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She watches him, eyes trailing over his prone form.
He lays; an unintentional elegance written into his delicate placement, a gentle cascade down the worn cement steps, knees bent far apart and feet encased in black boots firmly planted on the final two steps. His arms braced at the elbows, fingers face up on the step below in a surprisingly vulnerable gesture, head crooked back, so that the coarsely-knit grey beanie adorned upon it lies against the lighter grey of the rough cement.
He could just as well be dead.
But no, she can see his chest moving, an assuring, constant rhythm.
Up.
He seems to alternates between glowing bright as a second (brighter) sun, and a shade, encased in the darkest of black shadows, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead inconsistently flickering into and out of life.
Down.
His sweater is a dark blue, the kind that seems to be darker than black. The colour, she’s sure, comprises of the vast expanse of endless space between every star, planet and celestial body that twirled in its own unique orbit in an unexhausted dance. She’s drawn to the impossible lived-in-ness of the garment, as well as the frayed-edged black-grey jeans, something of a novelty to her rich upbringing (it might also have something to do with the impossible way it hugs his body, her cheeks flushing just the tiniest bit as she replays the familiar trajectory down him).
Up.
She can see tapering scars emerging from under the hastily drawn sleeves of his sweater, sloping into the space between each knuckle, a sliver river on a field of pale skin, fading already (the unfortunate result of attempting to hang onto a shopping cart as it skidded down a pavement, before upturning halfway, or so he told her when she asked, when his arms were being bound up in ominously white sterile gauze by Daisy, while an apologetic Hunter and Mack looked on. She wasn’t sure it was something he had agreed to easily, with his stubborn countenance against pointless medical aid, or really any aid from anyone else. It was what made him all the more alluring, the stubborn independence), she can see the ripe bruise that had bloomed across his cheek, the painful looking abrasion looks painted on, the purple base not quite blending in with the blue at the center, making him seem eerily magical. His lip is spit, painful and red, but well on its way to healing.
Down.
The lights catch on with an odd noise, blinding her momentarily with the sheer heaviness of the fluorescent lights. He glows; ethereal shadow creature transforms into some kind of immortal fairie before her eyes.
Up.
“Are you jus’ gonna watch me for this whole night, Miss Simmons?”
She startles, jolting out of her reverie at the low tones of his brogue, rough around the edges with the lingering caresses of sleep.
“A girl doesn’t get to spend Christmas with me jus’ any other year, ya know.”
She bites her lip, worrying the flesh.
“You should be with your lot now shouldn’ you?”
Anger shoots through her, the unfairness of the comment stabs at the already sore fragility she called her heart.
“My lot? You mean the self-servicing upper class, with no regard for any others than themselves and their inflated egos….”
She trails off, noticing the sly smirk sliding up his lips (she’s distracted momentarily by the pink-red of his lips, the gentle slopes that she would trace, gently up then slope down, slipping to the unconscious parting, under the heavy scrutiny of the incandescent star-light blue eyes, breaths hitching, laced with meaning, hands raising to caress… no. She refuses to distract herself so easily, not even if the distraction is quite… delectable).
“You’re incorrigible.”
His smirk blooms into a cheeky grin.
“Why would you even do that?”
He tilts his head, absorbing her words as they echo through the hollow shell of the dilapidated, graffitied walls of the half abandoned subway terminal.
“D’you know, you look positively radiant when you’re mad”
She bristles momentarily before settling. He wanted to see her riled.
“That’s sweet, does the criminal have a soft spot for a higher upper class black sheep?” she drawls back, lips curling back into a cynical smirk (completely wasted on him, as he simply slid the crook of his elbow to cover his eyes once more).
She notices the smirk widen, morph into something devious and mischievous and dastardly.
(She likes it)
“Maaybe… I beg your pardon, perhaps, he does.”
His tone is silk and smooth sand, trailing between her fingertips, oddly comforting and dangerous at the same time, switching from its usual accent to a ‘prim-and –proper’ English one.
“Why, my man, keep it up, and I might just mistake you for another high upper class white sheep.”
“Miss Simmons, while I live and breathe… I believe you have deeply offended my more anarchistic sentiments… the mere thought , of conformity”
He shakes his head slowly, making soft, disapproving clicks with his tongue.
She huffs, reluctantly amused by his charade.
“The least you can do is actually entertain me, you know.”
He reveals one eye from under his elbow, eyebrows rising incredulously.
“Well, ‘scuse you. I didn’t ask you to drag me off ‘cause your rich people Christmas was too boring.”
She makes a face at him.
“What do you generally do on Christmas?”
His eyes roll, and he sighs with an expression of patient explanation.
“Never did the whole Christmas thing much.”
Her eyes go wide, mouth opening just a little bit in shock.
“Wha… you mean… no Christmas… wait…”
His forehead creased with an almost concerned expression she would have teased him about otherwise, if she wasn’t so overcome by shock.
She stutters on for a little while longer before collecting herself.
“Why?”
His expression darkens, almost immediately, eyes switching uncomfortably away from hers and she regrets the question.
“M’ dad… left… on Christmas.”
“Oh.”
He turns his head back, eyes meeting once more, a twisted little grin on his face.
“Mum, bless her soul, thought I’d like a reprieve from the whole thing… threw a temper tantrum after he left, said some bratty things about hating the holiday, and then we just… stopped…”
He trails off, his expression more akin to thoughtfulness than bitterness.
“How old were you… When..?”
“The old man ran off?” he asks with a quirked eyebrow, then, conceding an apologetic grin when she scowls at him, “’Bout four or five, said he’d pop out to the store for a lighter, ‘n tha’ he’d be back in an hour.”
He sits up, hunching in a terrible posture she’d berate him for later, right now she’s captivated by the shadows cast over his face from this new vantage. His smile fades just a little.
“I knew he wouldn’t be back after the first fifteen minutes.”
She breaths a soft oh Fitz, fingers knotting on her lap
She watches as his smile fixes on his face, in a way that speaks of memories being recollected, before he shakes his head once.
His smile is wolfish once more.
Her stomach swoops.
“Entertainment is what you desire, Miss Simmons, yes?”
She gulps.