Kite Morian, Sunnydale High Class of '03 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
formoftherapy) wrote2011-11-27 08:31 pm
formoftherapy) wrote2011-11-27 08:31 pm
Entry tags:
kingdom of welcome addiction - summer 2002 to spring 2003
(Warning for dubiously consensual violent sexual acts and Obadiah Stane.)
"Tony, where did you leave the cash for the pizza? Oh, wait--never mind!" She snags a couple of twenties off the coffee table and opens the front door.
Kite is pretty sure that even in Malibu pizza delivery guys don't wear three-piece suits. The man is easily a foot taller than she is, the pizza box balanced on the tips of his fingers.
He smiles, bright and white and even. "Are you a classmate of Tony's?"
"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I go to Sunnydale, but I'll be a senior in the fall." She resists she urge to scuff her bare foot against the tile.
"Ah. Congratulations."
Kite's hand clenches and unclenches around the edge of the door. "D'you want to come in?"
He smiles at her again--like this is a boardroom or a ballroom or anywhere but Tony's foyer with her dripping pool water all over the place. She thinks he means to say something, but she hears Tony holler "Obie!" instead. He comes running in from the patio, sunburned and laughing. Sherlock hangs back, quiet and subdued in the doorway, his expression carefully blank.
---
Thirty minutes into the movie, Tony and Sherlock are too absorbed in each other to pay any attention to the explosions or the gratuitously messy (and highly improbably) "death by laser net" scene. Kite doesn't feel much like inserting herself into the situation, so she makes an excuse about getting another beer, which generates no response at all.
Halfway down the stairs, the noise of the movie is replaced by piano music. She stops, peering over the railing at the living room.
She'd noticed the piano before, of course; it was impossible to miss. Tony doesn't play, though, and Sherlock sticks to his violin, so she assumed it was just for show. The man from earlier--Obadiah--is seated at it now and proving her assumption false.
She drifts down the stairs one silent, barefoot step at a time. Still, when the piece concludes, Obadiah turns and looks right at her.
"That was beautiful," she says.
He smiles. "I'm glad you think so. I can't impress Tony with it anymore."
"The only person who impresses Tony is Tony," she replies and Obadiah laughs. He stands up, slips the folio of music back into the piano bench and begins rebuttoning his cuffs.
"Are you leaving?"
He nods. "Time for me to be getting home."
"Where's home?"
"An hour or so up the PCH."
She takes his abandoned seat on the bench. "Do you have a piano there?"
"Having one here gives me an excuse to check up on Tony."
Kite tilts her head, leans back on her hands. "Do you really need an excuse?"
"It helps." He slips his jacket on. "I don't believe I caught your name earlier."
"Kite."
"Kite," he repeats, emphasis falling hard on the T. "Do you need a ride home?"
"I drove myself." She drags one hand over the keys, not applying enough pressure to strike a note. "An hour up the PCH, you said?"
She can feel Obadiah's stare like a weight; she keeps her eyes on the piano keys.
"I did," he says at last.
Kite looks up.
---
When she wakes up the next morning, she can't turn her head more than halfway to the right before all the muscles in her neck start screaming. Her wrists and hips and calves ache; a dozen bruises in the making throb in time to her heartbeat.
She doesn't think she made a noise, but Obadiah appears in the bedroom doorway as if called for. His smile is fond and indulgent, and maybe a little proud. He takes a seat on the bed beside her, just looking at her. She doesn't move, feels as though she can't for reasons that have nothing to do with any of her hurts.
"Here." His hand curls around the right side of her neck, kneading slowly at the knotted muscles. She groans, sinking a little lower into the mattress each moment.
He's already dressed for work--slacks creased with geometric precision, dark blue dress shirt with a pale peach pinstripe, cufflinks that probably cost more than her car. Somewhere (on the back of a chair in the kitchen, she thinks) there's a jacket to match those pants, with a pocket square to match his shirt.
Obadiah always matches--never to eye-watering excess, but all his pieces fit together, complementing each other and him in such a way that you think they should never belong to anybody else.
He lifts his hand from her neck. She watches from the corner of her eye as he sets the cufflinks down on the nightstand. She hears the rustle of fabric, knows the moment that the shirt and slacks are draped with care over the fainting couch beside the window.
"I thought you had work," she murmurs.
"It can wait," he replies against her shoulder blade.
---
When she gets out of the shower, he's cooked breakfast: omelets and bacon and some sort of weird green protein shake that she politely declines in favor of coffee. She insists on helping to clean up afterward, which he finds either amusing or charming.
She puts the last of the dishes away and he crowds her up against the island. She can feel the marble countertop digging into the small of her back. One of his hands wraps around both of her wrists and pins them over her head. She closes her eyes.
---
There is nothing inherently suspicious at first. It was hardly the first time Kite had just wandered off when she felt like it, particularly when the boys managed to distract each other. The fact that Obie left at the same time appears inconsequential.
Nor does Kite spend every waking hour of the summer at the boys' house; she hadn't before she met Obadiah and the fact that she doesn't after is nothing to remark on, either.
(She drives out to his house three nights a week. He cooks dinner and talks company politics; she suspects that he just needs an audience, but after the first week, she's offering her own opinions.
He is, for the most part, very careful not to leave marks that cannot be hidden by her clothes. But this is summer, after all, and accidents do happen.)
Sometimes Obadiah checks up on Tony--his visits are more frequent in the summer, Tony says, spawned by fear of what a Tony Stark undistracted by school might get up to--while Kite is there. Their interactions are as limited as they were that first day, but just as cordial. Nothing to see here.
They mess up exactly once. Everyone is standing in the kitchen, talking and laughing--not Sherlock, though; he laughs in all the right places, but Tony is keeping up his end of the conversation, if you look closely. Obadiah's hand lands on the back of Kite's neck, and she goes momentarily still, blindsided by sense-memory.
(His hand feels like it could wrap all the way around her neck, pressing her face down against the pillow. She lifts her hips and he drags his other broad hand along the dip of her spine--)
Kite shakes herself and Obadiah takes his hand away as if nothing is wrong, as if his fingers don't drag against her nape a little slower than necessary. Tony is still talking, oblivious, but Sherlock has the same closed-off expression from before.
---
After that, it almost becomes a game.
She doesn't want to be caught, not really, but she wants to know how far she can push the line before it happens.
(She wanders outside with Obadiah when he leaves--to see the Rolls, she says--and comes back ten minutes later with a bitten red mouth and a hitch in her step. She laughs at an inside joke she shouldn't know, one Obadiah explained over dinner two nights before. She goes swimming with a hand-shaped bruise covering most of her hip, the vivid purple-green clashing with the tropical flowers of her suit.
Even still, Tony doesn't ask and Sherlock doesn't tell.)
"Tony, where did you leave the cash for the pizza? Oh, wait--never mind!" She snags a couple of twenties off the coffee table and opens the front door.
Kite is pretty sure that even in Malibu pizza delivery guys don't wear three-piece suits. The man is easily a foot taller than she is, the pizza box balanced on the tips of his fingers.
He smiles, bright and white and even. "Are you a classmate of Tony's?"
"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I go to Sunnydale, but I'll be a senior in the fall." She resists she urge to scuff her bare foot against the tile.
"Ah. Congratulations."
Kite's hand clenches and unclenches around the edge of the door. "D'you want to come in?"
He smiles at her again--like this is a boardroom or a ballroom or anywhere but Tony's foyer with her dripping pool water all over the place. She thinks he means to say something, but she hears Tony holler "Obie!" instead. He comes running in from the patio, sunburned and laughing. Sherlock hangs back, quiet and subdued in the doorway, his expression carefully blank.
---
Thirty minutes into the movie, Tony and Sherlock are too absorbed in each other to pay any attention to the explosions or the gratuitously messy (and highly improbably) "death by laser net" scene. Kite doesn't feel much like inserting herself into the situation, so she makes an excuse about getting another beer, which generates no response at all.
Halfway down the stairs, the noise of the movie is replaced by piano music. She stops, peering over the railing at the living room.
She'd noticed the piano before, of course; it was impossible to miss. Tony doesn't play, though, and Sherlock sticks to his violin, so she assumed it was just for show. The man from earlier--Obadiah--is seated at it now and proving her assumption false.
She drifts down the stairs one silent, barefoot step at a time. Still, when the piece concludes, Obadiah turns and looks right at her.
"That was beautiful," she says.
He smiles. "I'm glad you think so. I can't impress Tony with it anymore."
"The only person who impresses Tony is Tony," she replies and Obadiah laughs. He stands up, slips the folio of music back into the piano bench and begins rebuttoning his cuffs.
"Are you leaving?"
He nods. "Time for me to be getting home."
"Where's home?"
"An hour or so up the PCH."
She takes his abandoned seat on the bench. "Do you have a piano there?"
"Having one here gives me an excuse to check up on Tony."
Kite tilts her head, leans back on her hands. "Do you really need an excuse?"
"It helps." He slips his jacket on. "I don't believe I caught your name earlier."
"Kite."
"Kite," he repeats, emphasis falling hard on the T. "Do you need a ride home?"
"I drove myself." She drags one hand over the keys, not applying enough pressure to strike a note. "An hour up the PCH, you said?"
She can feel Obadiah's stare like a weight; she keeps her eyes on the piano keys.
"I did," he says at last.
Kite looks up.
---
When she wakes up the next morning, she can't turn her head more than halfway to the right before all the muscles in her neck start screaming. Her wrists and hips and calves ache; a dozen bruises in the making throb in time to her heartbeat.
She doesn't think she made a noise, but Obadiah appears in the bedroom doorway as if called for. His smile is fond and indulgent, and maybe a little proud. He takes a seat on the bed beside her, just looking at her. She doesn't move, feels as though she can't for reasons that have nothing to do with any of her hurts.
"Here." His hand curls around the right side of her neck, kneading slowly at the knotted muscles. She groans, sinking a little lower into the mattress each moment.
He's already dressed for work--slacks creased with geometric precision, dark blue dress shirt with a pale peach pinstripe, cufflinks that probably cost more than her car. Somewhere (on the back of a chair in the kitchen, she thinks) there's a jacket to match those pants, with a pocket square to match his shirt.
Obadiah always matches--never to eye-watering excess, but all his pieces fit together, complementing each other and him in such a way that you think they should never belong to anybody else.
He lifts his hand from her neck. She watches from the corner of her eye as he sets the cufflinks down on the nightstand. She hears the rustle of fabric, knows the moment that the shirt and slacks are draped with care over the fainting couch beside the window.
"I thought you had work," she murmurs.
"It can wait," he replies against her shoulder blade.
---
When she gets out of the shower, he's cooked breakfast: omelets and bacon and some sort of weird green protein shake that she politely declines in favor of coffee. She insists on helping to clean up afterward, which he finds either amusing or charming.
She puts the last of the dishes away and he crowds her up against the island. She can feel the marble countertop digging into the small of her back. One of his hands wraps around both of her wrists and pins them over her head. She closes her eyes.
---
There is nothing inherently suspicious at first. It was hardly the first time Kite had just wandered off when she felt like it, particularly when the boys managed to distract each other. The fact that Obie left at the same time appears inconsequential.
Nor does Kite spend every waking hour of the summer at the boys' house; she hadn't before she met Obadiah and the fact that she doesn't after is nothing to remark on, either.
(She drives out to his house three nights a week. He cooks dinner and talks company politics; she suspects that he just needs an audience, but after the first week, she's offering her own opinions.
He is, for the most part, very careful not to leave marks that cannot be hidden by her clothes. But this is summer, after all, and accidents do happen.)
Sometimes Obadiah checks up on Tony--his visits are more frequent in the summer, Tony says, spawned by fear of what a Tony Stark undistracted by school might get up to--while Kite is there. Their interactions are as limited as they were that first day, but just as cordial. Nothing to see here.
They mess up exactly once. Everyone is standing in the kitchen, talking and laughing--not Sherlock, though; he laughs in all the right places, but Tony is keeping up his end of the conversation, if you look closely. Obadiah's hand lands on the back of Kite's neck, and she goes momentarily still, blindsided by sense-memory.
(His hand feels like it could wrap all the way around her neck, pressing her face down against the pillow. She lifts her hips and he drags his other broad hand along the dip of her spine--)
Kite shakes herself and Obadiah takes his hand away as if nothing is wrong, as if his fingers don't drag against her nape a little slower than necessary. Tony is still talking, oblivious, but Sherlock has the same closed-off expression from before.
---
After that, it almost becomes a game.
She doesn't want to be caught, not really, but she wants to know how far she can push the line before it happens.
(She wanders outside with Obadiah when he leaves--to see the Rolls, she says--and comes back ten minutes later with a bitten red mouth and a hitch in her step. She laughs at an inside joke she shouldn't know, one Obadiah explained over dinner two nights before. She goes swimming with a hand-shaped bruise covering most of her hip, the vivid purple-green clashing with the tropical flowers of her suit.
Even still, Tony doesn't ask and Sherlock doesn't tell.)