Chapter Text
“We deserve a break, Margo!” Without waiting for a response, Eliot grabs her hand and starts to pull her off the couch and to her feet.
“We do, don’t we, El.”
They twirl and stumble through the nearly empty cottage, fingers intertwined. Laughter echoes off the walls as they swoop by the bar and grab two bottles of champagne—shattering a couple glasses as they go. Eliot briefly pauses to consider whether or not he gives a fuck, and Margo answers for him by continuing to pull them both upstairs while she laughs.
When they reach the doorway, Eliot releases Margo’s hand, takes a step back and dramatically lowers his head in a mock bow. He makes a broad gesture for her to pass through the door ahead of him. Gently, she places her hand atop his head and runs her fingers through his hair before stepping across the threshold.
Upon entering the room, Margo’s fingers twist intricately and the room fills with cool, flickering light. She’s always loved the way Eliot’s skin looks in blue.
“Nice touch, Bambi,” Eliot says as he uncorks the first bottle of wine and takes a drink. He offers her the bottle and watches as she brings it to her lips. He revels in the feeling of teaming up with her to block out the world. They are safe here; alone together.
Margo sets the bottle down at the foot of the tub and steps out of her shoes. She takes a seat on the stone tub, legs hanging over the outer side, and delicately traces the silver handles with her fingers before finally turning. The first splash of water hitting the tub echoes as a soothing roar until it’s nearly full. The steam catches light and adds the perfect amount of drama to the ambiance.
Eliot’s fingers fold in on themselves and back out again. The temperature in the room comes down to the perfect chilliness to pair with the hot bath.
Eliot grabs the meeting of his waistcoat and undoes the buttons in a slow, rhythmic pattern; one index finger parting the fabric, the opposite thumb and index finger slipping the buttons through. Both hands swiftly slide down to the next button until they’ve all been undone. He shrugs the vest off his shoulders, folding it delicately over his knee. Margo grunts softly and pulls her top over her head, discarding it haphazardly across from her, her bra quickly follows suit. Eliot chuckles a bit and she meets his eyes with a smirk as she steps out of her skirt. She walks back over to the tub, takes a seat on the edge, and runs her fingers through the hot water.
Eliot looks in her direction and waits for her to be lost in her thoughts as she strokes the water. He unceremoniously pops the button on his pants, but makes sure to pull the zipper down slowly enough so the the crack of the metal teeth releasing each other pierces the silence. She looks up at him and tries not to be thrown off by his smirk waiting for her. The sound of Eliot’s pants coming undone always catches Margo’s attention.
“Rude.”
“What?” He is the only person who knows how to push her buttons, and he takes so much pleasure in his mastery. She slips into the tub with a light splash. Once his pants are folded and neatly tucked away, Eliot rolls his eyes at all her clothes scattered on the floor.
“Are you going to sit there being proud of yourself, or are you going to join me?”
Water spills out onto the floor as Margo makes space in the bath for Eliot. He steps in behind her and leaves room between his legs for her to settle in against him. Margo leans back into him and he brings his hands around her waist and pulls her closer. Burying his face into the familiar warm of her neck, he sighs and relaxes for the first time in days. His fingers trace lightly at her sides like they belong there. Slowly, he runs his hand across one of her arms and delicately strokes her hand. Everything is okay as long as they are sharing skin.
“You know what we deserve?” Eliot asks after a moment of simply being.
“What, Love?” Margo’s shoulders relax into Eliot as she starts to feel the tension leave her body.
“We deserve bubbles,” he makes a lazy gesture and the surface of the water begins to foam.
“I thought that was going to be a shitty attempt at asking me to share the champagne,” she says taking a sip. “You know how much I hate to share.”
“You don’t seem to mind sharing with me,” he says as he reaches over to grab a cigarette. “I’ve lost track of how many men we’ve had together.”
“That’s different; sharing boys with you adds more excitement to the experience. Sharing champagne just means I get less drunk.” Sip.
“Touché.” Eliot places the cigarette between his lips and snaps his fingers. A quick spark of flame catches the end as he inhales.
Eliot exhales smoke, and after a few more drags, offers the cigarette to Margo. She declines at first, but he wordlessly insists. His lips curl into a wicked smirk and his eyes glint as if to say you know you want to.
“You’re terrible for my complexion,” she says as she takes the cigarette from Eliot’s long fingers, her other hand safe in the warm water lightly stroking his leg.
“But so, so good for your pleasure,” he growls the words just enough to tease, and punctuates them with a firm grope. The hand that had been stroking his leg squeezes him in response.
Margo runs her wet hand through her hair, then brings the cigarette to her lips and inhales. She holds the smoke in her mouth for a second before she lets her lungs fill with the warmth. This much concentration on her breath slows her down, and all the bullshit of life and Brakebills falls away from her. Her head falls back and rests on Eliot’s shoulder as she exhales smoke, her free hand goes slack and plops back into the soapy water, making a sound that would’ve startled her if she wasn’t so relaxed.
Eliot takes the cigarette out of Margo’s hand and takes another drag. “Your ‘two cigarettes a year’ rule is stupid, and I hate to break it to you, but it’s barely March and you’ve already had five.”
“Hey! January was a rough time for me.” She grabs it back and drags quickly, laughing. “I don’t like change.” The pleasant dizziness starts to settle in and nothing much else matters to her beyond this bath, beyond their skin. “And you are a Master Temptress.”
“Am I, Margo? Or are you just easy?”
Margo blows smoke into Eliot’s face, her eyes lit with a playfully icy warning. He gives her her favorite crooked smile, and slips his fingers between hers and knots them together. Their connected fingers, their shared skin is his favorite magic.
