Gin, Tonic, Confession

[very_sharpe]

The apartment was clean and tidy, as it almost always was. The rat cage had been thoroughly clean, and he had a take out order waiting to be placed should either of them get terribly hungry.

That was assuming, of course, that Greta stayed very long after Thomas told her what he thought she should know. He had a kettle on for tea, and he was on his second gin and tonic by the time Greta finally arrived. He supposed he had been a bit unfairly cryptic in his invitation to her, and so when he answered the door and took Greta's coat, he took the time to clarify.

"I-- Do you remember the conversation we had, very briefly, at the Valentine Ball? About the gardens, and I mentioned my sister. Or perhaps I didn't, but I was thinking of her. But I promised you that we would talk. And I thought, since Saoirse was having a sleep over anyway, tonight... should perhaps be that night."

He was still far too sober for this, but he wanted to at least give Greta an explanation.

"I don't know how much you want to know about me, Greta. But I feel I owe it to you, if you-- so you can decide if you really... want this. With me."

Comments

[andhiswife]

Back home, she thinks, she'd probably reap some sort of punishment for this. It feels just enough like straying from the path, or grabbing at something she shouldn't. But she isn't home, and when he pulls her in, it feels less like being ensnared and more like being rewarded. Perhaps because they've both been punished enough for their respective misdeeds, already.

It helps that after an evening of being more physically distant than Greta had anticipated, they're simply, finally, close. She's always been tactile, and it's always been with some private exasperation that she's tolerated the more polite distances that Thomas has favored. Being like this, wrapped up in each other, is something she's always wanted more of, and she relaxes into his embrace with a quiet, contented sigh. If she can't have the evening she expected -- and after everything that's happened and the amount of gin that's been consumed, that is definitely a bust -- at least she can have this.

She melts into the kiss, sliding a hand up his chest, avoiding the temptation to delve into his conveniently unbuttoned shirt. "I'm holding you to that," she says, her cheeks flushed but her gaze frank. "Inviting me over on one of the only nights Saoirse isn't home...?" She adjusts his collar in playful admonishment, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You gave me ideas."

She doesn't truly blame him. What was he supposed to do, ask, 'could you please come by so I can tell you something terrible about myself?' But if they're doing away with secrets, then there's not much point in being coy about the very idea of wanting one another, as if that, too, is something to be ashamed of.

[very_sharpe]

"I am terribly sorry for that, dear. I didn't mean to lead you on... But now there's nothing this city can tell you about me that you don't know."

Even as he said it, Thomas knew it wasn't entirely true. She could find out his true relationship with Lucille; she could find out he had, briefly, been a father. But he would simply hope those things never saw the light of day again. Not here.

He held Greta close and gently stroked her hair back. "Can you stay a while?" he asked softly, knowing the pair of them were a mess in their own ways. But having her here, feeling her alive and warm and vibrant against him, made him have hope. And she gave him comfort.

[andhiswife]

She has to suppress a snort at the apology, if only because the thought of him leading her on, despite everything, still remains anathema to who he is. It only truly counts as leading her on if his ultimate intention is to abandon her, and she doesn't believe he will. Not least of all because he was clearly so terrified of her leaving him. And now that she knows why, the reverse is... rather difficult to imagine.

Perhaps that's a bit smug of her -- as if no one else in Darrow might be so forgiving (and as if her own motivations are as pure as the driven snow). But still, she can't imagine this whole process is one he'd fancy repeating.

There's a part of her that's still restless: the part that anticipated a different sort of evening, or the part that's still waiting for a melody to make this all real instead of strange and unsettled, like a joke without a punchline. But she's soothed by the hand in her hair, and touched by the vulnerability in his voice. There's really only one answer she can give.

"Of course," she says, shifting a little to get more comfortable, then settling, pressing an idle little kiss against his collarbone. "As long as you like." Or as long as he needs, more like, but she's not nursing an invalid (he hasn't had that much gin). She hadn't known whether she'd be returning home tonight or not, and had planned for either eventuality. There's nowhere else she needs to be.

After a few moments of companionable silence, she muses, "I don't think I have any great secrets left." She's told him about the Prince, which seemed like the most grievous of them, so the others hadn't exactly clamored for her attention. "Well. I swindled Jack out of his cow. But she wasn't much of a cow, and the beans did turn out to be magic. And he and his mother wound up fabulously wealthy, so... did him a favor, really."