"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It takes only a moment of inattention and one person moving just a little too fast for this early in the morning.
crash.
The ceramic bowl that was previously tucked into the crook of his elbow is now in a half-dozen pieces on the ground. The sound of it shattering was mostly swallowed by the bustling crowd, and only a few attentive patrons of the market even bother to step around it. Cursing his luck under his breath, the dark haired man bends to scoop up the shards, grateful that the thick pottery meant that there weren’t many pieces. The pot-assassin had ducked into another aisle before Ivar could confront him, and he puts the broken pieces irritably (but carefully) into the bag he carries in his opposite hand. The intended occupants of the bowl are in that bag, after all, and he has no intention of damaging them as well. He’ll just make do with something he already has at home.
Overhead, the warm sun is just beginning to break through the overcast morning sky, but Ivar keeps the hood of his dark sweatshirt up and is grateful the previously-unnecessary sunglasses are there to conceal his face. He wants to get in and out of the Market without running into anyone he knows. This is difficult – he nearly makes accidental eye contact with the girl at the cold press coffee stand and speed-walks past the questioning gaze of the woman selling windchimes who he’d most certainly not called back.
He should really find another Farmer’s Market, one with less familiar faces, but his favorite horticulturist only attends this one, and only on Saturdays (the most crowded day of the week). Plus it’s the closest one to his downtown apartment, and such a close walk. That’s usually one of his selling points with the ladies, after all, but he’s at least 65% sure that the blonde he’d left in bed this morning would probably still be there when he returned, so inviting back someone else would surely be a disaster.
Instead he’d slipped out with a note (help yourself to anything in the fridge; my dealer and girlfriend are stopping by around 9am – a tested and true way to make sure they leave) but his watch reads 8:16 am and he realizes he has half an hour to kill. There’s a smiling man behind the breakfast burrito truck today (Ivar thanks his lucky stars that it isn’t Lucille) and he orders his usual – double meat, double cheese, no tomatoes – and finds an empty table to eat, taking a few bites as he wanders. He places his bag of treasures carefully on the seat beside him and removes his sunglasses. There was a speck of cheese on them somehow (he was always a messy eater) and just as he rubs it away, he glances up to make eye contact with someone.
A very pretty someone, that is. A very pretty someone that he’d been absolutely certain that he wouldn’t ever see again.
She watches as the bustle of the Market mingles with the consequences of a busy night to shatter a bowl and produce an irritated expression. Although half of his face is hidden by the shadow of a hood and unnecessary sunglasses, she can picture the twist of his mouth and the way his eyebrows might draw together. It brings a smirk to her full lips, though her own face is shadowed by the brim of her gray hat. Long, dark, wavy locks flow from beneath said hat, catching the attention of some random self-proclaimed ‘hipster’ getting his groceries from the Farmer’s Market because “we should always help the locals.” Wishbone pays him no mind, instead choosing to slip along the opposite wall of a photography booth in order to avoid his eyes.
After all this time, she’s not about to make her reappearance as uneventful as a glimpse caught between prints of two rhinoceroses mating and a second-generation Native American selling beads from South Dakota.
She knew she’d find him here — probably escaping the latest Friday-night fuck — and she’d been right. For a few blissful weeks (okay, maybe months) it had been their weekend routine: spend the night bruising all the places clothing would normally hide, wake up early Saturday morning and walk the Market until Ivar found the most perfect companion, splurge on either homemade breakfast muffins or a burrito from the truck, and then head home to spend the rest of the day bruising each other in all the places clothing wouldn’t hide.
As he settles at a table nearby, his mouth full of the burrito (double meat, double cheese, no tomatoes), she peels herself away from the stream of Market-goers. The food truck employee gives her a wave from the distance and Wishbone gives a twirl of her nude-manicured fingers even while her hazel eyes, hidden behind a pair of aviators, remain fixed to Ivar.
“You missed some cheese on your dick,” she says casually. Her gaze drops to the few shards of cheese that had fallen onto the crotch of his pants and another smirk dances across her mouth. Dark ankle booties bring Wishbone closer so she can slide easily into the seat across from Ivar, careful not to disturb the important package nestled in the chair alongside both of them. Two coy words glide from her mouth simply, though there’s the hint of a thousand more words behind them. “Hello, Ivar.”
Rather than reply immediately, Ivar takes another bite of his burrito.
Chew, maintain direct eye contact, swallow.
"Well?" He asks around the last bit of pulled pork, scrambled egg, and tortilla. "Were you going to help me with it? Or did you come back just to remind me why I hate eating in public?" His messy eating habits are not a secret between them; Ivar has lost count of how many crumbs he's pulled from her auburn hair as they lay in bed, a consequence of his need to get his hands on her as soon as possible - post-breakfast handwashing be damned.
This reminds him of how many burritos he's been able to eat totally fresh while she has been away. Most Saturdays when she was around they were tossed in the fridge half-eaten to be consumed later in the day - either cold or reheated.
There is nothing better than a totally fresh breakfast burrito, or so Ivar tells himself.
Not even Wishbone.
Despite his somewhat crass invitation, the dark haired man makes no further advances on the woman across from him. She is impossibly well dressed, even this early in the morning, though Ivar thinks she'd look just a little better if she were wearing one of his shirts with those fancy little belts she likes instead of the stripey thing she had on he still has trouble looking away from her.
So he doesn't.
He continues to eat his burrito, licking the last bit of sour cream from his thumb while refusing to break eye contact. She's the one that went away, he thinks, she can be the first one to look away.
"Should we take this back to my place?" He asks as he tosses the brown paper bag into the recycling bin beside the table, looking away from her for the first time and managing to sound entirely casual. "Or do you need to jet off to somewhere with no warning again?"
Every time they meet, they play a dangerous game. In some aspects, their relationship reminds Wishbone of a pair of wolves. They are both brave and rugged and determined, two Alpha wolves constantly colliding with tooth and nail. Perhaps if they learned to compensate and put a more heartfelt effort into actually trying, they might be able to sleep nestled under a blanket of stars with their tails and noses curled close together. Most of the time, a heated debate will end in an even more heated discussion in the bedroom (and not the type with words). But if push came to shove — if the real world kissed their savage one — Wishbone isn’t quite sure what would happen.
That game they dare to play involves eye contact. One slender hand, kissed with a scattering of thin scars across her knuckles, removes the aviators from her face and places them on the table between them. The faintest hint of a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth at his comment — damn, he’s still bitter about her disappearance. Wishbone doesn’t blame him (she’d be pissed if he suddenly vanished into the night with not even a whisper of goodbye or where he was going; even if that’s something he would do) but the lingering anger proves that their makeup sex is going to be very good.
Her eyes drop away from his gaze then (and she’s okay with losing this battle) to travel down his body with a look that lets Ivar know exactly what she’s thinking. “I thought about it, but I think I might get too carried away.” A smoke-and-sex smirk does find her lips this time, just as her hazel eyes are finding his own eyes again. “And I don’t really plan on scarring any children today.”
Wishbone finds it enjoyable to simply sit and watch him eat the last of his burrito. Although the wilderness of their relationship brought instincts and primal lust upon the both of them, she can’t deny there are tightly-bound cords of tenderness for him that wrap around her heart. It had surprised her, at first — the way her chest would feel warm at the sound of his full laughter, the simple content she would have as they lay in bed together twisted among the sheets, how her heart would quicken at the sight of the heat she could see simmering beneath his dark eyes.
The sound of the paper bag rustling as it fell into the recycling bin drove her away from those simple, rose-gold thoughts. Wishbone moves to stand, grabbing her sunglasses off the table as she does so. “‘Somewhere’ is not nearly as good as you, Ivar.” She doesn’t wait for him after that; her long legs turn on a dime and head toward his apartment, certain he will follow.
A faint vibration sounds from his watch, and Ivar glances down to see the green message icon. He clears it with a brief shake of his wrist, and sees the time just before he looks back to hear Wish speak. Ivar's dark brow rises inquisitively at her words, and at her concern over child witnesses he laughs aloud. It's startling - he'd been quite sure this meeting (if it ever happened) would have a few more raised voices.
But rather than wield the verbal barbs he'd had ready (even practiced, perhaps), Ivar is simply content to sit in her presence rather than drive her away. When the auburn haired woman stands to leave he mirrors her movements, pulling his own sunglasses down from where they were resting on top of his head before following her.
He should know better than to press his luck, but he still finds it difficult to believe that she has so readily agreed to his suggestion. Ivar takes a few longer strides to catch up to her. He slides the loops of his bag toward his left elbow, and slips his right hand across the small of Wishbone's back to rest on the opposite side of her waist.
His grip is firm, though he makes no effort to hinder their forward progress. The two of them might garner more attention than he'd like, but Ivar would rather risk being recognized than have her slip away again. The fabric of her grey romper is soft, and he moves his thumb in slow circles without glancing down.
They reach the entrance of his building, and Ivar makes a grand gesture of pulling the door open with a flourish.
"After you, my lady."
At this time of morning the lobby is deserted. The faint scent of coffee from the in-house restaurant wafts toward them, but Ivar is too intent on guiding Wishbone toward the elevator to be distracted. When the doors click shut behind him, Ivar pushes his sunglasses up and hood off in one contiguous motion.
He takes a step closer and this time both of his hands move to rest at her hips. Torn between pulling her closer and pressing her against the elevator wall, Ivar deliberates while watching her. "You got more freckles," he says abruptly. "Must of been somewhere sunny."
i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
The feeling of his hand against her waist is both comforting and thrilling. It reawakens the months before she left when they had walked this way through the marketplace every weekend. The faint rustling feeling at her hip lets Wishbone know that Ivar is appreciating the material of her romper and the beginnings of a smile nip at one corner of her mouth. She decides that he makes it too easy to fall in love with him (although these are not her exact thoughts, it’s what we all know she’s thinking deep inside) as Ivar grabs the door into the main lobby.
The smell of coffee might not distract the man at her side, but it does distract Wishbone. She’s never been the type for a cream-and-sugar beverage: her cup of joe is always black and bitter, and sometimes with a shot of something extra. The pot in the restaurant smells just the way she likes it, but Ivar’s hand wrapped around her demands that they head straight for the elevators.
By the time the doors close behind them, Wishbone’s forgotten about the coffee. He’s stepped closer to her, inspecting the lines of her face while she inspects the lines of his now that she can see him fully. “You’re observant,” she quips, but there’s a smile in her eyes that betrays the fact that she enjoys his gaze on her. “Have you been using the oil I gave you?” A slender hand reaches up to touch his chin in an action that’s unsettlingly soft. “Your beard is longer.”
Wishbone barely waits for an answer; her height means she has to push herself onto her tiptoes while she presses herself into his body. Tipping her face upward, the auburn-haired woman moves to smoothly kiss Ivar. Just before pulling away, she snags his bottom lip with her teeth, exerting just enough pressure to pinch in a way she knows he goes crazy for. Just as she’s resuming her natural height, the doors ding open and Wishbone walks out, tossing a knowing look over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you still leave your door unlocked, ‘Var.”
