[Master Post – Glass]
Title: A Cup of Ice
Fandom: Viridian Legacy: Glass
Characters: Betty, Arkady
Rating: T height="16px" /> (L2 N0 S1 V1 D1)
Warnings: Expletives, passing references to bloodplay
Notes: Still without my desktop. Writing all those things I don’t usually write, because I’m usually too busy doing something more comfortable. Also? Post #777.
"Ebony, dearling, can you get this zipper for me?"
It was half past six, and they were due at the symphony at seven. While Liz wasn’t usually running late — in fact, she was nearly never even a step behind schedule — there had been some unexpected mayhem with the lawn sprinklers, and getting someone out in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, to fix that, before she got a ticket for it, had been nightmarish and slow.
Luckily, Evan had shown up dressed. He had been escorting her to things, for years, now, and his sense of timing nearly matched her own. She might have to tie a cravat for him, occasionally, but he was dependable. So much easier than trying to be seen in public with someone she was actually dating.
She held up her hair, as his hands touched the back of her dress. "Thank you, my dearling doll."
"Of course, my darling dear." He leaned over her shoulder to kiss her cheek, and she reached back and caught his hand, looking at the two of them in the mirror over the vanity.
"Look at us," she marvelled. "We are the beautiful people. It doesn’t matter who we are, just that we are."
"Everyone either believes we’re scandalous or we’re perfect," he murmured, beside her ear. "Which one do you want to be, tonight?"
"Let’s play with them. Do you think you can manage perfect, with just a touch of bad boy charm? Nothing really obvious, just that thing you do where everyone’s sure there’s something wicked in you, but nobody can point to any examples." She leaned forward, just enough to touch up her lipstick, which was already in place. Makeup before hair, hair before clothes, boots before corset. The order of things was essential to not having to do them, again.
He sighed. "That means no beer," he complained, still sulking over her shoulder. "Fine. Let’s do it. You know this means you can’t punch anyone, right?"
"Why would I punch anyone? It’s the symphony. Besides, that’s why I have gloves." She picked up a pair of short, cotton gloves, and turned, suddenly, belting him across the face with them. "It’s the polite way to hit a gentleman."
"Does that really work?" he asked. "It doesn’t hurt." He’d know. He hadn’t just seen the kind of damage she can do, he’d felt it. And sometimes, he really enjoyed it.
"It’s not about pain. It’s shock and humiliation. A lady hits someone with her gloves, and suddenly everyone is staring, wondering what that guy did wrong. It’s like directing peer pressure. All of a sudden the guy has to make a dramatic apology, or everybody thinks he’s a dick, which if I just hit him in the face, he probably is." She stops and looks at him for a moment. "Not you. You’re not a dick. You’re just a demonstration."
He grins and takes a step back. "If you want me to demonstrate my—"
"Evan…" It’s a low, warning tone, that suddenly shifts with the next sentence, as she finds another approach. "Did you forget? I’ve had a demonstration."
"It was years ago," he fires back.
"And we’re dressed to go out. You don’t want to get blood on that suit."
That was the sentence. Demonstration or not, the trousers of that suit became a lot less comfortable, and he stepped back toward Liz, taking her in his arms, pulling her against him.
"Later," he breathed. "Make me bleed for you, later." He couldn’t tell if he was begging or demanding. "We can go to my place, and you can get blood on whatever you want."
"Oh, my Ebony." She reached up and touched the tip of his nose. "You’re so sweet. Not tonight, though. Not in this dress."
"You could always—"
She cut him off. "We’re going to be late. Have you seen my purse?"
"Yes, of course, my darling dear." He sounds stiff, the words sliding out between his teeth, as he lets go and plucks the purse off the vanity. "It’s right here. Don’t forget your lipstick."
"Oh! There it is!" She turned and took the purse, hanging her gloves out of it, just so, and then grabbing the lipstick off the vanity and tossing it in. "Did you talk to Mike? Are we getting together this weekend?"
"Yeah. He’s got time on Saturday." Evan took the lead, heading back toward the door, moving as if his hands were made of feathers and if he turned his head too quickly, it might fall off. "What do you think?"
"Whatever that was, last week, we should do something with it. I liked that surreal vibe." She picked up her coat from the back of the couch and tapped a fingertip to his lips, as she met him at the door.
He held the door, wordlessly, for a few seconds, but that touch always wore him down. It was as if she had no concept of him leaving, although, to be fair, he had no real will to go. Best friend, he reminded himself.
"Everything’s surreal with you, my dear."