away.
"I never gave you carte blanche to harass me," he says under his breath with irritation. Sheepishly, she looks at him and smiles tamely. Or as tamely as she can manage.
"I can't help liking you, Norge," she tells him, and he only looks at her with a seemingly bored expression, that masks masterfully the inner turmoil her words cause inside him. He can't answer her, and so, he doesn't.
"… you're incredible fun to annoy, too," she adds, matter-of-factly while she picks up her cup of tea and takes a sip, looking at him mischievously over the rim of the cup.
"… and you look damn cute when you're embarrassed."
.
.
The next morning when he wakes up on the couch (he's not sore because he's getting used to sleeping there, sadly enough), it feels only natural for the air to smell like coffee, and like something else, like something he's never smelled before in that place (though it still feels like it belongs there), like something that…
… that makes his stomach grumble, reminding him that he's underslept, underfed, and he terribly needs to take a bath because he damn sure smells like he's gone clubbing (and how didn't he notice it yesterday anyway?); his clothing impregnated with the terrible stench of rancid cigarette smoke. If he's gotten that on the couch, a certain Swedish relative of his will kick him out for good, him, his Byronesque existence and the loud mermaid-slash-woman-slash-tormentor of his soul.
He awkwardly gets up, stretches in silence, and bends to smell the couch.
Wholeheartedly hoping no one sees him doing that.
And, good, it seems he's going to have a roof over his head for a while longer. He'd go to the kitchen to do justice to the godly scents that emanate from there, but he can't live with himself until he stops smelling as if he'd had fun; and so upstairs he goes.
.
It's not the scent alone that draws him to the kitchen this time, no, it's also that bewitching singing-
She stops when she sees him looking at her from the door with eyes slightly lost, she grins,
"Oh, g'morning Norge! Did you sleep well?" Knowing she'll get no answer, she continues amicably, "Sorry about the singing, I try not to do it, you know, it puts your folk in a funny state like that, but it slips sometimes, hehe, you know?"
She looks slightly apologetic, yes. Norge, lingering in the after-effects of her beautiful (magical) voice, takes a moment too long to eventually snap out of it, shaking his head eventually as if he wanted to get rid of the remnants of her song.
"Don't do that again," he short of hisses, but this time his (anger?) at her is short-lived, because she ushers him to the dark-wood kitchen table, where a tempting mug of coffee and home-baked pastries are lovingly waiting for him.
He arches his brows, he really needn't speak.
"I thought you'd like it," she says simply, taking a seat after he does (she's wearing those pajamas from the other time, and it could even be kind of endearing),
"It's good," he deadpans, sipping the best coffee he's had since he arrived in Bergen this season, "… you're still an idiot."
She fidgets, uneasy, nervous smile playing in her lips, "You know," she starts, "I'd… to thank you, eh… And like a peace offering. For yesterday?"
It seems to him like she's apologizing, but he's got this horrible uneasiness that it shouldn't be her the one to apologize. He's unable to voice that, so he opts for a tangent:
"Why can you cook?"
At he can be thankful she's scatter-brained like that, because it works in that she grins her usual carefree/proud/open grin and says, "'Cause it's not the first time I lose my hat, duuh."
Norge slowly sets his cup on the table, takes a moment to collect his thoughts, and looks at her with the blankest look he can manage.
It's either that, or he's strangling her right on spot.
A/N:
Oh, this chapter is a personal favorite, guys.
I like Norway so much xD He's got a heart of gold under all those violent impulses, I swear xD
Dears DKONE, liss, abiirose, Me1anch0lich0lic and all other awesome ppls who've reviewed me: I hug you tightly and thank you for your support. I know I'm terrible at replying to reviews, but hopefully I make up for it with updating as soon as I can...?
Question!
About Iceland!
I'm dying, DYING to include him in the story. Problem is I want him to be a kickass character. These are some ideas I had:
- Misanthropic fisherman, lives in a tiny hut.
- Norge's brother, married to Mrs. Puffin.
So... your opinion would mean a lot to me. And other ideas are welcome. And names are welcome too, very very much =D