first time for everything

[formoftherapy]

Kite wakes up first.

(They didn't sleep properly--cat naps lasting a few hours, only to wake up and fumble toward each other with varying levels of intent.

They give each other kisses and bruises and scratches, their hands and mouths and bodies. It's an even exchange and nothing is lost.)

She slides out of bed, tugging one of the pillows down to fill the space where she had been. She puts on her jeans and Tony's shirt, then goes downstairs to the kitchen.

Comments

[formoftherapy]

She arches an eyebrow.

"Off to the wine cellar for round two?"

[if_inconvenient]

"Good morning, Miss Morian."

He walks out.

[formoftherapy]

Kite sets the cereal box down on the counter.

"So we're just going to pretend you're not pissed at me?" she shouts after him.

[if_inconvenient]

Just outside the door, he stops.

"If you would rather fight," he says levelly.

[formoftherapy]

"Beats the hell out of this pussyfooting bullshit," she mutters.

"What is your problem?"

[if_inconvenient]

Sherlock finishes his wine, turns around, and strides carefully across the room to set the empty glass down beside the empty bottle. At no point does he look at her.

"I do not see that it is any of your business."

[formoftherapy]

"You being pissed at me. Isn't my business."

[if_inconvenient]

What is he going to tell her?

You're taking him away from me.

Ridiculous. There have always been women for Tony.

He leans against the counter. His hands grip it a little too tightly.

[formoftherapy]

"I mean, have you just been faking it around me the whole time? What the hell did I--




Is this about me?

About you and me?"

(Your first guess is always wrong.)

[if_inconvenient]

He laughs, shakily.

"No."

[formoftherapy]

"Then what--"




There's only one other player in this game.




"Oh."

[if_inconvenient]

A bitter, bitter smile. "Quite."

[formoftherapy]

"No offense, Sherry, but that's a little fucked up."

[if_inconvenient]

"You have," he murmurs, "no idea."

Although frankly he doesn't know whether the full truth of the situation makes it more fucked up or less.

[formoftherapy]

Kite chews at her lower lip.

"He doesn't have a goddamn clue, does he."

[if_inconvenient]

"Had he known, he would never have brought you home."

His smile has nothing of humour in it.

[formoftherapy]

She slumps back against the wall, dragging a hand over her face.

"Son of a bitch."

[if_inconvenient]

Sherlock leans on the counter in silence. His hands have relaxed somewhat, at least; he no longer looks as though he is trying to strangle the granite.

[formoftherapy]

"You sure you don't have any more of that wine?" Her voice shakes a little and you could almost call it a laugh.

[if_inconvenient]

He shoots her a sidelong glance.

Despite himself, he smiles again.



A nod to a nearby cupboard. The bottle at the back of it is not nearly so excellent, but he suspects it will do.

[formoftherapy]

The bottle is promptly retrieved and opened.

Kite does not bother with a glass.


After a minute, she holds the bottle out to Sherlock.

[if_inconvenient]

Eyeing her wryly, he accepts it.

"I am," he says in conversational tones, "a very bad influence."

[formoftherapy]

Kite snorts.

"Please. I was a degenerate long before I met you."

[if_inconvenient]

Since she didn't use a glass, he doesn't either.

His lips quirk as he hands the bottle back.

[formoftherapy]

She takes another sip.



"So what the fuck do we do now?"