CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

[dondarrion]

prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog.

 

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MARLING | somnacin

[missus]

An' would do th'whole fuckin' lot all over again, I would.

[ For him. Sure. ]

[marling]

[ She would, and so would he, if it came down to the line. There's not much to give up, to be honest — he's always made sure of that. But he'd set a match to it in an instant in her favor.

He doesn't say so — he never says much — but he offers up a slight smile, the expression still contained but undeniably warm. ]

[missus]

[ Funny thing (a shame some would say, though neither of them would agree), just how sentimental they'd both turned out to be in the end.

Iain never says it and neither does she, but there's no denying it. Kind of obvious, actually, once you get them in the same room together. (He smiles more and she smiles less, the excesses of each — too loud, too quiet — balancing one another out and meeting somewhere roughly in the middle.)

Marling stares at her husband's mouth and, for once, doesn't seem hungry, just smitten. ]

Pussy run off with your tongue again, luv?

[marling]

[ He shrugs. (Just the one shoulder.) ]

Never gave it back t' me.

[ A joke, at his own expense. Once never-trodden ground, now a rare indulgence. (A for you, his version of a Hallmark card.) ]

[missus]

[ She reaches out to touch that shoulder, follow the line of it with her fingers. Before she became Marling (before she settled down, or her version of it), she never knew what it truly meant to touch something. Just reach out and touch it, that's it. Used to be a grab, a shove, a squeeze, a bite — never light, never just because she could. (She's already got him, she doesn't need to claim him again.)

Her eyes sparkle for him. You sad, lovely sack. ] Yeah? An' you give th'doss cunt what she 'ad comin' to her? Y'set her right?

[marling]

[ At that, his smile curves slow, one eyebrow arching as he nods his head from one side to the other, his gaze still fixed on her.

(Used to be a question like that wouldn't get any response at all. Just a sort of blankness, a silent yes, and? But now, there's a little ground given. Not enough for anyone who didn't know him to think it significant, but miles and miles for anyone who does. And she knows him as well as he knows himself.) ]

Married her.

[missus]

[ They're both different now, and not in a bad way, not in ways that anyone can really see, anyway.

Five years, that's how long she was Moneypenny; five years without ever telling a soul who or what Natalia really was. Then along came Iain Marling with his closed-lipped smile and his Christina's World dreams and his miles and miles and miles worth of absolutely shit driving. Eighteen months worth of romance, two rings and a small cottage in Ireland, and now look at her — telling all the world precisely who she is, no hiding. (I'm Mrs. Iain Fucking Marling and who the absolute fuck are you.)

Not that anyone knows who Iain Marling is. (The man with the silver case and the little black bag and the bright white kitchen doesn't have a last name.) But it's the thought that counts.

Marling exhales a laugh, curls her fingers into his collar. ] An' so who's the doss cunt now, luv?

[marling]

[ At the end of the day, he's not much of a catch. Not in a typical sense, at least. (He doesn't doubt she could have had anyone else, if that's what she'd wanted.) As far as most people had been concerned, he'd been a single name, a number (if you were lucky), and a specific set of talents. A ghost, in and out, job done. A close-lipped smile and Wyeth-colored dreams and the implicit I need a ride as part of his ultimate fee. A shitty car, shittier driving, cassette tapes in the glove compartment, and no recognizable home base except one only barely hinted at in the fringes of his voice.

Still, she'd come at him, teeth bared and fists swinging and for a while he'd managed to elude that grasp, smoke and mirrors, but in the end, it had been the fact that she chased him at all (that she didn't stop) that caught the tail of his shadow.

Eighteen months, two rings, one cottage — who'd have thought.

His mouth curves into a smile at the question, and in lieu of an answer, he rocks forward on his toes, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. (It's answer enough.) ]

[missus]

[ When Iain tips forward, far enough to press his lips to the soft curve of her forehead, Marling's eyes flutter shut and one hand darts forward, snagging his collar in her glitter-nailed grasp. Tipping her face up to his, she catches his mouth with her own but the kiss isn't voracious the way their very first kisses were. No this is pliant — a question mark, instead of an exclamation point — slow blooming and deliberate. ]

Let's fuck off t'Majorca, yeah? [ Her eyes are still closed and her fist is still tight around that handful of shirt when she finally pulls far enough away to speak. ] You an' me. Not long. Jus' long enough.

[ Even though she's already got him (bagged and tagged) Marling still gets hungry from time to time. But never for lights and spectacle anymore, never for adrenaline high and somnacin buzz. All she ever wants these days is him. (Can't be normal, she sometimes suspects but fuck all if she's going to do anything to shrug it.)

The tips of her eyelashes are painted copper and gold and they tickle against Iain's cheeks like curled fingers trying to beckon him along. Run away with me, all over again, her touch tells him. Let the world fuck off for a while. ]

[marling]

[ She keeps her eyes closed but his flutter open, heavy-lidded but still bright, gaze flickering over her features. He isn't bright by nature; by nature, he's quiet, efficient, pared down. These excesses, gestures and words and gifts and time, are the proof of his love for her.

There's further proof as he mumbles one word against her temple (okay), hands first finding her elbows before his arms wrap around her frame. Okay, he says, and it's an agreement to the sort of break he'd never have taken before. Time for himself, time for her, time for them. ]

Majorca 't is.