All her clothes were soft, cosy; which is why he noticed the breasts first. It should have been the hair, of course, but her fluffy jumper clinging to her perky tits distracted him. There were layers and layers; a white skirt peeking from under the top one, which was long, heavy, corduroy; a long, wide scarf. She had small feet, stripy socks on top of tights. She constantly shifted, shuffled her feet, moved her fingers while talking. She was blathering about his brother, about Clem; Axe was collecting data, while trying to ignore how much she bothered him.
She mentioned her husband; Axe stored the information for later. The more she talked, the easier it was to see; and after all, an abusive husband would explain her constantly biting her tongue and correcting herself. Sarah used to be the same.
"Why can't you just work from home?" he asked just to confirm his theory.
She pouted, pretty much puffing her cheeks. His nieces did that. He suddenly found it entertaining. She couldn't possibly expect this to work on him, though.
"So, what are we going to do about our... situation?" she asked after a few seconds.
As cute as she was, he needed to get rid of her - or maybe, because of how cute she was.
What would send her running the fastest?
"There's only one bedroom in this cottage," he said, discreetly watching her reaction. "Do you want to share the bed?"
Her eyes widened. He'd expected her to look more scared. Instead, she was intently staring at him, as if trying to understand if he was joking. He wouldn't be able to tell himself.
"I'd rather not," she answered.
Her gaze slid down, along his neck, clearly lingering on the chair for a second longer, and then she studied his clothes. He felt immediately irked.
"It's rude to stare," he pointed out.
She jumped up and earnestly met his eyes. Hers were brilliant, bright green.
"Sorry. Nate always says I freak people out with it," she said and gave him an apologetic smile.
Right. Nate. The husband.
"Nate says a lot," Axe said and rubbed his knee.
Strolling outside, right after a hot shower, had been daft. Trying to limp less in front of her had been times more stupid.
His mind worked through the situation. She needed to leave, he told himself - but he'd never hear the end of it from John; maybe even from Clem. He owed Clem one - or a thousand, for all she'd done for him.
There goes his peaceful stay in the cottage.
Going back to the rented flat wasn't an option. Staring at those walls again, he'd blow his brains out in a fortnight. Nana and Di were out of the question. There was always Rhys - but that's too much work - or Sam, but he had their hands full with his family.
"Alright–" he started and then paused.
What sort of a name is Fiona? Her accent was definitely Irish, though pretty mild.
"Fiona," she 'helped him out.'
"I remember," he grumbled. "If you leave me at peace, I'll leave you in peace. There's an empty room. Used to be Clem's study. I can sleep there. We can take turns cooking."
"I can't live with you!" she squeaked.
"Why?"
Maybe she'd come up with the answer herself - and leave.
"Because– Because– I don't know you! You could be dangerous!" she exclaimed.
He sure was. Except, again, she didn't look adequately frightened. Maybe she's thick? She was a tad spacy; lilting voice; open, vulnerable expressions. Not child-like, though. Or are you telling yourself this, because she's right there, and you properly have to make an effort not to check out her chest? A perv, but at least not a nonce, right, Axe?
"It's not stopping you at the moment," he said.
Not good. He needed to add more threat, more menace. Do them both a favour.
"It's because I'm hoping I'll convince you to leave!"
That was funny. Although she clearly wasn't trying to joke - which made it even funnier. Axe chuckled and looked her over. Her cheeks flushed. It had been an age since anyone observed him so closely; she didn't appear to judge though; just curious.
"You're awfully direct," he said.
She jolted and was definitely going to apologise. Just look at that guilty face. Right, the husband. "Let me guess. Nate has mentioned it." His own unpleasant tone scraped at his hearing.
She tried to argue with his plan - not that there was one, really - and he carefully manoeuvred the conversation. He hardly needed to, though: she was an open book.
Illustrator. A daughter of a landlord. Probably orphaned early. Or just inexperienced. Sheltered, naive. Kind.
She must be truly talented. John only hired the best. Damn him.
Lodging with her would be an absurd idea; but on the plus side, John would throw a wobbly, and it would allow Axe to stay where he was. He properly didn't want to bother with looking for a place again.
She, also, for the lack of a better way to explain it, didn't annoy him.
He quickly wrapped up the conversation, rose, and left the room. His bag was upstairs, and he shoved the tee from under the pillow into his duffle. The eye drops he'd put near the bed, followed. He knew where the sleeping bag was; Clem's former study was empty; he could sleep there.
Except, he couldn't.
***
This is just a quick little something I jotted down the other day. Are we interested in more of this, my darlings?