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“Fuck me,” Kurtis muttered to himself.
Taking the bike in winter. Nice going, idiot, he thought.
He rubbed his hands. It wasn’t even that cold; The dampness in the air was the real killer for him. Ignoring his coat, the chill sneaked right through his clothes, rattling his teeth, muscles and bones. With its never-ending gray skies and wet roads, England once again proved to be one of the least fun places to visit in the winter.
Still, he loved coming up with new excuses to come around more often than he actually had to.
He gave the wrapped box in his hand a squeeze. His newest excuse. Kurtis had never cared about buying or getting gifts. His parents had better things to do than buy him anything nice, and, like a certain somebody he knew, he always had the philosophy of taking what he wanted. And wasting money on silly things wasn’t his thing either.
But he felt it was only nice to give a birthday gift to his... best friend? Girlfriend? No clue. Neither he nor Lara had ever talked about where they stood, but honestly, they both gave so little damn about being normal, these words had no meaning to either of them anyway. They could have been married by now, for all he knew. None of that was important. In the end, she was willing to put her ass on the line to save his - more times than he probably deserved it - and he was more than happy to do the same for her.
He stepped inside her home and sighed in relief when he was welcomed by the familiar warmth and rhythmic ticking of that antiquated clock. The first time he’d been there, he had no idea how the likes of Lara even entertained the idea of living in a place like this. Walls covered in expensive paintings, bedrooms bigger than his apartment. Nothing that would give away her lifestyle, save for that hidden trophy room with that creepy T-rex head looming over her looted treasures, maybe.
The more time he spent there, though, the more sense it made. Fancy but not pretentious, old-fashioned, not obnoxious. A lot like its owner, who was hanging out in her gym. Literally. Dressed in her usual gym wear of plain sweatpants and a sports bra, Lara hung upside down from the monkey bar, swaying back and forth, only one slip away from a nasty fall.
Business as usual.
“A stranger in my home,” she called out, then let go, and landed quietly on her feet with cat-like grace. “I wonder what he wants.” The messy bun on the top of her head wavered, trying its damnedest not to fall off.
“So, what brings you here?” asked Lara, her hips swaying with every light step. “A social visit, I should hope.”
“Training for your next stunt, I see.”
“Just keeping in trim, as always.” She rolled her head in slow circles. “A little exercise never hurts, does it?”
“I’ll say...”
She let out a soft groan. He valiantly tried - and failed - not to stare as she stretched her legs and arms, toned muscles moving, contracting under and against smooth skin. For a second, he blanked out and forgot completely why he came.
A firm, but amused cough from her reminded him.
“Wha- hm. Got something for you.” He waved the box in front of her eyes.
She made a face. “Another cursed artifact. You know, Kurtis, I really should start charging you rent for using my place as a warehouse for your knick-knacks.”
“It’s a gift, smartass.”
“A gift...?” She eyed him with suspicion, then her full lips stretched into that broad, toothy smile, that predatory grin that always triggered his fight or flight response in the best possible way. She snatched the box, and Kurtis shifted around with unease while she ripped and tore at the carefully taped wrapping with her perfectly manicured nails, stopping only when she reached her spoils inside. Her gaze lingered on the packaging, a faint smile passed across her lips.
“Blue. My favorite color,” she said, looking him in the eye.
He crossed his arms. She traced the outline of the case with furrowed brows. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm as he watched taking her sweet time to lift the lid off.
Of all the times she decided to take it slow.
A pair of Brownings lay on a bedding of a simple fabric, like a pretty pair of bonbons. The mirror-polished slides almost glowed in the harsh light of her gym. A speck of dust on one of the triggers caught his attention, and Kurtis mentally punched himself in the face for his sloppiness, but Lara didn’t seem to notice or care. She just stared at them, lips pressed together. A myriad of emotions flashed across her face while he tried to make sense of them. As fun as it was to guess what she was thinking, times like this Kurtis was tempted to take a look at what was going on in that pretty head of hers.
Either way, at least he got the satisfaction of rendering Lara Croft speechless.
C’mon, say something, he thought, suddenly not understanding what he was so edgy about.
“Guns!” she finally said. “A girl’s best friend. You can never have enough of them.” She weighed them in her hands, furrowing her brows. “Hmm. They feel lighter than I remember.”
“Custom slide cuts and swapped parts like the guide rods to make them weigh less... since you carry them ’round all day. Faster to draw them too.”
She glanced at him. “You know I love it when you talk dirty.”
Lara turned, flipped the pistols in her hand, pointed and shot them at an invisible enemy before putting them back into her imaginary holsters, looking satisfied.
“And the triggers... like butter,” she whispered.
“Since you are always so trigger-happy.”
She turned to him. “Kurtis, are you trying to make me blush?”
“And I did, didn’t I?” He leaned in.
It could have been from hanging upside down a few minutes ago, but Kurtis could swear he saw her cheeks turn red.
“Oh, come off it.” Lara waved her hand with a barely suppressed smile.
He grinned. She was definitely blushing.
“Must have taken a long time to get all this work done...” she murmured.
“Long enough.”
Only about a week-long mulling, numerous sleepless nights, plus chugging down an ungodly amount of coffee.
“And you actually paid attention to my rantings...” she sighed. “Here I thought my complaints about my gear were for nothing. Although... I don’t see the artist’s signature.”
“Right there.” He pointed at the slides.
As elaborate as her handwriting was, that had been the easiest part to get right. He just needed to snatch a document from her desk when she wasn’t looking, then engrave it by hand on the sides of both guns. Piece of cake. And he’d forged more signatures in his life than he could count, starting with those fake documents he carried around in his teens before he legally changed his name.
“So, do y-”
Lips crashed into his with the force of a cannonball. She tackled and pinned him down to the ground, the coconutty scent of her overpriced shampoo pervading the air when her bun gave up and fell apart. Lara kissed like she did everything else in life: unabashed, unrestrained and goddamn unhinged. She might as well have put a bullet in his head. He gasped, his hands reflexively flying to grip her hips as he kissed her back, managing to keep up with her pace.
Pretty much the reaction he was hoping to get.
“It’s lovely, thank you,” she breathed against his lips.
“Happy… Birthday,” he said, still fighting for air. “Just... try not to lose them or get yourself killed, okay?”
“Hmm... Don’t worry, I take good care of all my toys.” She winked at him.
Still sitting on him, she turned her attention back to the pistols, her weight a pleasant warmth on his body. The ticking of that clock from the hall was loud in his head as she silently and almost reverently, inspected every inch. Fingers slid over the barrel and the muzzle before turning it over, her eyes stuck on the engraving, as if she’d never seen a gun before. An innocent gleam and wonder filled her gaze, the same kind she usually reserved for when she got her hands on a shiny trinket after running amok in one of her ancient playgrounds. What a hell of a sight. And a stark but nice contrast to her usual scorn.
He almost felt jealous.
“Chef-d’œuvre,” she whispered. She must have noticed him staring, since she put her toys back into the box and turned to him, with that look in her dark, tawny eyes.
“Now,” - she slid her hands under his shirt, hands burning his cold skin - “onto my next gift."
A dumb grin stretched across his face while she made even quicker work of his clothes than the wrapping paper. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought it was his birthday.
He groaned and wriggled around to find a more comfortable position. Maybe her robust gym mat was hardly the best place for a quickie. He was about to open his mouth to make a suggestion, but her bra clicked and he forgot what he was about to say, and when she took it off, a switch in his brain clicked too and it was lights out for the next hour or so.
She always said he was an overthinker anyway.
His heated skin stuck uncomfortably to the rubber mat, and they had to practically fight over who got to be on top, but honestly, the mattress wasn’t the worst place either for sex. That medal still went to an altar in that prehistoric temple. He could still feel the bruises and the cobwebs clinging to him from that day. And though the harsh lights of Lara’s gym stung his eyes, he could at least see clearly her curves and where his hands went.
But where there’s a will, there’s a way.
Lara lay sprawled across the mattress, her long hair now a bed sheet under her shapely figure. He’d seen her with her hair loose dozens of times, yet the sight of it still turned him into a slack-jawed zombie every time. He couldn’t stop staring.
“Such a generous boyfriend,” she breathed, “consider me spoiled.”
He crawled back up, massaging his neck. ‘Keeping in trim’ was a massive understatement. Those leg exercises definitely paid off.
“I aim to please.” He grinned and slumped down next to her.
She let him put his arms around her as she scooted closer, the mat squeaking under her.
“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to linger for a day or two?” Her tone made it sound less like a question and more like an order.
Another good excuse for him to use.
She shifted around to face him. “I’ll make something we both love.”
He rolled his eyes. “Lara, you are the only one who eats beans on toast, or… whatever the hell that thing is.”
She huffed. “Americans…”