teach him your handwriting (ao3)
fluff; established relationship
Blitzø slumped into Stolas’ lounge chair and groaned about paperwork fucking up his life for the eighth time in the past two weeks. Stolas couldn't help but feel like he was missing something.
“Blitzø, darling, do you need help?”
“He finally fucking got it.” Blitzø rolled over and onto Stolas, burying his face into the covered puss that had no right being this soft to lie on. “Moxxie keeps bitching at me to hire someone or get my shit together.”
“I see. And you wish to—hire me?”
“What? No, I can't focus if you're there.” Blitzø groaned immediately and pinched Stolas’ thigh hard enough that it would have bruised if it were anyone but Stolas. “You didn't hear that. I didn't say that.”
“Of course.” Stolas managed to comply before the urge to scoop his lover up and kiss him senselessly overwhelmed him. “How may I help you then?”
“Tell me how you do all those boring admin work. You go through them like drug addicts with a bathtub full of coke.”
“How classy,” Stolas said dryly. “I'm just a faster reader, I suppose”
A beat of silence. Blitzø turned his face so it was no longer smothered between Stolas’ legs and started playing with the fine down feathers on his wrist.
“I can't read very well.”
“I know.”
“Most of the words don't make sense. Moxxie is less of a prissy princess than you but he still came from money. Got all the proper education and all that crap. Our imp circus didn't really — It's not like we're legally required to be educated.”
“Actually, it is a legal requirement for children in entertainment to have 180 days of schooling in a year—”
“No one in hell gave two fucks about legal requirements! We didn't even have safety nets, you think they'll hire a teacher?”
“Well, if you want, I could teach you.”
“You have better things to do than to teach me how to fucking look at words, Stolas.”
“There are rarely things better than spending time with you, Blitzø.”
“…this isn't some weird sexy teacher kink, is it?”
“You think I'm sexy?” Stolas hurriedly pushed down his urge to have every part of Blitzø kissed at least twice, more if Blitzø was in a good mood and let him.
“Fuck you. You know what you look like.”
“I don’t want to overstep.” Stolas pulled Blitzø upright so they faced each other, which was exactly the position Blitzø didn't want to have this conversation in. “I know I can be overwhelming when it comes to things I’m passionate about and it definitely doesn't help that this involves words and you…”
“Ugh, oh my god, don't — you know I don’t think—I just need your he—fuck, I can’t say it. I'm going to be sick.”
Stolas’ smile was all gooey. “Will you satisfy my desire to spend time with you under the pretense of helping you with readings?”
The vaguely nauseated twitches to Blitzø’ mouth smoothed out, along with the rest of his body.
“If that's what you want, you attention whore.” Blitzø half-said, half-purred as he curled up in Stolas’ lap, back spines flared up in pleasure as Stolas’ finger massaged between his horns.
“Thank you for indulging me,” Stolas said, in the most indulgent tone since the beginning of hell, probably.
Spending time with Blitzø in his study or in the kitchen or on the bed pouring over books was what Stolas imagined heaven to be like. They scribbled in the margin of books, Stolas annotating or explaining, while Blitzø took in things in the fascinating way he did. Stolas was enjoying it all way too much to realize his mistakes.
A pile of papers and sticky-notes were dropped onto his desk.
“Ah,” Stolas said, very regal and dignified and not panicking at all. “It seemed I forgot I had some prior engagement I forgot about, but I’m sure you can manage without me. You’ve improved so much, you know—and my library is your to use, so I think I’ll just—”
“Stolas, what the actual fuck.” Blitzø was standing on the desk and towering over Stolas, presumably to assert dominance, even though he did that very well already at ground level.
“To be fair, you told me you don’t read them.”
“Yeah, because I go cross-eyed at your fancy rich people cursive.”
Most of the papers are dented and crumbled because Stolas folded them into little owls or lizards and had them sneak into Blitzø’s office when he was gone. Blitzø always took pictures when he came back and sent them to Stolas, but never indicated that he read them, or even opened them, let alone—
“I didn’t know you kept these.” Stolas said weakly.
Blitzø’s face darkened. “Yeah, well. I have a drawer for them.”
“You do?”
“That’s—fucking hell, that’s not the point! You were just never going to—shit, goddamn it, God fucking damn it!”
Stolas realized Blitzø was genuinely and not simply comically upset, and that made him rather miserable. “I’m sorry,” said Stolas, in a small voice. “I didn’t mean for them to be so upsetting.”
“Well, they are!”
Stolas started to gather all of them and deliberated between the fireplace or some exorbitant spell, maybe he would throw himself into the mix as well. A few blissful moments of oblivion sounded perfect right about now.
But Blitzø snatched all of them back before Stolas could finish and hissed with every part of him, clutching them to his chest with a sort of animalistic protectiveness. Stolas was baffled.
“You’ve been writing me love letters for—for so long and I didn’t even know.” Blitzø bared his fangs. “I thought they were just smut! I made fun of them to people! To you! And you let me!”
“I’m sorry.” Stolas repeated, and stood up when he noticed a shine to Blitzø’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
Blitzø bumped his forehead to Stolas’ chest, sunk in, wetting the feathers there. “Why do you let me treat you badly?”
Stolas wrapped his arms around Blitzø tight enough to cut off air. Blitzø forced the words out anyway: “I’ve been trying so hard to make up for the way I was with you before. Now I just keep thinking about how you felt when I fucking…tell you I don’t read them, or that it’s just cluttering up my office, likes they’re garbage. Fuck, Stolas.”
“Please don’t cry, Blitzø. It doesn’t matter now. You’ve been so good to me, don’t you understand?”
“Were you upset? When I said those things?”
“Darling…”
“Were you?”
Resigned, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for apologizing.”
Blitzø needed that, to know he was forgiven. He finally wrapped his arms around Stolas. Legs, too. And tail. Sotlas happily sustained all his weight.
“Do you want to take a rain check on our lesson today?” Stolas asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Blitzø mumbled.
“What would you like to do? We can watch a movie, or I can have someone prepare the spa room—”
“I want you to read to me.”
“What?”
Blitzø stuffed all the letters right into Stolas’ face. “Read them to me.”
“W-well, that’s quite embarrassing…”
“And I’ll reply to them.” Blitzø removed his face from Stolas’ chest and glared up at him, made completely non-threatening with the snot dripping down his face and the way his tail caressed Stolas’ back. “Prepare some fucking coffee, sweetheart, because I don’t care if it takes all night. I’m replying to every single fucking one, and I’m going to do it when I’m balls deep inside you too. Make sure it really gets in there until you never forget.”
“O-oh.” The sensitive place between Stolas’ legs tightened and he could probably just hump Blitzø there like that and finish, but he was so desperate for Blitzø to fulfill his promise that through some sort of miracle he controlled himself long enough to get them back to his bedchamber. And all night it took, alright. Blitzø hadn’t got an ounce of regret when he showed up for work the next day completely sleep-deprived.
It was all good though, since a paper owl was waiting for Blitzø in his office.
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Honeysuckle Rose • Part 4
part one part two part three
masterlist
mood board by @hephaestn
taglist: @ginabaker1666 @sagesolsticewrites @hephaestn @manonsmanicmind @derry-rain @bobparkhurst @bloodynereid
Her head leaning on her hand, her elbow on the table, Olive feels Valencia glance across at her. She has seen her eyes softening as James talks, unaware that her mouth is slightly agape. A sharp kick under the table snaps Olive out of her trance, Val shaking her head and smiling, those gorgeous red lips parting and showing her perfect teeth as she makes eye contact. “Breathe, Ollie,” she teases, as the boys engage in a conversation about something or another.
“Sorry,” Olive mumbles, awkwardly sipping her drink. “I'm not usually like this.”
“Maybe it's the booze?”
“Oh, probably. Yep, that's it. Not the most handsome man I've ever seen taking interest in me. Not that at all.”
“The most handsome, huh? Jesus, don't let him hear you say that.”
“Why not?” Olive giggles.
“He'll never fit his head through that door ever again. Not to mention us never hearing the end of it.”
“You girls wanna take a couple laps in the Jeep? Watch the sunrise?” Dougie asks, looking pointedly at Olive.
“We're all far too drunk to drive, Doug, and I ain't walking all that way,” he pauses for a moment, feeling Val's eyes focus on him. “Only walking my girl home.” The classic furrow softens immediately.
“That's what I thought, Everett. Good answer.”
“What do you say, Olive? Wanna take a walk with me?”
“Sure,” she replies, nervously. She glances over at Val, who nods towards her as Ev helps her with her jacket.
“Olive, see you tomorrow. Can you get here in time?”
“Oh, I'm sure I can,” a panic rising in her chest, hoping that somehow she was able to get back. Whether any time had passed between the two worlds, she had no idea and was terribly nervous to find out. Alas, she had to get home and check on Pearl, relieving Joan of her duties. But a few more moments with Dougie seemed so incredibly tempting that she felt herself taking his open hand and rushing out the door with him into the cold, morning air.
“You don’t have a jacket?” He asks as he sees her shiver the second the warm club is behind them.
“Didn't plan on staying this long, actually.”
He laughs a little, pulling off his own jacket. “Here,” he says, wrapping it around her shoulders. He pulls the sleeve up as she puts her arm in, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“What are you doing?”
“Wanna hold your hand.”
His hand slips into hers and they begin to head towards the hardstand. Olive, pontificating how to make a quick exit without seeming rude, is distracted from her thoughts by an orange ember coming towards her face. Holding a lit cigarette in front of her, she knows he expects her to take it in between her own fingers. Instead, she drags on it from where he holds it, not once breaking eye contact and his mouth drops open.
“So, uh,” he clears his throat, moving the cigarette back to his own mouth as soon as she has blown smoke from her lips. “Where did you grow up?”
“Here,” she smiles. “I just moved back from London.”
“London? Wow, why?”
“Oh, errm,” she stutters, trying to formulate a story that has little substance but is not a lie. “I, uh…lots of things. I had a few things not work out. My grandma took a fall just over a year ago and she needs a carer. I decided to come home and take over.”
“That's real nice of you, Ol. I'm sure she's grateful.”
“I'm sure, too. She'll never say it, she's a grumpy old girl. But, I love her. She's my pal. Taught me how to be tough and I'm thankful for that.”
“Tough, huh?”
“Mhm,” she nods, realizing they are almost at the aircraft she fell from this afternoon. “What about you?”
“Lansing, Michigan. You probably haven't–”
“Never heard of it,” they overlap, Olive giggling and instantly going to cover her mouth with her free hand.
“Hey, no. You gotta stop that.”
“Why, Dougie?”
“Because you have a pretty smile. And you shouldn't hide it, especially when it's me making you do the smiling, huh?”
A moment of silence passes between them as they reach the wing of Just A-Snappin, coming to a stop. His hand on her cheek, hers on his back. “Tell me more about Michigan,” she murmurs, their noses almost touching.
“It's real pretty,” he replies, his hand going from her cheek to her hair to move a strand that's blown in her face. “Real pretty in the fall especially.” He sighs, his thumb gently stroking her mouth. “I'll take you one day.”
“I'd love that,” she replies, moving closer. Just as their lips are about to meet, a loud, shrill horn noise is heard over the tannoy, followed by a thick accent.
“James Douglass,” it commands. “Put that girl down and get to bed!”
“Dammit, Red,” he mumbles, turning away for a second and squinting up at the tower. “I swear he has eyes in his ass, that guy.”
“Is this goodnight?” she asks, handing the jacket back.
“It is. I'm sorry. I wanted to walk ya home but–”
“Look,” she says, kissing him gently on the cheek. “The sun is rising.”
For a moment, he holds her close to him before breaking away, kissing her softly on the cheek, too.
“Goodnight, Olive,” he says, beginning to walk backwards towards his destination.
“Goodnight, Dougie.”
The second his back is turned, Olive begins to run in a full sprint towards the Red Cross Hut to retrieve her clothes. To her relief, Helen is snoring softly in the soft light of the sunrise, Val nowhere to be found. Assuming she's still with Ev somewhere around, she delicately places the dress upon her bunk, pushing out any wrinkles and creases with her hands. Pulling her shirt, overalls and boots back on, stuffing the headscarf in her top pocket, she makes a hasty exit, extremely careful to not disturb Helen. She sighs softly and turns over, causing Olive to freeze as she tiptoes towards the door. Luckily, she remains asleep, the rapid movement not waking her once.
Returning to the plane and making sure there are no eyes on her, Olive runs around to the hatch she stumbled out of earlier. Seeing it left open, she hesitates, trying to reason with herself to stay. Thoughts of how devastated Pearl would be creep into her mind, cementing the decision. With a sigh, she climbs in, somehow finding long forgotten core strength. She reaches down and shuts the door with a slam, waiting a few moments. Closing her eyes, she waits, the blazing afternoon sun coming through the windows causing her body to overheat instantly.
Sadness crawling all over her, she kicks the hatch open again, her body suddenly heavy. Jumping out much more gracefully this time, she lands heavily in her boots, the scene around her seemingly unchanged. The group of girls she had originally been with were back in their usual spot, Olive now traipsing over to them casually, trying not to be seen. Heather greets her with a smile, her absence apparently unnoticed.
“Taking a look at the plane?” She asks before the final crowd of school kids of the day make their way around the circuit.
“Something like that,” she titters, grabbing a rake. “What time is it?”
Heather raises an eyebrow as she looks at her watch, trying to gauge the time as the warm sun reflects the watch face. “Errrm, it's two pm.”
“Oh!” Olive says, surprised. Seemingly no time had passed at all.
—
“Hiya, Pearly Girly,” she greets, walking into the house. Kicking her boots off by the door, Olive begins to walk into the kitchen, reaching into the beige fridge to quickly gulp milk straight from the glass bottle that was delivered this morning.
“Hey, you,” Pearl greets, hobbling in with her stick. “Get a glass, for goodness sake!”
“I only wanted a gulp,” Olive laughs, now seeing that she'd somehow chugged half the bottle.
“Some things never change, do they? You've been doing that since you were wee.”
“Old habits die hard, Grandma. Where's Joan? Am I late?”
“No, doll,” Pearl says, shaking her head. “She's out in the garden. Funeral director called.”
“Ah, shit,” Olive replies, peeking out of the window that's shrouded by a worn net curtain. She sees Joan pacing up and down the garden path, arms crossed and face growing more furrowed each second. “I'll make her a cuppa. You want one too?”
“If there's any bloody milk left,” she teases, leaving the kitchen. Olive titters and shakes her head as her back turns, clicking the kettle on.
—
Pearl and Olive sit opposite one another, sipping from their mugs despite the boiling hot weather outside.
“So, good first day? How did you like it?”
“Oh, I loved it,” Olive replies, a huge smile on her face. “I met some really nice people. Red Cross girls, took me under their wing and–” Olive pauses, realizing what she has said, seeing Pearl’s confused face. It settles in an instant, the ringing in Olive's ears subsiding as she sees her face return to normal.
“I used to love their jumpsuits. The headscarves they'd wear through the day while their hair was setting for a night at the club. I was always envious. There I was, sweating, beetroot red with a rake and overalls, while they were there looking all glamorous, handing out coffee and donuts to these handsome men. I would've traded places in an instant.”
Olive giggles. “I don't blame you, Pearly. I bet they were all beautiful.”
“They were,” she says, wistfully. “There was one man that caught my eye right before we moved. I never got his name, nor did we ever speak but you bet your bottom I was sat watching his every move whenever I could. He always had this dog with him–”
Olive, taking a sip of tea, inhales at the wrong moment and chokes as she hears Pearl’s words. “Jesus, Olive,” she laughs, trying her best to throw a napkin her way. “Wrong pipe?”
“Oh, yeah,” she replies, coughing a few more times. “Something like that.” It couldn't be the same dog, the same man. Surely not? Shaking her head through the shock, Olive trying to make sense of everything that's happened in the past few hours, Joan enters the room looking a little less stressed than the last times Olive has seen her.
“Hi, Olive,” she smiles.
“Joan,” she greets. “How are you?”
“Oh, better now I've got that sorted. Funeral home wanted to go through the order of service, and wanted to know how long my grandson's speech was going to be. You know our Kyle can talk.” Joan looks at Olive, her lips pursed slightly. “You remember Kyle, Olive?”
“Oh, er, yeah. I sure do.” How could she forget? Seeing him on the train while on her way home had brought up so much disdain that she'd felt nauseous for hours afterwards. Kyle, the first and only guy she'd let break her heart, and she'd let him do it because he somehow broke through all the toughness Pearl had taught her - and used it to his advantage.
“I do wish you two had worked out–”
“I wish he'd have been able to control himself and not sleep with my best friend.”
“Olive!” Pearl scolds. Standing up, Olive announces her leave.
“I need to shower. Nice to see you, as always, Joan. See you tomorrow.”
—
Olive sits on her bed, wrapped in a towel and tries to breathe slowly. Laying down on the bed, her wet hair soaking into the pillow case, she closes her eyes and begins to try and ‘center herself,’ an exercise she'd been taught in Movement Class at drama school. Feeling her lungs inflate and holding her breath for just a moment, Olive hears a small knock on her door.
“Ollie Pop?” Pearl calls, her voice etched with concern. “You alright?”
Breathing out slowly, Olive sits up. “Come in, Grandma.” As she does so, she puffs heavily and sits on the bed beside her.
“I like our Joan, but her grandson is a twat.”
“Granny!” Olive shrieks.
“What? You know if I curse, it's serious. He is. A stupid one at that.”
“Yeah,” she replies, sighing. “Besides,” she pauses, the panic attack pushed aside. “I'm a tough girl. Just like my Grandma.”
—
Laying in the softly lit room as the sun rises, Olive tries her best to read by the glowing lamplight emanating from her bedside table. The words scattering on the page, blurring into one another, she snaps it shut and sits up quickly as her alarm clock beeps, not wasting a single moment. Despite a night of minimal sleep, Olive gets ready in a flash, trying her best to remain as quiet as possible to not disturb Pearl who she can hear snoring from her room. Opening the door with a small creak, Olive smiles sweetly as her beloved Grandma sleeps peacefully, pictures of her husband on display on the table directly next to the bed. Closing the door quietly, Olive goes to the kitchen and boils the kettle for her morning green tea, waiting for Joan to come take over. Despite Olive figuring out that only a little time passes between worlds, she does not want to risk Pearl ever being left alone. Sipping at the hot liquid, she watches the sunrise through the garden window. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, her mind goes back to the previous sunrise she saw, under the wing of a plane with Dougie.
Finishing her tea, Olive quickly runs back to her room to collect her dog-eared copies of A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest, hoping to find time for some light reading throughout the day. Joan arrives soon after, instantly apologizing for yesterday as she walks through the door, eyes wide with anxiety.
“Joan,” Olive says, waving her apology away. “Not you that should be apologizing really. You're fine. It's fine and we're fine.”
“Phew, good. Our Pearl awake yet?” Olive shakes her head.
“Not yet. She seemed to fall asleep pretty quickly last night, too.”
“She's a lot more relaxed now you're here, Ol. She knows you're safe and I think that pleases her.”
“I'm glad to be here,” she pauses, smiling awkwardly. “Right, off to work!”
“Do you need something for lunch?”
“No, thanks,” she smiles, quickly adjusting her headscarf. “I'll grab a donut.”
—
Practically skipping to the airplane, she takes a quick look around to make sure nobody has eyes on her. Only a few early morning museum visitors are around, going into the building itself, trying to keep out of the cool morning air. Satisfied that nobody can see her, she clambers into the plane, body flopping into the aircraft like a hard loaf of bread.
“I gotta get better at this,” she murmurs to herself, wincing as her core tightens. Leaning down, she slams the door shut and waits. A dog barks in the distance, her eyes clamped shut in fervent hope. She opens her eyes and gently fiddles with the door, her head sticking out slightly. Waiting on the ground is Meatball, tail wagging the second he sees Olive.
“Hi, buddy,” Olive squeaks when she lands on the floor, a lot more graceful than yesterday's breathtaking bump. “Good morning!” Taking him by the leash, she retrieves her bag and begins to walk to the Clubmobile.
“Hey!” She hears as her back is turned. “Who said you could take my dog?” There's Benny, a playful smile on his face that Olive instantly reciprocates.
“He did, actually. Waiting right there to greet me.”
He laughs, leaning down to stroke the dog. “He just was excited to see his new best friend.”
“And so was I,” she replies, handing the leash to him. “I'd better run. Can't be late for my first day!”
—
“Aaah! You're here!” Val squeals, squeezing Olive into a quick embrace. “Come on,” she says, taking her by the hand and leading her to the hut. “Tat got a uniform for you, Lord knows where from but I gave her my measurements and what do you know, there was one spare, exactly your–our size.”
Hanging on the small locker next to a bunk, is a blue jumpsuit, emblazoned with the American Red Cross logo on one pocket.
“Here's your space,” Val says, gesturing towards the locker. “We have our own showers so we keep most of our stuff in there, toiletries, make up, what have you. We usually use this for trinkets, but decorate how you see fit, doll.”
Placing her satchel on the bed, Olive removes her clothes and slips into the jumpsuit, it fitting her like a glove. She stuffs The Tempest into one of the huge pockets while Val takes in her new look.
“Oh!” Val gasps, hands on her cheeks. “Don't you look adorable! Wait til Dougie sees you!” Rolling her eyes, Olive looks in the mirror one final time before heading to the door of the hut, Val close behind.
“Helen is already there,” she says, linking her arm with Olive's. “We'd better get there before she's rushed off her feet! Most of the boys are on the ground today, but they'll still be wanting coffee and donuts from us.”
“Makes sense,” Olive responds, waving to Tattie as she zooms past in her Jeep. She waves back, a smile on her face, the wind of the cool morning blowing through her perfectly styled hair.
“Tattie gets a Jeep?” Olive enquires, hoping there's no tone of malice within her question.
“Oh, yeah,” Val says, nodding. “She's the head honcho. She's General Spaatz's daughter, after all.”
“I dunno who that is, Val. Enlighten me.”
“In simple terms? Commander of the Eighth. That's all I know, to be honest. Don't make me go further than that, because I simply couldn't tell you.” She grins, flashing those beautiful teeth. “I'm so glad you came.”
“Me, too.”
—
“Olive! You're here!” Helen shouts through the hatch of the Clubmobile. Climbing down the stairs, she greets her new friend with a hug. Not used to this much affection all at once, Olive basks in it, feeling her face glow.
“Morning, Helen. Thanks for fixing up the bed.”
“You're so welcome, Ol. Nobody will be itching in our house! Not on my watch.”
“You'd think that should be the nurse's job, but here we are.” Val says, her tone scathing as she leans on the counter, flicking through a new copy of Screen Romances, Laraine Day and Robert Young upon the cover, cheeks pressed together.
“Oh, I love Screen Romances,” Olive pipes up as Val reads through, that famous furrow brought out in concentration. “The gossip columns are savage.”
“Oh, they so are,” Val responds, looking up, her eyes rolling slightly. “I live for it. I love the cattiness, the scathing remarks. Ugh, wonderful. I'll let you know if anything juicy comes up,” she says, nodding towards the hatch. “Someone's here to see you.”
“Donut from the prettiest girl in East Anglia, please.”
“Hey, Dougie,” she blushes, leaning out of the truck slightly.
“Look at you,” he says, biting his lip a little. “Blue really is your color.”
“Oh, stop,” she replies, cheeks glowing even redder. “You're just angling for an extra donut.”
“Maybe,” he says, leaning up to meet her in the hatch. “And a kiss.”
“Well, handsome, I can only give you one of those things right now,” she says, a donut in hand. “Meatball hair free, too. Must be your lucky day.”
“It sure is. Can I get a coffee too? Just cream.”
“Coming right up. No sugar?”
“Not when you're around. I'm sweet enough on you.”
“Are you trying to make me keel over?” She scolds, pouring the coffee into the cup. Brow furrowed, she hands him the cup, followed by a quick smile.
“Jeez, too much time with Valencia already. You've got that furrow perfected.”
“Maybe it was always within her, James,” she shouts, head still buried in the magazine. “Little help from me, and you being insufferable brings the best furrows out in people.” Olive shakes her head, giggling at the banter between the two.
“Will you be at the club later?” Dougie asks, sipping the coffee.
“I assume so,” Olive shrugs. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason,” he teases, winking as he walks away.
“She's right,” Olive shouts from the Clubmobile. “You are insufferable.”
—
Both Dougie and Benny turn the second Olive enters the club, linked arm in arm with Val and Helen who stand either side of her. She meets the eyes of either man in turn, feeling her cheeks glow with that familiar heat the second she makes eye contact with Dougie.
“I saw that,” Helen teases as they sit down, the same table as the previous evening. “You smiled when you saw Benny…”
“Helen–” Olive cuts her off, her cheeks now red with embarrassment instead of the previous limerence.
“But I saw that twinkle in your eye when Dougie looked at you.”
Val nods enthusiastically, lighting a cigarette before offering one to her companions. Her attention on them is taken away the moment Everett walks up to the table, her eyes glowing as he greets her with a kiss on the cheek.
Olive feels a presence behind her, before a glass - an Old Fashioned - is put at her place on the table. She turns to see Dougie, standing behind her chair with a whiskey in his hand.
“Thanks,” she says, demurely, hoping that the blushing is now at bay.
“You owe me a dance later,” he says, winking as he walks back to the bar before she can even muster an answer.
“Does he always do that?” she asks, turning to Val and Ev. “Ask a question then piss off to the other end of the room?” The couple and Helen burst out laughing at her tone, still not quite used to Olive's dry British humor. Not able to contain her own laughter due to theirs, she tries to pull herself together to reiterate the question. Ev is the first to compose himself, Val dabbing at his eyes with her handkerchief as he gasps for air a final time.
“Nah, not always,” he finally says, looking for his friend at the bar. “He's just nervous, I think.”
—
Feeling a wet nose at her bare ankle, Olive squeals and finds Meatball under the table.
“Aaah, hi buddy!” she says, placing her drink on the table and beginning to pet him. “Were you good today? We missed you!”
“Speak for yourself,” Val mumbles under her breath as she reapplies her lipstick , only loud enough for Olive to hear, causing her to shoot her a glance and giggle. Making sure Benny didn't hear, she smiles up at him.
“Hi, Benny. How was your day?”
“Better now for seeing you. Let me get this fella squared away. D'you wanna dance?”
“Love to,” she grins, placing her jacket on her chair. Val winks at her as she exits, clutching Benny's arm as he gives the dog to Buck and a few men around him before leading her to the dancefloor.
“I'm warning you, Benny,” she begins as they begin to sway together. “I'm not much of a dancer. I hope you enjoyed having toes.”
“I'm just as bad, don't worry. Just wanted a moment alone with you.”
“That's sweet,” she replies, smiling as she places a hand on his shoulder.
“So, how was your first day?”
“Oh, it was wonderful, thanks.” And she means it. It's the most fulfilled she's felt in years, these new people welcoming her and taking her under their wing. Everything that went wrong in London feels like a million light-years away; and being here, maybe it is. Benny narrows his eyes at her answer, trying to gauge any hint of sarcasm he may have missed. She shoves him playfully as they dance, giggling a little. “I'm being serious, Benny. It's exactly what I need.”
“If you say so,” he replies, smiling as he spins her away from him. With that spin, she crashes into none other than James Douglass, who automatically takes her in his arms.
“Dog needs taking out, Benny,” he teases, gripping Olive's hand. He quickly spins her to a new spot on the dancefloor and grins. “Told ya, you owed me a dance.”
“I didn't hear you asking, James,” she teases, feeling her cheeks flush as his hand lands on the small of her back. “It was more of a statement.”
“Right, right,” he says, breaking away. “Will you dance with me?”
“Yes, I will. But you'd better apologize to Demarco when he gets back.”
“Oh, I'm not sorry for anything, doll.” She tuts at him, letting him lead her nonetheless. Him touching her feels like lighting coursing through her veins, feeling her hair stand up on end. He moves closer as the band slows, their noses almost beginning to touch as they move in unison to the swelling music. Her inhale becoming his exhale, she moves and plants a soft kiss on his neck. She feels him gasp into her ear and it's enough to make her weak at the knees. Looking over his shoulder, she sees a light begin to flash red above the door.
“Hey,” she murmurs, gesturing towards the light with a movement of her head. “Does that mean something?” He turns and looks, his eyes suddenly downcast as he sighs.
“Ah, shit. Yeah.”
“I'll walk ya home,” Benny pipes up, suddenly behind them.
“Nah, I got it, Benny,” James replies, taking his grip off Olive.
“No,” Benny says, a little sternly. “I'll do it. Olive, you ready?”
“It's fine, I can–” she tries to say, but is once again cut off by incessant squabbling, the two men fighting like catty school children. Looking towards Val for help, Olive sees Everett talking to a man with big brown eyes, hair slicked back into a soft pomp, his body seemingly racked with anxiety. Everett and Val gently push him in Olive's direction, him ushering her away unnoticed.
“Thanks,” she sighs, staring into the pretty cow eyes of the man that rescued her.
“No problem. Harry Crosby,” he says, gesturing to himself, a hand on his chest as he introduces himself.
“Hey, Harry. Olive.” He stretches a hand out and she shakes it.
“I heard the commotion. I'm heading back to write to my wife. She would never let me live it down if I wasn't a gentleman to others. I'll walk ya home, Olive.”
“Oh, Harry. That's so kind. Thank you.”
As he holds the door open for her, she hears the arguing come to a sudden stop followed by a surprised “Crosby?!” and Val storming up to them. “Stupid boys,” is all she hears as she exits the club with Harry, her arm linked platonically with his.
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