 |
 |
| Angel of the Morning | |
|---|---|
| Participants | Alison, Scott |
| Synopsis | They wake up. Promises broken, new promises made. |
| Location | Scott's Loft, Clinton, New York City |
| Time | December, 2015 |
| Posted By | Scott |
Just call her Angel of the Morning… After a somewhat hazy evening of drinking and carousing, Alison perhaps didn't give this dingy place enough of a study to fully understand what she was getting herself into. Of course, these things look different by the harsh light of day, which seems to be streaming in thanks to those uncovered windows. It doesn't bother the young socialite at all, but still, eventually sleep wears away and the blonde dares to crack an eye open. She's wound up on her stomach, the sheets half-wrapped, half-twisted around her, her face pressed into what passes for a pillow around here. Probably a far cry from her high-thread count sheets and oh-so-fluffy pillows. She doesn't move right off, letting that one cracked lid take in the view as she tries to remember, well, what the fuck.
This time around, Scott isn't already up. Those damn scrambled eggs can wait — they'll probably even need some persuading, if they are to be made. No, Scott too is enjoying the warm fuzzy feeling that comes with one or two too many drinks. Not to mention post-drinks entertainment. It can be very exhausting, y'know. So Scott is clearly in no hurry to get up. Oh, he's partially awake, too — much like Alison, sifting through that grogginess to search for flashes of memory from the night before. But no eyes open, here. Accustomed to the unforgiving morning sun, the crappy bedspread, and the lumpy pillows, Scott doesn't give the setting a second thought. Nor is he embarrassed by it. She wanted to slum, didn't she? He's not so lucky with the sheets. Since she's all tangled-up in them, Scott's more than half-uncovered. He, too, is on his stomach though. Looking the very picture of disheveled. Disheveled, but in damn good shape, too. Not the worst thing a girl could wake up in the same bed with.
At least Alison isn't actually complaining. In fact, she doesn't do much of anything except take in the view of the place from here, from her rather limited perspective. But sleep is elusive and there's no getting back to it. Finally, she lets out a little groan of protest and attempts to roll over, having some difficulty on account of those sheets, which only get her legs all caught up. Finally, she pulls herself free enough to get over onto her side, and from there, props herself up on her elbow. And from this position, both room and man can be given a better look. One of which is significantly less disappointing than the other, so at least there's that. Her free hand comes up to rub wearily at her eyes before pushing back into her hair.
Scott finds it increasingly more and more difficult to ignore Alison. From the groan to the rolling, she's confirming every uncertainty Scott might've had about last night's events. Yeah, definitely not a dream. And as she drags those sheets with her, she's sure to shift the weight distribution on the bed — something that, again, Scott can't ignore. He grunts once. Like a caveman might, after a conquest. So very eloquent, yeah. He allows her to stew in that morning grogginess a minute longer, before turning with a heavy flop to shoot her a squinty-eyed look. But Scott's not ready to get out of bed, even now. He reaches out, fumbling for her wrist — just to drag her down in a heap, close. And promptly into a kiss that's sure to taste of stale beer, whiskey, and morning breath. Hah.
Both easy and easy-going, Alison doesn't fight the tug on her wrist, tumbling over in her waking daze. There's a little sound, both of protest and amusement, as she finds herself heaped in close and kissed. Mm, morning breath. That gets a nose wrinkle, though she returns the kiss for a moment before pulling away to put a hand over his mouth, her chin lightly atop the back of her hand. The little grin playing about her lips dares him to beat that. If he's caveman in the morning, she's more like some playful nymph, refusing to take any of this more seriously than its due. Which is not at all.
He ought to be satisfied with just the wake-up kiss, in all its brevity. After all, she did return the gesture. Which is more than Scott can say for certain past experiences with this technique of selfishness. But when she dials up the playfulness, Scott can't help but answer the call. It's bait, and Scott bites. He reaches back, boldly cupping Alison's butt. And, of course, there's a manly squeeze. Oh that'll make her surrender, obviously. He arches a dark brow, too, daring her to do just that — since words seem fruitless, with his mouth covered. Still, Scott does try for good measure: "Hnnmph."
"Hey!" Alison protests with a little laugh as he ass is once again grabbed. It's enough to get her to lift her chin, but not her hand. Of course, the hand is much easier to fend off without the weight of her head upon it, since it isn't like she's willing to expend any energy, just leaving it sitting there. "Guess you really are an ass-man, huh?" she muses, giving him a smirk. This time she doesn't really bother to move that hand back to safer territory at least. They aren't in public and, well, that ship has sailed.
She's certain to feel his mouth change, under her palm. Could it be a grin? Yeah, maybe. After all, they are in public. And if Alison will permit some attention to her ass, Scott can lower that guard somewhat, right? She merits that much, from spending the night — as long as she doesn't sell Scott out to the press. Scott Summers: Not Always a Broody Jerk. It'd be front-page everywhere. He boldly squeezes again, before releasing to wrap those fingers around her wrist. Tugging it away, so the grin can be revealed in all its crookedness. "Can you blame me?"
The extra squeeze gets another chuckle from her. She really shouldn't encouraged him there. Her hand is tugged away easily, the effort meeting no real resistance. The grin, well, maybe that's a nice change. It's enough to get another smile from her, this one a little softer, a little more sincere, though not entirely lacking in that same wry amusement. "I guess not," she allows. "It is a pretty fantastic ass." It's hard to tell whether the dry comment is sarcasm to cover up a lack of self-esteem or a surfeit of it. Perhaps even she doesn't know. But at least there's not a lot of self-consciousness about it.
"Right, don't get cocky," Scott reprimands, smooth and unhurried. It's a dose of her own wry teasing, naturally. And it's not meant to incite argument, really. He wouldn't care if she was the most self-obssessed, arrogant blonde in the city. Of course, she's not. So it's another non-issue. Better she be jokingly proud of that butt than all blushy and self-conscious, yeah. He takes the time to drink in the sight, with her still somewhat-draped close. Girls look so different in the morning. More genuine, more themself. Without all the primping. "The rest of you's not bad either. For a rich girl." Always making compliments less-good. Typical.
"Well, why not?" Alison replies simply, as she's reprimanded. She stifles a yawn into the crook of her arm, since that involves the least amount of movement, and then looks back at him with an amused smile. "Thanks. I think." But she's not put out. "You're not half-bad yourself, you know. For a greasemonkey." She gives him a thoughtful look for a moment (well, what passes for thoughtful around here, anyway), before giving her head a slight shake. "Really is a small world. Or you've just actually run out of girls and are going through them again." She begins to shift her weight as if starting to contemplate actually moving to get up. Maybe. It is comfy.
Scott's not objecting. He's too agreeable after a night of chance encounters. Not even the mild throbbing in his temples can put that normal grouchiness back in play. Helps when you have a chick like Alison sharing your bed, too. So if she does forsake the comfy, well, Scott wouldn't be disappointed. Not very, anyway. "'Cause. The cockier you get, the more I'll have to work to keep you in check," Scott reasons, improvising. And we obviously can't have that, Scott overexerting himself on her behalf. His grin takes a further diagonal, turning up at one end with the returned compliment. And the expression manages to linger through Alison's thoughtfulness, as she once again points out their dumb luck in running into each other again. "Same city, same bar. It's like we're meant to be," Scott returns. This time with more obvious sarcasm, so as to get the humor across.
"Yeah, well, maybe that's my master plan to keep you on your toes. Good luck keeping me in check," Alison laughs lightly at that. His sarcasm earns more of a scoff as she rolls her eyes. "Oh yeah. Clearly. Though the judges will have to dock you points for missing the chance to quote Casablanca," she informs him with a sympathetic grimace. Another shift before she finally drags herself upward, though she only gets as far as sitting up beside him. One thing at a time, since that has her head spinning just a little. "Does the state of things around here mean there are more or less cars to fix than normal?" Assuming he's still a greasemonkey, that's about as close as she'll get to asking him something personal like what brings him to New York.
He can dig a challenge. So the one presented by Alison, who is certain she's a handful that can't be kept in check, is one that fuels steady amusement on Scott's end. With her sitting up, Scott temporarily assumes the laziest of bedroom postures — flipping over onto his back, reaching up to sandwich both hands beneath the back of his head. Such regality, sprawled there. His eyes do follow Alison, though. "What, like: Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn?" Wrong movie, of course. But Scott doesn't care. He's only paused by her next remark, the one obviously meant to draw attention to the disaster that is this apartment. He arches a brow. "I like it this way. I'm actually a multi-millionaire, living in squalor by choice." A beat. "Is it the color? I was thinking of banana custard yellow. But then I just went with stale urine."
Alison pivots slightly so that she's facing him on an angle, and then draws her knees up, draping her arms over them. His lazy but regal posture gets another grin from her as she shakes her head slightly and indulgently. "Well, I was thinking more of the 'Of all of the gin joints, in all of the world…' one, but I suppose not giving a damn is pretty fitting too." In more ways than one, perhaps. She doesn't bother to point out that one of those ways is giving a damn which movie he's quoting. "Oh, is that what it is? I see you have the aroma to match as well. Do they carry the potpourri at Saks?"
Scott shrugs, something tricky to do when so imperiously positioned. It involves a small hunching of those shoulders, more subtle due to laziness than any discomfort. He's far from cinematic — not that the significance of the delivered line isn't clear. He's just so Rhett about it, not caring. But with her response, there's another faint expression of amusement ghosting its way back. She certainly is quick-witted, huhn? Just as well. Keeps Scott from getting too bored. "Look, you. If you wanna go all Martha Stewart with the interior design, go right ahead. Just don't touch the couch. And no flowers. I always forget to water 'em."
She's at least a little more clever when she's not in the process of getting herself sloshed. Alison looks back down at him with a smirk as he gives her the go-ahead to redecorate. "Oh, I see what you're up to. You're trying to take advantage of my killer fashion and style sense to redesign this place for nothing. But then you'd owe me." She shifts one leg to nudge him with her toe.
"Guilty," Scott acknowledges dryly, with an amused roll of those eyes to the water-stained ceiling above. "Why do you think I went through with it last night? Saw your designer jeans, and I just knew you'd know what to do with this place." He doesn't seem too sincere about pushing Alison into 'redecorate' mode. What guy would be, honestly? But then, she don't seem to care much, either. Though it would be hilarious, in a way. Brows arched again, Scott shoots her a look. There's another grin, this one almost challenging. "Would it be very dangerous, being in your debt?"
"Oh, is that why you went through with it?" Alison replies, rolling her eyes a bit at that idea. "What luck I walked into your gin joint then." No, she's not overly into caring, so the not giving a damn runs both ways. Just as well. Giving a damn is risky, and this is about the only way in which she plays it safe. She smirks at his challenge, her own eyes arching in return to his. "Do you even need to ask. I'm ruthless, you know. Better watch your step." She doesn't even bother really trying to sell it, but maybe that's just her evil plan to catch him off-guard.
Yeah, that's the only reason Scott and Alison ended up here, in Hell's Kitchen. Of course, that goes without saying. Why else would their paths collide again, if not in the name of interior design? Certainly couldn't have been booze, hormones, and that don't-give-a-fuck thing they bother suffer from. Unlikely. With an exaggerated grunt, Scott abandons the regal sprawl, pushing up onto both elbows. So propped, Scott casts Alison a lopsided grin. "Ruthless, yeah? See now I'm just turned-on. I can't imagine it'd be that bad," Scott teases in return.
"Then clearly you don't have much of an imagination," Alison play-threatens, widening her eyes for a moment before it gives way to a grin. Yeah, ruthless isn't really an angle she can play very well, but that's half the fun of it. "I'd have you begging for mercy before you even knew what hit you." She leans in slightly now that he's propped up, the better to give him a level look. "While my design would be pretty awesome, you sure it'd be worth all that?"
Scott takes advantage of the lean-in, acting out an impulse. He puts all his weight on the one elbow, freeing up the other arm to reach out — rough fingertips brushing through that cornsilk mane to push it away from her eyes. The gesture doesn't linger, it's instinctive and thankfully brief. And afterwards, Scott draws no attention to it. "I don't beg easily," Scott cautions in return, with amusement. Really, the whole thing doesn't strike Scott as half-terrible, even moreso because she's so nonthreatening, unconvincing. "Sure it would. I'm obviously just looking for a reason for you to visit again." Dry humor again, but..
Alison doesn't shy away from the gesture, and it gets a vaguely surprised look from her, but since he isn't inclined to dwell, she sees no need to draw attention to it. Just a small smile in amusement, perhaps even approval, before she's back trying to play the harbinger of pain or whatever. "That's okay, I like a challenge," she replies, canting her head to one side, pretending to size him up, figure the best way to make him beg. That's maybe the biggest stretch of all, considering how she's so bad at withholding. His final comment actually gives her slight pause - but only slight. "Suppose it could be arranged. Just to have you in my debt, of course." Of course.
Well, can't have this falling too quickly towards something not-so-carefree, can we? Scott seems to recognize the potential for disaster, down this road of hazy morning-after small talk. He needs to dash the tranquility. Sitting up further, Scott tosses what little remains of those wrinkled sheets aside — twisting to throw both bare feet to the ground. Which isn't a far distance, considering the bed is supported by cinderblocks. "Got work in thirty," Scott announces. Oh. What a gearshift, from playful banter to business. Like the business of kicking Alison to the curb. "Hate to raincheck the eggs, but you understand. Gotta shower." What, surprised greasemonkeys need to be clean when they go into work? But just when it seems like a completely chilly dismissal, Scott shoots a look back over his shoulder. One complete with a troublemaking grin. "Unless you wanna stay for the shower, then I could walk you out."
Alison isn't really a stranger to the early-moning getout, but the complete 180 is a bit of a surprise. One she tries to roll with, though there's that pause, that flicker of uncertainty, before she recovers. She runs a hand back through her messy mane as she pushes back a bit, onto her own side of the bed. "Sure. Work, yeah, that thing you poor people have to do." He might go jackass, but she'll still try to keep it on this side of jesting. As he comes back around a bit, there's perhaps a touch of relief to her grin, before she eyes that bath'room' warily. "Maybe I'll pass. Next time. I mean, you already owe me so much as it is," she returns in kind, arching an eyebrow at him before she unfurls and starts casting about for something resembling clothing.
"I do," Scott simply acknowledges. The shower invitation dashed, Scott doesn't look too disappointed. Well, beyond the expected flicker of 'oh dammit' that flashes across Scott's expression, before turning away. Guys do so love soapy boobs. But his pride isn't touched, so that's a good thing. He kicks off the mattress, grabbing a used towel from a puddle of untouched laundry to wrap around his middle. Somewhat decent, really. But Scott doesn't desert her right away. He rounds the bed, stopping on her side to bend over, reach out, and tilt her head back. For what? Lucky her, yet another morning-breath kiss. Yeah, take that, Alison Blaire. "Leave your number, hey." How else will they arrange eggs, interior decorating, or shameless one nighters? And with that, Scott does abandon the bedside, disappearing behind the rickety divider. Soon after, there's the sound of running water.
Alison manages to find an item or two of clothing strewn about. She may end up stealing one of his shirts, but at least the rest is her own clothing. She thinks. It's women's clothing, anyway. She straightens back up as he comes over, giving him a look of cool curiosity to see what he's up to this time. Oh hey, a kiss. Yeah, still doesn't taste so great, but for one reason or another, she suffers the indignity. If she were a little less self-destructive, she might be wise enough not to leave a number, to leave this whole thing behind in a haze of booze and bad choices. But as it is, she just gives him a knowing smirk, flipping her hair off to one side as she bends down to tug on a boot. "If you're lucky," is called after him. But of course, as he damn well knows, there'll be a scrap of paper with her cell number scribbled on it for him to find when he gets out of the shower.
