hell_in_highheels | Six Months

She's eyeing the calender on her desk and the date. Six months ago, she invited him to dinner. Six months ago he said yes. Six months ago, she was still human. Six months ago and a day ago, she considered herself a ghost -- not among the living. A memory of a life, perhaps, but not an actual life.

Six months ago, he reminded her that she was very much alive and he's spent every day since proving to her that life is very much worth living.

So she's sitting at her desk, trying to jot down something simple in a note to tell him how glad she is that she met him, how much she loves him, how much he's become a vital part of her existence. She never thought it could be this good. And it's all because of him. But she doesn't think he'd appreciate pages and pages of her pouring her heart out. She just wants to make him smile, and mark the day. So she's trying for something quick and to the point.

All that's come out is a silly little ditty, and she's almost embarrassed by how naff it is, but it's quick and to the point.

I can't believe you shredded my knickers,
I can't believe you bit my nose,
I can't believe how much I love you,
Everyday it grows and grows.

Happy first six months,
~River

Completely naff. So she adds a couple of hearts with an arrow through it, grinning as she tries to picture his expression upon reading it.

Maybe she'll stuff it in his holster or something.

"Oh I know..."

Damocles?

She tucks the note in his collar, and pets his face while she asks him to take the note to its intended recipient. It means she won't see his reaction when he reads it, but she wagers it'll be worth it.

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"It's not going to go bad, either. There will be pie later."

He smiles.

"Unless I eat it all."

Oh, that gets the tiniest a flash of teeth, and her scent ripples with playful indignation.

"You just go right ahead and do that. And then see how you like sleeping on the couch."

"The couch is very comfortable," he counters.

"It's a good place to eat pie."

She scoffs at him and goes back to eating her dinner, hiding a bit of a pout. (Impossible to do with his nose.)

He wouldn't choose pie over her company would he?

Does he like pie that much?

She said he'd be sleeping on the couch. She didn't say anything about not joining him.

Amused Richard is amused. Also: getting up to cut pie.

She watches him go, scenting his amusement.

After a moment, she collects their plates and follows him into the kitchen. She keeps her hands busy with washing up, and then seeing what he's doing, taking down saucers and checking the refrigerator to see if they have any whipping cream. There's a can of it in the door.

Her eyes slit as she considers her options.

For the record? Richard prefers a la mode.

Totally innocent wolf here.

She's shaking the can idly as she turns back, popping the top off.

Totally innocent wolf is a little too smug for his own good.

She eyes her target, licking her lips. She slips up behind him, keeping her thoughts to how wonderful it would be to lick it off his skin, so her scent is masked. The fingers of her free hand strolling up his back, across his shoulders, until she can snag the back of his shirt.

Not sure which is worse, the awful noise the can makes or the cold wet whipped cream splattering down between his shoulder blades.

He jumps, knife in hand, and whirls, making a sound he will completely and utterly deny later. "River!" He admonishes, wiggling a bit. It's cold!

He scowls at her then beckons her forward. The pie slices are all crooked now. "Come here and look at what you've done." His voice and face are fierce, but that doesn't quite make up for his mischievous and determined scent.

"Ohohoho, dear," she laughs, feeling a fleeting touch of regret. She backs away, can still in hand, grinning madly now, not about to relinquish it.

"You wanted that pie all to yourself, remember?"

She points it at him, finger on the spigot. And pushes it.

We sure hope Dam likes whip cream.

Richard closes his eyes and simply stands as he is more thoroughly draped with whipped cream. When it starts dripping on the floor, he cracks one eye open as if to say 'really?'

"You're not getting a single slice of this pie. I want you to see what you've done to it."

It doesn't even smell like a lie. The mischievousness is petering out and being replaced by patience. He can wait for her to come over here all day. (The glob on the end of his nose is making it horribly difficult to not smile. Or lick off.)

Okay, perhaps she is a bit chagrined. And anyway, the can is well and truly empty now. Pointing a hissing spitting can, not so formidable.

She also knows its a trap. She eyes the pie and then him, lips pressed together, eyes wide.

She inches closer, knowing full well she's in for it.

He steps aside to she can stand in front of the tin.

"There." He places a finger at the offending cut. "Do you see how crooked that is?"

She looks at the cut and looks at him, wondering if he's gone barmy all of a sudden. Looking back, she sticks her finger in it, right in the middle, scooping up a fingerful. She pauses to scrape a bit of cream off his cheek then sticks the whole thing in her mouth.

"It doesn't effect the taste."

He gaze turns flat.

"Look at it."

This time when she leans in he moves quickly, hand gripping the back of her neck and shoving her face in the pie.

Then he's on the other side of the island, finally tasting the whipped cream. Not bad.

She comes up sputtering. "Oh you did not just..."

She uses both hands to wipe her eyes clean, flinging bits of pie at him. She then takes up a handful of pie and throws it overhand at him, laughing again.

It's a shame. It is a rather tasty pie.

He ducks, feeling he already has more than enough food on him for one night.

"Now, now, who sprayed who with whipped cream?" He does stick his finger in the blob of pie, though. It is tasty.

"Well bring it back then," she laughs.

She grabs his hand, possibly not realising her own strength, pulling him close so she can lick pie off his fingers. And cream off his cheek.

It's all right. He can take a little pressure.

He tastes her, too, seeing as how she's had nearly all the pie and he's had almost none.

His shirt is horribly sticky.

And now she's tasting him, cinnamon and apples, and the softness of his mouth. She's covered in sticky sweet goo, and she has pie in her hair, and she simply doesn't care. She's never been happier in her entire life.

She kisses him, deep and long, squelching a little as she presses against him.

They're going to need a shower.

They are. They could do that right now, in fact, if Richard weren't content to kiss, nibble, and lick her face clean right now.

Dam will take this opportunity to sneak into the kitchen and start doing a little cleaning himself.

Her eyes fall closed and she wrinkles her nose, grinning, licking his cheeks right back, her scent rich with amusement and love.

Shower, yes.

Eventually.

Six Months

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