Work Text:
The bed sheets are rumpled beneath Angela’s body, creased beyond repair, and she drags her fingers across the cotton to trace the lines of them. The sheets are like valleys and her body is a river – milky white in the early morning sunlight, golden hair surrounding her head like a halo. It’s ironic, almost, she thinks as she pulls herself up on one elbow, allowing herself to look over to the open window where she knows he is.
Jesse, at least, has pulled on a pair of sweatpants and he sits by the window smoking one of the cigars that she hates so much; but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like the vague taste of whiskey sours and scotch on the rocks, harsh but mellow and so irrevocably Jesse McCree. She can smell the smoke from where she sits and she inhales deeply despite herself. It's almost like she’s dumped Jesse’s flannel over her head. This scent sticks to him, a intoxicating mix of gunpowder and smoke and metal, and it’s oddly comforting.
Her eyes snap to the discarded serape on the floor; it’s half tucked beneath the bed and she reaches down to pick it up and pull it over herself, tugging her hair free from the cover. It’s warm, almost too warm, but she wears it anyway, and that is when Jesse’s eyes meet hers.
“Don’t you look a picture, darlin’.” He says, is voice is husky from waking but it still has its southern twinge, just a drawl, but Angela adores it and it sends a delicious shiver down her spine. “Lookin’ all pretty in my serape.”
She gives him a half smirk.
“I don’t look as good as you do, Jesse,” she says and Jesse chuckles. His cigar is forgotten, hanging from his fingers and dropping ash outside the window and on to the ground outside. “You at least fit the part.”
“Naw,” he replies, his voice low as Angela eases herself off the bed and makes her way over to his side. He follows the sway of her hips and the way she smiles as he continues, “Have ya look’t at yourself lately? Gorgeous, darlin’. Perfection.”
His mechanical arm curves around her waist as she sits on his knee, pressing herself closer to his bare chest, and they both melt.
“Y’know,” she says into the silence, her voice barely above a whisper as Jesse’s head dips low into her collarbone, peppering hot kisses there. “You smoking those things are bad for your health.”
He chuckles into her skin, a light vibration that goes directly to her stomach, twisting it in a delightfully beautiful way.
“Well,” he whispers, his voice as smooth as silk as he tugs down the edge of the serape to press a hot kiss to her chest. “I have faith you can get me patched back up, doc.” And then it is her turn to chuckle, as light as bell, turning to face Jesse as he lifts his head, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“For you,” he continues, stubbing out the cigar on the dish that Angela keeps on the windowsill especially for him and allowing his flesh hand to grip her waist as she stands up and moves position so she straddles him. “I’ll leave this one half finished.”
Angela giggles and leans close, her nose grazing his.
“How gracious of you,” she says gently, her hands travelling up his sides slowly and rolling around his shoulders, resting there. “I’m flattered.”
Jesse smirks and lifts a hand to tip an invisible hat at her, flashing teeth.
“All in a day’s work, Ma’am.” He jests and Angela smiles, leaning even closer, their breath mingling between their lips. “Do you happen to come around this part often?” His sentence is barely audible, a mix between a whisper and a sigh, and Angela feels his chest heave beneath her fingers.
“Oh, not normally,” she sighs in reply, her eyes fluttering shut. “But now I know there’s a cute cowboy here, I might just have to come back.” She is whispering against his lips now, not quite a kiss yet, but she knows it will be and it lights a fire in her belly that she doesn’t want to extinguish.
“I think he’d be okay with that.”
And then they are kissing, sweet and true, a low and lazy move of lips, hands wandering to touch more skin, any skin. Angela feels so hot, warm, and Jesse is warm beneath her skin, all rough edges and sharp corners where she is worn and soft, and his hands dig into her hips as if they never want to let go, and she doubts he ever does. A hand is tangled in his hair (hers) and tugging gently on the brown locks, and he groans into her mouth so perfectly, holding her a little tighter.
She forgets when she loses the serape and they tumble back into bed.