[ She snorts and then scoffs immediately afterward, which makes for a series of ridiculous noises coming from her.] I freaking hope not, I paid for a new coat of paint. [ It's then she realizes that he might honestly think that. Her legs tighten around his waist without her even realizing it, as if she's trying to hug him closer because she knows who he used to be. He was the same as her except centuries before when being a street urchin was hella worse.
She tucks her head, her mouth closer to his ear.] She's yours, Barclay. I got her for you. She's got a cabin and old-school steering and sails and everything. She's very yar, is what the guy told me which I think is a good thing-- [ She'll keep talking about if he doesn't shut her up.]
[He doesn't understand. Then he does understand, but he can't believe it. But of course he believes it; he believes her. Barclay would believe most things Kenzi told her, if he could discern it wasn't the tone of a joke. No matter how utterly surreal some of the things she shares happen to be.
You aren't joking, he almost says. But he ends up saying nothing at all.
Instead, he turns his head, his ear bumping into her cheek. And though they're at a funny angle and his neck protests, he kisses her, with affection, with as much passion as he can muster without cracking his vertebrates. Yar is a good thing, but she's considerably better.]
[ To be fair, Kenzi's second language is sarcasm. Then Russian. Then a few other languages after that. Barclay always seems to roll with the punches and catches on when she is joking, now that he knows her.
This isn't a joke and he seems to come to that understanding, shutting her up with an affectionate kiss. She grins against his lips and tightens her hold on him a little more, the monkey that she is.]
So you like her then? Or should I take her back to the boat store? [ Kenzi plz, there is no boat store.]
Hmmmmmm, [he says, his shoulderblades and the stretch of his back vibrating tangibly between her thighs as he ponders. He unwinds his head back around (because he's only mortal you know, because his player fucked up and forgot to give him superpowers during the Marvel plot, it was terrible) (because his neck would start to hurt), and then tilts it thoughtfully.] Hmm. How should I answer that? [he wonders aloud, possibly referring to the window for advice.
And then-- perhaps unexpectedly, he abruptly breaks into a run.
Straight out the doorway, then starts pelting down the stairs. She finds herself jostled wildly, of course, bumping and knocking. But he keeps his arms tight, preventing her knees from scraping or her beautiful shoes from scratching. It's only a matter of minutes-- laughing like a banshee— that he bursts out into the sunshine, and across the sandy decline toward the beach.]
[ She lets out a raucous laugh when he bursts into a sprint towards the water, she holds on for dear life, of course. But hey, it's a great reaction to a great gift. He keeps her secured to him, at least. And she just keeps laughing, with him until they get down to the beach.]
Holy shit, Barclay. Don't kill us both before you even get on the boat.
[Gallumph, gallumph. The wind of their momentum blows through her hair, salting her cheeks in little breezy flicks. They come pounding down onto the beach, his feet kicking little gasps of white sand. The heat of the sun soaks through her clothes like wine on bedsheets. Like wine has done, on their bedsheets.
He swings her down so she can stand. She's perfect to him, you know. From the skinny flail of her legs, to the way her eyeliner bunches up around the cheeky symmetry of her smile. Sometimes he leans a little closer to her because he know that she's just a little short-sighted.]
You look all right to me, [he says.] Where 'all right' describes you as well as 'cute kicks' describes your choice of Koché. [Look. he knows her.]
[ He gets her set down on the beach and finds herself breathless even though she didn't do any of the hard work or running. Laughing at what he says, finding it completely adorable and irresistible when he uses modern terms, whether he says them correctly or not.]
Yes, yes, I think you're just saying that because I bought you a book. [ She grins up at him, sinking into the sand a little but not complaining. ] So what are you going to name her?
[A long arm goes around Kenzi's waist. Barclay takes his eyes off her in order to look at the boat, making a great show of looking at it from different angles, hmming and hrrming. He seems to be giving it a lot of thought. Which is kind of true; the fact is, he thinks it's important, and he cares, and he's trying, but he already knows what he's going to do the moment that she says it. He knows it as instinctively as she can tell whether somebody's complexion and hair makes them a spring or an autumn. (Personally, he still has no idea.)]
The Isabeau. Unless you're at risk of crying every time we take her out.
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She tucks her head, her mouth closer to his ear.] She's yours, Barclay. I got her for you. She's got a cabin and old-school steering and sails and everything. She's very yar, is what the guy told me which I think is a good thing-- [ She'll keep talking about if he doesn't shut her up.]
no subject
You aren't joking, he almost says. But he ends up saying nothing at all.
Instead, he turns his head, his ear bumping into her cheek. And though they're at a funny angle and his neck protests, he kisses her, with affection, with as much passion as he can muster without cracking his vertebrates. Yar is a good thing, but she's considerably better.]
this is so damn cute
This isn't a joke and he seems to come to that understanding, shutting her up with an affectionate kiss. She grins against his lips and tightens her hold on him a little more, the monkey that she is.]
So you like her then? Or should I take her back to the boat store? [ Kenzi plz, there is no boat store.]
no subject
And then-- perhaps unexpectedly, he abruptly breaks into a run.
Straight out the doorway, then starts pelting down the stairs. She finds herself jostled wildly, of course, bumping and knocking. But he keeps his arms tight, preventing her knees from scraping or her beautiful shoes from scratching. It's only a matter of minutes-- laughing like a banshee— that he bursts out into the sunshine, and across the sandy decline toward the beach.]
whoa i never got this notif
Holy shit, Barclay. Don't kill us both before you even get on the boat.
welcome to this notif kiss kiss
He swings her down so she can stand. She's perfect to him, you know. From the skinny flail of her legs, to the way her eyeliner bunches up around the cheeky symmetry of her smile. Sometimes he leans a little closer to her because he know that she's just a little short-sighted.]
You look all right to me, [he says.] Where 'all right' describes you as well as 'cute kicks' describes your choice of Koché. [Look. he knows her.]
thank you, i'll stay awhile.
Yes, yes, I think you're just saying that because I bought you a book. [ She grins up at him, sinking into the sand a little but not complaining. ] So what are you going to name her?
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The Isabeau. Unless you're at risk of crying every time we take her out.