It’s after midnight when he escapes the debrief from hell (a collection of pasty, wrinkle-free-shirted assholes who have never spent ten minutes in the field, bitching about the op’s price tag and the fact that Jack totaled one of their shiny SUVs).
Renee’s asleep on the couch in pajama pants and one of his t-shirts, her hand still wrapped around the remote. Jack glances at the TV. A National Geographic special about anacondas. He tries to decide if she was actually watching this or fell asleep mid-click.
There’s an open magazine on her chest, lifting and falling as she breathes. He steps closer to decode the intricate cursive font on the cover. Great Britain and Ireland: Tours 2010. Moving the magazine to the coffee table, he sits on the edge of the sofa, rubbing Renee’s arm.
She opens her eyes and smiles. “Hey. How’d the debrief go?”
“Like I expected.” He shakes his head, grinning. “They were pissed about the car.”
“Screw them.” She sits up, shoving aside the blanket over her feet. “You got Callahan. What the hell do they want?”
“Forget it.” He stands up and reaches for her hands. “Come on. Get up and go to bed before you’re asleep again and I have to carry you.”
“Shut up,” she mutters through a yawn. “That was only because you bought my favorite Merlot.” She lets him pull her up and stops, kissing him just long enough to cascade heat down the back of his neck. “Did you eat?”
“No. I didn’t have time.”
“There’s leftover chili in the fridge.”
“Thanks. I’m not hungry. I’m tired.” He takes her shoulders and navigates her toward the hall. “Where’d the magazine come from?”
“What magazine?” She reaches out to flip the light switch and the living room goes dark behind them.
“The one about tours in Britain.”
“Oh! I picked it up at Barnes and Noble the other day.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I was getting coffee and it looked interesting. I’ve never been to London.” She yanks off her pajama pants and climbs into bed, shivering. “Get in here and warm me up. Did you turn the heat down again?”
“Maybe.” He tosses his jeans and t-shirt on the chair and lifts the covers, sliding across the bed to wrap his arm around her stomach.
“I’ll yell at you in the morning,” she mumbles, scooting closer.
She’s asleep before he can even get comfortable. Closing his eyes, he presses his face into her hair (soft and raspberry-scented) and sees the photograph of Big Ben, backlit by clouds and night sky.
As he drifts in the grey haze that precedes absolute dark, he wonders if she was really serious when she said she hates surprises.
Jack/Renee [London Calling]
Renee’s asleep on the couch in pajama pants and one of his t-shirts, her hand still wrapped around the remote. Jack glances at the TV. A National Geographic special about anacondas. He tries to decide if she was actually watching this or fell asleep mid-click.
There’s an open magazine on her chest, lifting and falling as she breathes. He steps closer to decode the intricate cursive font on the cover. Great Britain and Ireland: Tours 2010. Moving the magazine to the coffee table, he sits on the edge of the sofa, rubbing Renee’s arm.
She opens her eyes and smiles. “Hey. How’d the debrief go?”
“Like I expected.” He shakes his head, grinning. “They were pissed about the car.”
“Screw them.” She sits up, shoving aside the blanket over her feet. “You got Callahan. What the hell do they want?”
“Forget it.” He stands up and reaches for her hands. “Come on. Get up and go to bed before you’re asleep again and I have to carry you.”
“Shut up,” she mutters through a yawn. “That was only because you bought my favorite Merlot.” She lets him pull her up and stops, kissing him just long enough to cascade heat down the back of his neck. “Did you eat?”
“No. I didn’t have time.”
“There’s leftover chili in the fridge.”
“Thanks. I’m not hungry. I’m tired.” He takes her shoulders and navigates her toward the hall. “Where’d the magazine come from?”
“What magazine?” She reaches out to flip the light switch and the living room goes dark behind them.
“The one about tours in Britain.”
“Oh! I picked it up at Barnes and Noble the other day.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I was getting coffee and it looked interesting. I’ve never been to London.” She yanks off her pajama pants and climbs into bed, shivering. “Get in here and warm me up. Did you turn the heat down again?”
“Maybe.” He tosses his jeans and t-shirt on the chair and lifts the covers, sliding across the bed to wrap his arm around her stomach.
“I’ll yell at you in the morning,” she mumbles, scooting closer.
She’s asleep before he can even get comfortable. Closing his eyes, he presses his face into her hair (soft and raspberry-scented) and sees the photograph of Big Ben, backlit by clouds and night sky.
As he drifts in the grey haze that precedes absolute dark, he wonders if she was really serious when she said she hates surprises.