suoxi | for striker

He doesn't cry on her, though he feels like he wants to, just sits there hunched over, and lets her play with his hair as he breathes in her perfume and the lingering scent of incense in her room, tries to sync up his heartbeat to hers to calm himself down.

It doesn't work very well, but then again, he hadn't expected it to.

The shrill whistle of her kettle cuts through the air, and he forces himself to pull away and straighten up.

"Your water's ready," is all he says, his eyes red.

Her head rests against his, and she listens to his breathing as they sit together in silence. It's interrupted by her kettle and it's jarring, and it has her tensing a little against him until she realizes what the hell it is.

"One moment," she tells him, standing up -- though not before briefly cupping his face and brushing her fingers over his skin.

"I'll be right back." She leans over and drops a kiss to the top of his head and then she's gone, bustling in her small kitchenette before reappearing with a pot and two cups that she sits on her coffee table in front of them.

"It just needs a moment to steep."

Her hands are soft and cool against his skin and he doesn't even try to hide the look on his face when she cups his face in her hands.

"Okay," he murmurs when she stands, watching her disappear in a flurry of deep red silk.

She returns swiftly enough with a beautiful Asian teapot and two cups. He lets himself idly wonder if this is the set she uses for her work, or if she has a personal one that she keeps just for her. In the end it doesn't matter, because tea is tea and while he'd prefer coffee, he's not going to ask for it now, not feeling how he already does.

It feels a little like he's having an out of body experience right now; nothing feels wholly real. "That's fine," is all he says, staring at the pot on the table.

She settles back on the couch beside him, shoulder to shoulder as she leans forward to set a cup in front of either of them in preparation.

"It was my mothers," she says quietly, seeing his eyes rest on the teapot. She knows that he isn't really asking about it and that there's no prompt for this, but she says it all the same. "When I was younger, she wouldn't let me play with it for fear I would break it. When I grew old enough, she gifted it to me on my birthday."

Edited 2013-07-29 05:05 (UTC)

"It's beautiful," he murmurs, staring at the pot and the cups as she sets them up in front of them.

Wrenching his attention away, he turns it to her instead. "Is she...still around?" He wishes there were a more polite way for him to ask if her parents were alive or what they thought of her current lifestyle, but there really isn't. Normally he wouldn't ask at all, but he's desperate for something to take his mind off of what's happening in his life, and this is the first time she's mentioned her family.

"My mother?" Inara smiles, and shakes her head. There's no need to trouble him with the shattered edges of her own past, not now.

"No. My parents had me late in life; they have both passed on." She lifts a hand and presses her fingertips to her temple. "I have them here, though." That cannot be taken from her.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he murmurs, and doesn't press further. He knows a dismissal when he hears one, and she's done him the courtesy of never asking about Angela or Chuck, so he returns it by not asking about her parents.

Back to the teapot it is.

"What kind of tea are you making me drink?" he asks, and it's like little glimpses of the old Hercules are peeking through. He'd be relieved, but he's trying too hard not to think about anything.

She appreciates that, and while he might not realize it just yet -- he does, too. The topic is too sensitive for this particular moment, and while Inara is an incredibly private person, she vows to herself that when the time is right, she will tell him her story.

"It is chamomile with lavender," she says, leaning over to check the potency. Not quite there yet. "It has no caffeine in it, and it should help settle nerves." Hers and his.

"You can eat lavender?" Oh you charming, uninformed man. Look, he's Australian, okay. For most of his life, before the Exodus, he'd been eating steaks and drinking beer and generally being incredibly boring and manly, and then he was in the PPDC and all he got were rations. The joy of fancy food has eluded him so far.

She shoots him a startled look that morphs into a muffled chuckle.

"You can, actually. Queen Elizabeth I favored culinary lavender, and she also drank it to sooth migraines."

The look she gives him makes him huff out a chuckle of his own, though it sounds strained and a little watery. He's working on it.

"No kidding." He leans in to sniff the steam coming from the pot, a somewhat dubious look on his face, but shrugs. "Well, alright. I trust you not to poison me and usurp my position as Marshal of this 'dome."

She gives him a very wry smile, then finally picks up the pot and pours them both a cup.

"I put a bit of honey in it." Lavender can taste a bit 'woody' -- Inara likes the sweetness that the honey can bring.

She passes the cup over to him, pushing it gently into his hands.

"Try it."

"You even have honey." Is there nothing being a Companion can't get you?

He accepts the tea and holds the small, handle-less cup in his hands, breathing in the fragrant steam for a moment before carefully taking a sip.

"...S'good."

"All the way from Sihnon."

There are some things that even Companions don't get -- but that's neither here nor there.

"I'm glad you like it." She takes a sip of her own, and sighs. The heat relaxes her, and she feels bone weary from the days events -- not that it shows. She's pretty good at not making any kind of fuss, and instead of leaning back against the couch, she just carefully watches him.

He doesn't mention that it's good because she made it for him and served it in her special cups. That's something he doesn't need to discuss. Not now, probably not ever.

He just drinks his tea.

"Stop doing that," he gripes, lifting his eyes finally to scowl half heartedly at her when she keeps watching him. "You make me feel like I'm going to fall apart. I'm okay." He's lying through his teeth, but he'd like it if she did him the courtesy of not being so blatant about not believing him.

She holds her hands up, admitting defeat -- even as she laughs.

"Alright, alright -- you caught me red handed. I promise, I won't stare at you when I think you aren't looking anymore." She attempts a tease, a little joke, to lighten the mood.

Because, yeah -- she doesn't believe that a damn bit, Hercules.

He sniffs, pretending to be mollified, and turns back to his tea. If she picked this because she hoped it would be soothing, she picked well. Hercules feels a lot calmer — not necessarily better, or happier, but calmer — than he did earlier.

"Thank you," he practically whispers, rolling his empty cup in his palms. "For doing this for me."

Her own cups contents have dwindled, and she feels much the same. Calmer, certainly. More tired -- definitely.

"Anytime," she tells him quietly, eyes moving from cup to him to back again. "I mean that, Hercules. Anytime."

Which seems odd to offer someone -- but it's hardly a secret that she has a soft spot for the Marshal.

He wants to kiss her.

He's almost blindsided by the realization, that he wants to lean in and kiss her and taste the gloss she lays across her lips. If this was a regular appointment, if she had let him pay for her time, he might have. But she didn't, she refused that, and she's only here because she's his friend and she's worried about him.

So he forces himself to turn away a little and set down his empty cup, scrubbing his hands through his hair instead.

"Thank you. I wish I could offer you something in return, but..."

She's almost leaning in for it already, just based on the way that he's looking at her and the way that she feels.

But -- it's bad timing, isn't it? This is not a good time to move on someone who is so obviously broken up about what is happening in their lives. He wanted her company tonight, certainly -- offered to pay for it, even -- but she isn't sure he meant that.

There are reasons why Inara doesn't engage in relationships, and why so few Companions like her do. It's...terribly complicated and Inara herself isn't a fan of complications. She runs from them -- it's why she's here, on this 'dome and not her previous one. Things had...escalated there, with a particular person that will continue to remain nameless.

But Hercules is so dramatically different and they've spent so much time together that it's progressed organically and now...now there's too much uncertainty as to if the leap should be taken, and Inara is...wholly unsure of where he even stands. Is he on the ledge with her? She's not sure.

Ugh, complication.

"It's...what friends do for one another." She rests a hand on his knee, giving him a gentle little squeeze, fingers splaying out over the fabric.

Her hand looks so delicate resting on his knee, but her fingers feel perfectly strong when she squeezes it, and Herc finds himself reaching to cover her hand with his.

He really wants to kiss her and he's almost ashamed of it, because Inara must have such a hard time making honest friends who don't see her as a sexual object or someone to covet or worship, and he had prided himself on being that for her. On being someone she could come to and not worry about whether her hair was fixed or her face done up, someone she could be honest with, no matter what. He doesn't want to feel like he's betraying her trust by suddenly letting himself realize how beautiful she is and how attracted to her he is.

Not to mention he's pretty sure she's not even thirty and he's smack dab in the middle of forty and fifty so... Yeah, that's not good either.

"Friends, yeah," he croaks finally, his hand still covering hers on his knee.

She's been told by her friends on several occasions that she just doesn't age. She still has the flawless beauty she had when she was in her mid twenties, and there isn't a single streak of grey in her dark waves. Inara was very handsomely blessed when it came to physical attributes, there's no question.

She was also gifted with what seemed to be inherent wisdom at times, though right now...she wants to be anything but rational. She wants his lips to hers, those arms around her body. She wants to do any number of things that aren't appropriate at the moment.

When she opens her mouth to speak, she had every intention of telling him that he should rest. What comes out is a completely different story.

"God...Bì zuǐ, wěn wǒ--"

Conversely, Herc knows he hasn't aged that gracefully, especially not in recent years. He's got red hair, which doesn't gray very attractively to begin with, and the pain and sorrow he's lived through — not to mention the constant stress of battle — have etched deep lines into his face that he's never free of, even in sleep. His temples are gray, his beard is going that way too... He looks in the mirror and sees his dad, an old man who's had to weather too many storms.

Inara looks like a delicate peach by comparison, ripe and firm and so very sweet.

She should be with someone like Raleigh, equally young and vibrant and obnoxiously handsome. Herc is past his prime now. He should leave the pasture for other bulls.

She opens her mouth to say something and he's bracing himself for a change in subject, but what comes out of her mouth is utterly incomprehensible. Never before has he resented his seeming inability to learn foreign languages as much as he does now. He just can't make them stick in his head, no matter how hard he tries. But she's leaning into him when she says it, her eyelids drooping, her lips plush and parted, and he knows what that look means even if he can't understand what words are falling from them.

Kicking himself, he leans in abruptly and meets her halfway, angling his head so he can seal his mouth to hers, muffling a choked-off groan against her lips.

Edited 2013-07-29 06:18 (UTC)

She...isn't sure if he can understand her and belatedly she realizes she probably should have said it in English. It doesn't end up a problem though, because he's leaning in to meet her and there's no need to worry about the language barrier that she might have accidentally created.

Pushing off the couch, Inara is immediately sliding into his lap, and cradling his head in her hands as she returns the kiss, deepening it with presses and swipes of her tongue.

He doesn't even have time to pull back and start to apologize, because the second his lips touch hers she's practically launching herself at him, sliding into his lap like she sits there all the time, her hands framing his face, her tongue pushing past his lips to turn this kiss a lot dirtier than he intended.

He is not complaining.

His hands settle at her waist, clutching her to him, squeezing tightly before one slides up the silk of her blouse to press between her shoulder blades, keeping her close as he parts his lips eagerly for her.

This may be rash, may be foolish, may turn out to be a mistake. But he doesn't care.

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