mav·er·ick

Aniya helped, tucking some curls behind her ear. There was little else she could do, but she did stretch out onto her side so she wasn’t leaning so far above him, her arm pressing into the rough ground so her hand could support her cheek. Bravely, her other hand rested lightly on his chest.

It was still a marvel she was allowed that simple intimacy.

“There’s a lot of fruit and things down there that don’t grow here, right? I think?” Aniya didn’t know what fruits, exactly, but there had to be some. “Maybe something like that?”

“I can arrange that.” With one hand still cradling the back of his head to cushion it from weathered concrete, the other came up to clasp the hand she’d left resting on his chest. “I’ll radio him when we’re back inside.”

One of every kind of fruit, then. Oh, he knew it would annoy the skipper. He didn’t do well with vague instructions and excessively customized orders. Simon just wanted to know how many crates of what kind, for what price agreed upon beforehand. He didn’t need one single sweetsop rolling around in his hold. And that was fair. He was a wholesaler, not a distributor of bespoke gift baskets. But he would do it if asked, Rick was certain, and the image of Simon’s disgruntled face while he put a caddy together just made it all the funnier.

He’d peered up at the darkening sky for the duration of that train of thought, absentmindedly stroking his thumb along her hand. When he flicked his gaze back to her, a vaguely self-deprecating smile tugged on his mouth.  

“You should know,” he said, “That all I really want to do in this stupid life, is bring you things for your inspection.”

Aniya laughed. It was soft, also, matching his tone, indulgent in the quiet. Her eyes wandered over his face, the deep lines made by his smile. She knew a lot of his smiles well, she was sure of it. This was her favorite. The pad of her thumb traced them, palm cupping his cheek.

“I like when you’re dramatic,” she answered him, secure with the weight of him on her, wrapped in his shirt, head on his pillow. It made her a little bolder, even with every cautious thought in her head trying to talk her out of it. Every little warning that reminded her of every mistake and misstep she’d made that day to ruin things was snuffed under the warmth of his words. 

Her grin matched his. “But–but that bomb can fuck off. I want to be with you, again and again. Not just now.”

It was a lot to get out, and she barely managed to avoid flinching into waffling about it. But she’d said it. Later she might not manage it, but she’d said it.

If he hadn’t already been on the tail end of exhalation, it would’ve knocked the wind right out of him. Instead, he only forewent breathing entirely. His smile didn’t fade or dim. It stayed. It wasn’t that much different from those long, silent looks he gave her sometimes. Faintly amused. Content just to look at her, basking in the curve of her cheek or a wayward curl in front of her eyes. Only it had an edge to it this time. Something feral.

Want.

Regret.

Caged within his skin and bones, his heart had lurched into his throat and threatened to burst. It wanted to scream. Roar with joy, and wail with anger. Underneath the stillness of his form, moving only by a trick of the pulsing lamplight, he wanted to tear this whole place apart in an effort to claw himself a way out of this whirlpool of frustration that flushed his lungs. It felt like he’d wasted a hundred years already and now there were only a few left.  

At some point he must’ve realized not the years, but the seconds adding up. Piling up uncomfortably – for her, for every moment that he kept her waiting. He breathed again.

“I don’t think,” he said, back in the gentle warmth of the moment, “even that would be enough.”

Aniya loved how effortlessly he picked her up and brought her back down. She sank into the softness of his bed and drank in the quiet tenderness in his voice, committing them to as careful a memory as she could. Her palms trailed along his shoulders, fingers tracing muscle, one up the back of his neck to bury in his hair, the other down his arm.

“Yeah,” she confirmed after a beat too long, not from hesitance or fear this time but because there were so many more things to drink in. Not even residual fears and anxieties of the day, of moments prior, could take away from this warm moment.

Her hand slipped from his arm and she propped herself up to meet him as he came down and kissed him for once without asking.

He met her kiss readily, and brought a hand to support her head. Slowly, and without breaking the kiss, he lowered her to the pillow. He settled on an elbow himself, his legs entangled with hers: partly on top of her, partly next to her, so as not to smother her with too much of his weight. To leave her wiggle room, a way out, despite an undeniable want to wrap himself around her.

Only after minutes, did he break away. 

“I don’t wanna be dramatic–” He spoke softly, almost whispered. A grin crinkled skin around his eyes and down his cheeks, “But if another bomb were to drop on Boston to freeze this moment in time, it’d be fine with me.”

He’d be exactly where he’d want to be. 

But he left that part implied, unspoken. And he certainly wouldn’t admit it’d be everything he’d want out of what was left of this stupid life. That no other ambitions of his came remotely close enough to top it. 

No, he wouldn’t add any of that. That kind of inane shit from the mind of an infatuated, lovestruck jackass, wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Not now.

How much is too much, too soon?

I know how to be a one-night-stand. I got that one down. And I know how to be a husband, but how the fuck do I go about being anything in between. I don’t fucking remember.

What do you need? Goddamn tell me.

Is it really that hard to know what you want? ‘Cause I know what I want. Must be my fucking god-given talent in this life. That’s what I bring to the table, apparently. Not good for much, but at least I can make up my goddamn mind.

No sooner had the bar seen the last of Asher’s shit-eating grin than voices rose up in various, isolated spots in the crowd of people bemoaning, complaining and grumbling their (often disparaging) opinions on the guy.

Rick tore his eyes off the door that had closed on Asher’s heels, shot a look across the room, and turned back to the bartender.

“I don’t see what everyone’s problem is. That man’s a ray of sunshine.”