She tugs at the shirt, her mind racing a bit too much, but he's here and it's a bit too overwhelming. "Because you had been shot, and it hurt, and then you were gone."
"Bullet wounds usually hurts."
"But this time it hurt me, and now I'm asking why you left."
"If I recall," he starts, then stops, abrupt. His eyes meet hers, and the moment stills, suddenly too potent. "It was your friend who showed up to check on you."
"You could've stayed. Been introduced." She slips another button off, because his shirt is still on and it's almost distracting. "I didn't even know you could disappear."
"I can do a lot of things you don't know."
She looks up, sharp. "Is that a pick up line?"
He gestures at the room, amusement in the lines of his shoulders. "Do I need one?"
She lets her hand fall away from his shirt, stung. "I don't know about need," she says, feeling her eyebrows pull down. "I just… wanted to know what that was about."
"Didn't know who was coming through the door, wasn't feeling like explaining why I was here to another person." This time, he reaches out, a large warm hand on her hip, solid and soothing. "I wasn't having the best week."
And that answer feels vaguely unsatisfying, like the way fat free whipped cream tastes when you don't know it's not regular whipped cream and use it on some premium apple pie. But she finds herself leaning into his touch anyways. "The sleeping thing. It was nice."
"Yeah," he says, his hand circling her waist. "Yeah it was."
"Why'd you pick me?" He's so close, so very close, and her heart starts pounding again.
He pauses, for just a second, then brings their mouths together in a brutal kiss.
She arches her back into it, grabbing his hair and twisting her fingers through the strands, and he groans, deep in his chest. He hooks his hands in the waistband of her jeans, tugging at them without breaking the kiss.
She teases his mouth open, and he lets her, surprisingly pliant, lips way warmer than hers. "Did you bring a condom?"
He nods, kissing her again, harder this time, forcing her backwards, her knees hitting the edge of the bed.
"I had some hope." He mumbles, hair falling in front of his face, twisted into disarray by her hands. "Brought one in case." Quick as a flash, he sits next to her on the bed, moving her hair aside and kissing her on the place her neck meets her shoulder, far gentler than she thought likely.
It's silent, a few moments, and she unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock.
He sucks in a quick breath, before relaxing into her touch, hand sneaking up her shirt, as if they were teenagers hiding from their parents.
She pulls off her shirt, and he immediately palms her nipples, and he kisses her down onto the bed, until her back is against the pillows and the quaint quilt.
Quiet, no sound but them, he tugs off her jeans and her far too casual panties, giving her his half-amazed, half-cocky smile, before kissing her right between her legs.
She jumps, ever so slight, before relaxing and letting her head loll onto the pillow. A hand rubbing soothingly along her hip, he kisses her again, then flicks her clit with his tongue. For a few brief seconds she's nowhere, nowhere and everywhere, distilled down to just the sensation of his tongue against her and his hand on her hip and --
She shudders, her orgasm taking her by surprise, and he pulls back, kissing her belly and slipping a finger inside her, crooking it just right.
"You're so...." he whispers, breaking the silence, then kisses her neck again instead of finishing the sentence, his finger still in her, moving slowly, too slowly, and --
She pulls up, then twists so she straddles him, damp and feeling way too aching to still be here. "Where's the condom?"
His eyes are wide as he digs it out of his now discarded pants pocket, and she rolls it down him and he's just...wrecked. He screws his eyes shut, as if he was in pain, as if he can't handle everything, as if it is too much, and she sinks down on him and he gasps.
It feels good, it's good, like something was missing and then all of a sudden there again, and she hmms before rocking herself forward.
He grips the quilt in both hands, as if holding himself back from grabbing at her, and she really wishes he would instead.
"Are you okay?" She whispers, still rocking and relishing his heavyweight inside of her.
He nods, as if unable to speak.
She clenches down on him, and he gasps, eyes flying open. "I asked you a question," she murmurs, leaning close to his ears.
"Holy fuck," he chokes out, hands finally unwinding from the quilt and coming up to the small of her back. "Holy fuck, I--" and he sits up, sudden, holding her upright against him, and he's inside her so hard, so deep, and she shudders apart all over again.
He stares at her, eyes wide, for a clear one two three seconds, before thrusting deep, hard, and fast, holding her in place so she can hardly move, and she bites down hard, hard against his shoulder and he cums, shaking, as if he can hardly believe what’s happening.
He pants, for just a second, still inside her.
"Oh," he says, almost matter of factly, as if speaking through a thick throat. "Oh."
11
The next morning, she wakes up with that surreal feeling of being both in an unfamiliar bed and with her head pillowed on Iakov's bicep, her phone beeping on her desk.
Iakov's fast asleep, his mouth pinched shut. Aimes carefully extracts herself and pulls out from underneath the quilts.
The cold air bites into her skin, and she quickly shuts off her phone alarm. She has to figure out something to eat before her first class cause her stomach's growling something fierce and get dressed and be professional and --
She sprays her hair with dry shampoo, throwing on her second day slacks and blouse, her mouth dry at the sight of Iakov fast asleep in the tiny room. Her eyes keep straying to him as she ties her hair back into the librarian-friendly bun.
Quickly, impulsively, she snaps a pic with her phone, thumbing it onto silent first, before shoving it in her pocket with her room key.
"Jake? Iakov?" she says, voice as gentle as she can make it. He stirs, face pinching shut for a few seconds, before his eyes pop open, sudden and alert.
He sits up, still magnificently shirtless in the cold air, and eyes her. "Where are you going?" He stretches, and the sunlight hits his skin and takes her breath away.
"I have to get something to eat before I teach all day." She grabs her purse, her hands shaking for some god knows reason, and throws him a shaky smile. "Still have to do work."
He watches as she assembles her teaching briefcase, his eyes lidded. "So that's what you do, you're not a librarian, you teach them?" His voice is low, his accent thicker, as if sleep takes away the smooth edges.
"Pretty much." It’s like this is some test that she didn't know about but is somehow absolutely dire and she is failing and --
He stands, wearing just his boxers, and crosses to her, hooking his hands on the waistband of her slacks. "You have to go? Right now?"
She blinks rapidly, her eyes somehow betraying her. "Yeah, pretty much."
He hitches up her shirt, just a little, his thumb rubbing circles at the bare sliver of skin he exposes. "I guarantee, I can make your day far more entertaining than this convention."
She didn't doubt it one bit, but she extracts his hand away from her pants before he takes them off of her. "Give me your phone number, I'll text you when I'm done?"
He leans back, evaluating, his dark sleek hair a mess over his eyes, the fair hair on his chest illuminated in the early morning sunbeams. Aimes gets the sudden feeling that she asked something far more personal than she thought she did.
After a too long moment, he abruptly turns away, gathering his shirt. "I doubt I'll be in town this evening." And somehow, even with the thick Russian accent, he drawls it out.
Wrong footed, Aimes resumes packing her work briefcase. "It'd be nice, you know, to be able to send a quick text."
<
br /> He hmmmmmms, but otherwise doesn't respond.
"Did you know… did you know someone punched me?" He quirks an eyebrow at her, and she plows on. "For having this...thing. A random guy in a bar. Came up and tried to deck me."
He nods, face unmoving. "Yes," he says, simple.
Feeling like somehow everything she’s saying is going wrong but not knowing how quite to fix it, she waits a few seconds to see if he’ll say anything else. "Well, it would've been nice to be able to contact you."
He seems to mull that over, as if giving it somewhat serious consideration. "You weren't in any danger from the dryad."
"I got punched."
Iakov shrugs, as if that’s nothing and not a freaking weird occasion for her. "He wouldn't be able to kill you, he wasn't that powerful."
"So you knew he did that?" Aimes voice catches in her throat.
He shrugs again, face twisted up into a profoundly uncomfortable expression. "I stopped by. The bartender had him in a headlock, they gave you some napkins, you were fine." He shrugs his shirt on, his long fingers buttoning it up. "If I thought you were in any real danger, I would've taken you away, but as it were..." he spreads his hands, as if that explains everything, and it stings.
There's a moment of silence, as Aimes grips her briefcase, her hands shaking far more than reasonable. It's like she's been dismissed and it's far more important than it should be. It's the magical marriage thing, she's certain of it, but it hurts. It hurts bad.
"So I should just wait for the next time you decide to show up?" Her voice cracks, in the middle, and his eyebrows flash up. "Just live like normal, until you decide to pop in and say hello?"
He hesitates, then reaches a hand out and grips her shoulder. "I'll see you before too long," he says, soft, then...disappears.
Just gone.
The air is still, as if he was never there, the dust mites not even moving. She jerks back, like she’s been punched right in the throat.
The hotel continental breakfast is a surreal mess of stale pastries and sleepy librarians and too bright lights. She gets herself the biggest styrofoam cup of coffee and something that vaguely resembles a chocolate croissant and tucks herself in a plastic chair in the corner, her briefcase on her lap like a battering shield.
Her skin even feels prickly, like the last evening didn't happen but was some instead elaborate drunk dream.
Her presentations pass in a whirl, the sort of whirl where she knows she said everything and answered all the questions and gave out Russ's proper contact info, but in the same way that it feels that it's someone else saying the words.
On her flight, she curls up with her knees to her chest and sleeps the sleep of someone feeling deeply sorry for herself.
She's certain she looks like a zombie as she climbs into Trixie's car back at the Burbank airport. Trixie just raises an eyebrow at her before starting up the car.
It's dark in California, but dark in the way that the glow of the city lights leaves everything lit, and it's about as far away as the glow of the moon and the stars and the snow that it tugs at the back of her throat once more.
About two thirds of the way back to her apartment, Trixie makes a sound in the back of her throat, the sound of someone who wants to say something, but doesn't want to start the conversation. It's a judgy sound, and Aimes lets her head loll around to look at her.
"What."
"You have a hickey." She points at her own neck in the place. "But you don't seem happy."
She lets her head thud against the car seat back. "Yeah."
Trixie remains quiet until they reach Aimes's apartment complex. "If you need anything, you know, let me know," she says, soft. "I'm here for you."
Aimes nods, not moving to unbuckle her seatbelt. "Yeah. Just...rough convention." And the words seem hollow and obviously fake, even to her. "Tiki bar tomorrow?"
"How about brunch instead? Get you back into the LA scheme of things. I don't have anything until 2." And she smiles, and it's far kinder than Aimes feels like she deserves. "Help you kick whatever the hell jetlag you're gonna get from this trip."
"Sure."
Trixie even has a large Irish coffee and a plate of bacon waiting for her when she shows up to Dupars. "Soooooo how was Maine?"
The restaurant is chilly, but it's almost as if her little foray into part of the Arctic Circle means she's not nearly as cold as she should be. Dupars, as a restaurant, is hilariously old fashioned with tall leather booths, waiters who wear suits, and eighteen different pies on sale in a display.
"Quant. You wouldn't believe the quilts in this place." And it feels safe, safe to talk about that, without anything actual being brought up. "I talked to a librarian who doesn't even have internet where he is, just writes everything by hand. Didn't sell him any of our computer stuff."
"Damn." Trixie takes a large gulp of her water. "So Kristopher was okay with our talk," she blurts out. "He even said that he gets scared with fights. Who says that?"
Aimes flicks through the menu. "You do."
"Yeah, exactly." Trixie grins at her.
They fall into a lull, sipping coffee and crunching on bacon, as the waiter takes their order.
"Hey Trixie," Aimes begins, mouth feeling thick, "How far away from Maine is the Arctic Circle?"
Trixie blinks at her, eyebrows raising. "I have no fucking clue." Her voice makes it clear that she thinks Aimes is losing it. "That cold up there?"
The waiter delivers their food, and Aimes digs into her cinnamon French toast. "It was a bit shocking, that's all." Cause she has no clue how far away she was taken, and for some reason the idea that he took her far far away sits poorly in her chest.
A question for Katya, really. A question for the thick pack of papers; if they had the limits of his abilities or knowledge of whatever the hell he could do. As a Demigod.
Trixie gestures with her gravy laden fork. "Your face is doing it again," she says airily. "You're unhappy."
And it's as much of a challenge as Trixie would ever suggest, and for a brief, breakfast laden second, Aimes considers telling her everything, every little bit, showing her Katya's stuff, and having someone who she can actually talk the sex stuff with.
She pushes around her French toast, instead. "I hooked up with a librarian up there. It was...okay."
"Okay?" Trixie's eyebrows raise. "Doesn't sound like it."
"He was a dick in the morning." With the lie, the rest is easy. "Didn't want to give me his number, said it wasn't worth it, left without saying goodbye and...I felt like shit."
Trixie shrugs and almost snarls at the same time. "Fuck him, you're fantastic." She scoffs. "And he's a librarian up in Maine. Clearly you have the better life. I mean, it's Maine."
"It sure was quaint."
"Quaint isn't a good thing, Aimes. Not since like at least 1950." Trixie sips her coffee, eyes dancing. "And now he has to go back to his inbred little village with no internet connection and remember that he could never do as good as he did that night ever again."
It startles a laugh out of Aimes. "I don't think Maine's inbred."
Trixie shrugs. "Still, fuck him. Couldn't even give you a proper hickey, it's all lopsided."
"Hickeys aren't normally symmetrical."
"Then you've been hooking up with the wrong guys." Trixie sips from her coffee, but the corner of her eyes crinkle up, before she too seriously sets her drink down. "Do you want me to see if Kristopher has any friends? For a fling?" She offers, oddly formal.
And wouldn't that crash and burn spectacularly now. Like the Hindenburg all over again, but with her social life instead of, you know, hundreds of lives. "I think," Aimes begins, then falters. "I think if I got a boyfriend, right now, it'd be bad."
"Too much Rocky baggage?"
"Let's go with that."
Later that night, after way too much debating, Aimes picks up her phone and texts Katya.
AIMES (8:32 PM): I saw him again.
The reply takes her a strangely
long time to get back to, so Aimes attacks the pile of dirty dishes that she left over the trip to marinate in the sink.
KATYA GOVERNMENT (8:59 PM): Maine?
AIMES (8:59 PM): Yep.
KATYA GOVERNMENT (9:01 PM): I'm coming over.
Aimes sighs, then attacks the dishes with a bit more fervor. Her apartment might be a mess, but it doesn't need to be a smelly mess.
Even though a substantial chunk of the mess is because she was not-sick from the stabbing. And the sudden not sudden appearance of Jake - Iakov - back into her life.
And he hasn't been able to keep away, she realizes with a smug little glimmer of satisfaction. He saw her once, and then the very next time a guy even looked at her, he showed up. Almost worth seeing what’ll happen if she lets Trixie set her up on a date. See if he'll come crashing into that, unexplained but unnoticed to everyone else.
Her couch still has some bloodstains. Which she frankly has no clue how Trixie didn't see and how she's going to get them out of the upholstery.
For a brief second, she can’t remember even seeing a scar on Iakov's chest that morning, or if it was gone as well.
Drying her hands, the doorbell rings, and Aimes throws the towel over her shoulder before letting Katya in.
Katya is wearing the full business suit and combat boots, even this late at night, and a frown decorates her face. "Seriously, Maine?" she says in lieu of a greeting. "Maine?"
Aimes exaggerates a grand motion. "Sure, Katya, come on in, it'll be grand."
Katya narrows her eyes at her, reading her face, before her eyes widen. "Oh you slept with him again," she says, voice all of the sudden soft. "That's what happened."
And it's 2018 and people should stop being judgy about her sleeping with guys.
"He was there, it was...it was Maine and there was nothing to do."
Katya pulls out a water bottle from her purse and sits on the couch, and both the cats jump up next to her for cuddles. "He just showed up? No reason why?" Her eyes are sharp, not leaving Aimes's face. "Did you...try to contact him? Bring him there?"
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