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“You’re on my hair,” she murmured.
He shifted his arm under her head without opening his eyes.
“You’re on my hair more.”
He shifted again.
Goldie made a little huff, lifting his arm to free her loose hair before rolling to face him. He let her push him to his back, and he ran his fingers up the skin of her back as she resettled on his chest. Her fingers slid up his sternum to rest on his collar bone where two fingers tapped out the rhythm of his heartbeat. It still hadn’t settled, but Scrooge couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed when her breath was still up a bit, too.
Maybe they were getting old.
“Go on,” she said quietly, "Say it."
He combed her hair back from her neck.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking about.”
“I’m not thinkin’ about anything.”
“Liar.”
She ghosted her fingertips across his nipple, and he tugged the ends of her hair gently.
“I’m not lyin’.” He took a deep breath, and he could smell the scent of her skin as he stretched one arm up behind his head. “I’m not thinkin’ of anythin’ at the moment, and it's the best moment I’ve had all week.”
“Best?”
“Well.”
He gently dragged his nails up her ribcage. She huffed, tucking a knee over his thigh as she settled.
“Is that really all it takes to get you to shut it?”
“Ye want me quiet now?” he said into her hairline, “Now I’m confused, not five minutes ago ye were askin’ me to– oi.”
He jerked, snatching her hand back from where she’d twisted a finger into his belly button.
“Changed my mind,” she said, “I like you better quiet.”
Scrooge hummed. The room was dark and cozy, the mass of blankets twisted around their feet but comforter pulled up to their hips, the lights low, and Goldie’s skin almost too warm along his side and chest, hot against his hip. Her breath tickled the hairs on his chest, but her thigh was heavy over his, and she toed absently at his ankles. He ghosted his nails up her back, tucking her intruding hand back up between them to hold against his chest.
Visits like this were rare, of course they were, but he’d seen so much more of her since Florida, when they’d come to an…understanding, of sorts. He wasn’t necessarily positive what that understanding was, per se, but here they were. Her fingers spread to let his slide between them, and she drew his hand in to brush her lips against his knuckles.
It was nothing new. A hundred years off and on– a hundred years, good lord– of laying beside her, crowding her against trees, pressing her up behind buildings, it was one of her favorite tricks. She’d draw his hand to her mouth, her eyes flitting up to hold his before pressing his fingers to her open lips. A scrape of teeth if the message wasn’t hitting home. It was cultivated, and he wasn’t sure there was a time it hadn’t gotten the results she’d wanted.
Sometimes, though, it was different. Sometimes, she’d bow her head like in prayer, her eyes downturned, and those were the times he could feel her breath across his knuckles, her calluses dragging on his skin as she slid her other hand slowly up his wrist, holding his hand to her mouth with a reverence he could hardly bear.
She didn’t look up at him, now, and he couldn’t see her eyes. He could feel her smile against his skin, though, and maybe it was at his deep breath, and maybe it was at the fingers he slid into her hair, but her thumb traced along his palm. There was a time he would have been utterly lost to the feeling, but here in his own bed, her hair spilled over his chest and limbs sticky and loose around his, it was old and familiar. It was easy.
He pressed a kiss into her hairline before letting his head roll back, closing his eyes.
Her mouth moved, and her tongue found the end of one finger, slow and easy. He didn’t open his eyes, but he ran his thumb up her cheek as she mouthed at his fingertip lazily. The night was warm, and the long curtains shifted in the breeze that passed through the window Goldie had left open when she’d crawled through. They hadn’t bothered to close it.
Goldie ran her tongue up the pads of his finger, and he pressed deeper, just a bit, just enough for her lips to tighten as her tongue ran up and down. Her thigh pressed harder into his.
Far below in the courtyard, there was a splash.
Scrooge cracked open an eye, and Goldie pulled off his finger as if startled, looking around at the window with a frown. Scrooge listened.
Another splash from the pool, much quieter this time, followed by two more. Hushed whispers and barely contained, hissing giggles.
“It’s just the kids,” he said, brushing back her bangs.
Goldie propped herself up on an elbow and raised a brow.
“It’s two.” She glanced at the clock. “Thirty.”
“They’ve got friends over,” Scrooge whispered. He raised a finger, pointing lazily at the window, and sure enough, two more splashes followed.
Goldie frowned down at him, her expression odd as she ran an absent hand through the hair at his navel.
“How do you do anything fun around here with all those rugrats underfoot?”
She’d asked far less kind versions of that question all through the twins’ childhood, but this time sounded different. This time she asked like it was a genuine question. Her face was smooth, like she was waiting for a real answer, and he propped himself up on his elbows.
“I like them when they’re here,” he said, and he didn’t miss how her face fell just a bit. He cocked an eyebrow at her, running a hand up her bare waist. “But when I’m done with them…”
He threw his head back.
“Oi!” he hollered, “Keep it down out there!”
The courtyard fell deadly silent, and Goldie snorted with laughter so hard she pitched forward into his armpit. He dropped back down, looking up at her from his pillow and her laughter was as infectious as it ever was. He grinned with her, running a hand down her shoulder to her wrist where she held his waist. Between them, the back of his other hand smoothed up her soft belly.
Faster than he could blink, her hand was out of his grip, her fingers wrapping around his wrists and pulling, and before he could blink, his hands were pinned above his head. She grinned down at him, and her hair fell in curtains around them and oh, there wasn’t any money in the world he would trade for this, the tightening of her hard fingers around his wrists, the feel of her breasts brushing his chest, her lips quirked up in a grin higher on one side because she was secretly self conscious of her chipped tooth on the other. Her eyes fell to his lips and he arched up, searching. Her nails dug into his wrist, her full weight pressing his hands deeper into the bed as she rose higher, her leg swinging over his hips, her knees tightening on either side of him–
She gasped suddenly, her face crumpling as she pitched sideways off him, rolling to her back on the other side of the bed. Scrooge shot up after her, his hands hovering, not quite sure what happened. She drew her legs to her chest, her face screwed tight as she gripped her left knee, groaning, and he understood.
Scrooge brushed her bangs back as she glared daggers at the ceiling beams, and he brushed his fingers over hers where she held her knee.
“Forgot to oil the gears?”
“Fuck you.”
“Again? I’ll need a moment, dear.”
The side of her fist connected soundly to his chest and he dropped flat on his back. He watched her gingerly release her knee, tentatively testing it before easing it straight and down. She turned her head to scowl at him as he combed through the silver hair at her temples.
“That’s alright,” he said quietly, “I like the view just fine from here.”
Her face softened, and when he raised an arm, she shuffled in to tuck her head against his chest once more. Her hand skated up from his belly to his chest, and he caught it, bringing it to his lips. All he could see was the top of her head when she took a breath as he pressed kisses into her palm with open lips. He flicked the tip of his tongue up the web of her middle finger, and she twisted her hand to trace along his lips. He licked his lips, and she pressed the tip past his lips.
He could still taste the salt on her finger, and she pressed down on his tongue as he sucked, taking her bony finger all the way into his mouth. He curled his tongue around her, and she mouthed at his chest, sliding down to take a nipple into her mouth. He groaned lightly around her finger, letting his eyes fall closed at the easy motion.
Her teeth scraped across his nipple, tongue darting across, and he let her ease her finger from his mouth as he breathed, tangling a hand in her hair. Her finger traced a slow, wet line down his sternum, down his belly. He scraped his nails up her scalp, her hand slipping over his naval, and–
“Ah!”
He jerked back, snatching at Goldie’s wrist where she’d swirled her wet finger in his belly button hard. She had the audacity to grin up in his face, and he had to work to keep his scowl in place as he tried to wipe his belly button dry with a finger.
“That’s disgustin’,” he grumbled, “And there’s not even…where are the sheets?”
Goldie settled back down, shrugging.
They’d done a good job of losing just about everything but the heavy comforter on the bed. They were lucky to still have the pillows, honestly.
“Here,” he said, “Help me fix these.”
“You fix the blankets,” she said, “You’re the one who kicked them to the floor.”
“They were in the way!”
“Exactly.” She stretched her legs before rolling away. “Hop to.”
He rolled his eyes, dragging heavy blankets back into place around them.
“And do ye recall what were they in the way of me doin’?”
“A damn good job.”
He peeked back at her, moonlight from the open window falling on a long line of limbs and golden hair.
“Did ye just complement me?”
She glanced back over her shoulder and his stomach flipped like he was twenty four again.
“It took a long time to train you,” she said lightly as she pulled the blankets over her, “I found positive reinforcement worked better than spanking. Not by much, though.”
He smoothed the blankets over both of them before settling in behind her. She let him wrap around her, pulling her hair up and out of the way. She patted the covers, frowning back at him.
“You didn’t get my favorite.”
“You’ve got favorites?”
“The white one, with the fringe. The Alaskan one.”
Scrooge pulled a face before revealing an ancient, soft tan knit blanket from the layers.
“Yeah,” she said, “That one.”
“Goldie,” he said, “What color do you think that blanket is?”
“White.”
“It’s brown.”
“Look at it,” Goldie said, “It’s…it’s basically white.”
“Light brown, but it’s brown.”
“It’s white.”
Scrooge looked down at her.
“What kind of white?”
“Off-white.”
“Ye think that’s off-white? Darlin’, ye might be needin’ spectacles.”
“Its egg shell.”
“Egg shell?”
“You heard me,” she said defensively, “Like from real eggs. Farm eggs.”
“Farm eggs,” he said, “Ye mean like… brown?”
She bit the arm he had wrapped around her chest. He wedged a leg forward between her legs as she settled back into him.
She hissed, pulling her knee forward and away from him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She shook her head, drawing his arms tighter around her.
“You should be,” she said, “Your gutter maintenance is garbage. Damn strut went out under me on my way up, sent me rolling back to the second story before I caught myself.”
She stretched her left leg out.
“Tweaked it somethin’ bad,” she said, and Scrooge pressed his face into the back of her neck.
“I understand it's a rather borin’ choice,” he said, “But if all else fails, you’ve always got the option of the front door.”
“You’ve got more locks on that door than Guitmo, and I ain’t knockin’ just to get escorted to my conjugal visit by the Queen of England herself. Pass. We don’t need her pokin’ around while I’m doin’ our business.”
He had a terribly stupid idea.
He said a terribly stupid thing.
“Have ye considered…” He cleared his throat, and Goldie grew dangerously still. “Have ye considered askin’ for a key?”
Goldie was silent.
“So ye don’t need to go climbin’ over the roof every time ye come by,” he said, “Ye can still do all your tip-toe’in’ and creepin’, just through the house instead of over it.”
Goldie was silent.
“Just because…ye–”
Goldie pressed a hand to his arm, and he fell quiet. He wished he could see her face. She didn’t seem to have anything to say, but she’d gone tense in his arms.
Scrooge bit his tongue, though. It’d already done enough damage.
She eased one of his hands from around her middle, though, tangling their fingers together to draw it all the way up to her mouth. She pressed her lips to the backs of each finger, long and slow and firm.
He let his eyes close.
Time grew long, and he drifted until her whisper brought him back.
“What time are you getting up tomorrow?” she asked.
“Seven,” he yawned, “I’ve got a televised meet an’ greet with the local foster families in town at nine.”
She hummed.
“I’ll be gone by then,” she said, “Big job in Liverpool.”
His stomach sank.
“I could get up with ye.” For some reason, the room felt darker. “We…I could make coffee.”
She ran her fingertips up the back of his hand, tracing the bones and veins there.
“You’ll need every hour of beauty sleep you can scrape together if you’re gonna be on TV.”
He hummed, aiming for nonchalance, and hoped she couldn’t hear his disappointment. She tucked his hand between her breasts, holding it there and resettling around his arm. That was fine. Another stolen moment, and it was probably for the best he didn’t get spoiled.
She was silent long enough that, had he not known her breathing patterns better than his own, he would have thought she’d fallen asleep. She had to speak twice before he roused, and once more before he realized she was saying real words.”
“Ye what?”
“I’m gonna be back in December,” she said, “On the West Coast. I could…well…”
Three weeks. They’d gone years without contact, and she was asking to come back in three weeks. Three weeks had never seemed so impossibly long. Three weeks would be gone before he knew it.
“December sounds lovely,” he whispered, and she buried her face in his arm under her head.
He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, sliding his hand higher up her sternum, just a bit, to feel her heart thundering in her chest.
He squeezed her hand. She kicked his shins.
He’d woken sore and, as promised, to an otherwise empty bed. Somehow, though, knowing that it was an interlude, not an absence, dulled the sting to almost nothing. Making breakfast, his step was lighter than it’d been in months, and when Della slammed her way through every drawer in the house, swearing loudly and demanding to know if anyone had seen her key, he’d laughed so hard he’d spilled his tea.
Three weeks would pass by in a blink.