2019-09-30 - Cabin Fever

Strewn tissue boxes.

Strewn blankets.

At least eight different shirts changed out of and dumped somewhere on the floor.

To say it had been a rough six days for the interior of Viktor's cabin would be an understatement, and that's before we're even including the current occupants. The stove went out at some point. Viktor had been pretty dutiful about fueling it up with fresh wood until the dreams hit double hard, and not even a house guest's quiet disgruntled pleas would convince him to roll out of the sofa. Or, as was the case last night, pick himself up from the floor.

This afternoon, however, Viktor finds himself well away from the couches, having traveled the minefield of discarded boxes, clothes, medicine packets, granola bar wrappers and empty mugs to find himself in the kitchen, a long sleeveless tank top he used as a nightshirt once in his life and then shoved in the bottom of a drawer being thrown on top of a pair of striped boxer shorts he last wore a few years ago and met a similar fate. They might have been all he had left. See again: Discarded clothes. Sweat is no sick person's friend.

Sat on the cool hardwood floor with his back up against a cupboard, Viktor's eyes lid heavily. His hair's a mess. His face is a mess. His clothes are a mess. And this is technically his 'recovery period.' There's a mug of cocoa in the microwave, and while he's at risk of passing back out right now, that 'DING' will totally snap him to his senses.

Right?

Steam billows out of the shower.

Love disappeared in there at some point just to warm back up after her fever finally broke, and she had two thoughts: food and shower. Shower won, owing to the dry sweat and sickness she sweated out last night. She washes her hair with his shampoo, and rubs down her body with his body wash. In short: when Love emerges from the bathroom, finally, she smells like Viktor, when Viktor is clean.

Her damp hair has been pulled up atop her head and secured there with a couple of hair ties she scraped out of the tiny duffle she brought of her stuff. She ran out of clothes before he did, and the reason he had to go scraping is because she spent the night wearing his last clean flannel. Face completely washed of makeup, she pads out wrapped in a towel. She pauses there for a beat taking in all the carnage. "This is disgusting."

And that's when she starts picking up the tissues between two fingers and dropping them into a trash bag she found lying around somewhere (probably under the bathroom sink).

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

Viktor draws out the word, his eyes not yet fluttering open. Very, very carefully, he raises a single finger in the rough direction of Love's voice. He's working on a touch of delay, and while the worst of it has passed, there's a dull throb in his bones that he's certain will set off another week's worth of torment if he dares move too fa-

Ding!

His eye snap open, and a hand reaches up above him to grab the edge of the counter, soon joined by another to pull himself up into something of a standing position. He drags a hand down his face, yawns a yawn that feels like it might dislocate his jaw, and then taps the door release on the microwave, only glancing in Love's direction once all of that's done. "What are you doing?" The tone definitely comes with the idea that were he feeling post-shower refreshed, Love would totally be getting pushed over to the couch to sit down and relax. "Guest, Love. GUEST. Grab your cocoa, sit down, and let me do that."

Because the idea that he's in any shape to pick up after them both is so asinine, Love doesn't stop picking up tissues. "There are enough to go around for everyone, sweet." If he had a little more energy about him, she might have listened.

"You can serve me in other ways." Her comment is quiet. One has to wonder if she has any idea the things she implies with these soft utterances. If she knows what kind of chain reaction that might kick off in a brain not currently occupied with the business of fighting off a nasty flu.

She makes her way closer to the couch, "I wouldn't mind if you started the laundry." She currently has a towel and one a clean bikini wadded up in the bottom of her bag, which doesn't count as clothes in a chilly autumn Washington climate. "Cocoa does sound good, though." She clears off the coffee table and tosses the empty cake box. It took several days, but she finished that cake.

"You're supposed to say that right before dropping the towel." Really? You think Viktor, even in the state he's in, would let that pass?

Viktor's lived a life of kicking himself after that one time his senior year he was invited in after a date, then told that she was 'Going to go take a shower.'

So he left.

Never again, 18-year-old-him. Never again. It's possible he signed up just to spite that idiot kid.

Snapping out of a moment of cringe-inducing nostalgia, Viktor shakes his head, arching his back as his arms stretch out, completely failing to hide his second yawn in as many minutes. "I-" he begins, scooping out the mug from the microwave and bringing it over to the now cleared coffee table, placing it down just as the cake box is being tossed. It might be taken as a standard sentence, but Love definitely finished that cake. Viktor had a total of one and a half bites. "-Will do just that. And then I'll take a shower of my own. Or just stick my head under the sink. Not sure yet."

As he starts scooping up clothes, there's the third yawn. "Shower treat you well?"

"I'm never going to drop my towel while you're yawning, babe."

She hides a little smirk while moving to sit, leaving the trash bag beside the couch for future use. She probably missed some wadded up tissues behind the couch, but she just spent twenty minutes in the shower. Though she's feeling better, energy must be conserved and wisely rationed.

"I'm always well treated when I'm wet and naked." She has the last traces of a smirk from earlier when she looks up at him. "I feel much better. You should go stand under the spray and let it warm you up. You look ready to drop. Maybe we could make it up to the bed." She reaches for the cocoa he put down for her, "Thank you." When she says that, she touches his wrist. If he looks at her she gives him eye contact with it too, pale eyes framed in long black lashes. Her gaze is less witchy without all the black eyeliner, but only just.

"It'd probably stop me yawning." Viktor at least manages to bump shoulders before Love sits, kneeling down for a moment to reach under the coffee table for a pair of sweatpants, the owner of which? Currently unkno-Oh wait no they're his.

He's actually examining them to make sure he's correct in the assumption when she mentions the idea of a shower, which sends his head turning towards the still slightly steamy door. Then back to her. Door. Her. He folds the sweatpants over his arm, begins to stand, and then immediately gets thanked for the cocoa. And of course he looks at her. Hell, he leans in to press his forehead against hers for a second, if she doesn't take the opening for a perfect head-butt counter, that is.

"You are welcome, and yes. Yes I will. Let me put these clothes in, and then if I'm not back out in twenty minutes, I've fallen asleep and you need to stop me from waterboarding myself accidentally, okay?"

Okay, there's one last short pause before he heads over to the washing machine. Well, it's a pause when he's half way to it, pile of clothes in hand. "You stash any underwear you want cleaned now, or do I get to find it later and be confused as hell for a couple of minutes?"

"Do you ever waterboard yourself on purpose?" That question comes after a moment of hesitation, while she's looking into those blue, blue eyes from eye-crossingly close. She waits until his back is turned to her to answer his question about the laundry. "I didn't bring any underwear."

She lifts the mug to her lips and takes a test sip of the hot, chocolatey drink. The sweet hit of sugar brings with it a soft sound that is on par with her cake appreciation. "I'll come check on you if you haven't re-emerged by the time I finish this." She's a notoriously slow sipper of hot drinks, and it might actually take her that long to drain the mug. "Yell if you need help."

Viktor ponders her question for a moment, brows furrowing in actual thought. The "...No." takes far, far too long to come, followed up by a swift grin and a tap of his elbow to her thigh.

He doesn't even pause when she mentions the other thing. Yeah, that thing. He quietly loads up the washer/dryer, tucked in beneath one of the kitchen counters for reason of space-saving, adds a gel tab to the load, then closes it up and twists the dial. Honestly? A real waste of water with that small amount of clothes, but damnit, they've been very ill.

It's only when he passes her the second time, arms crossing over as they pull the hem of his shirt up and over his head that he speaks, casting her only the briefest glance before slipping through the door. "Attagirl."

Something about that long, long pause has Love looking after him again, after one contemplative sip of the cocoa he so sweetly made for her. "Have you ever water boarded anyone else?" It's just as well she can't see his face when she asks him that, and he's slipping away into the bathroom, and can fully pretend he didn't even hear the question.

She wonders how long it'll take him to realize he's just turned on the washing when he's meant to be taking a shower.

Worst. Water pressure. Ever.

"Once! Also an accident." Comes the reply from the bathroom, without thought nor hesitation.

And that water pressure might well be terrible. It probably is. But the fact of it is? He doesn't come out. It might be a sucky shower, and it might be about as a refreshing as a six mile jog in a snowstorm, but there's no sound of complaint, no grumbling. Just the sound of water (softly) running.

Yes, at one point he settled for just holding a wash jug beneath the shower head, waiting for it to fill, and then dumping it over himself. But that's neither here nor there. Maybe he'll make it out before she finishes the drink! Maybe not.

Love tips back on the couch, nurses her mug of cocoa, and looks at the string of fairy lights casting a warm glow across exposed brick of the hearth. She lets her head fall back, shower warmed muscles slowly relaxing into the embrace of the couch. She glances up at the loft, but doesn't go to investigate, not without the cabin-owner's permission.

She finishes off her mug before Vik emerges, and she even gets up to rinse it out the mug, put it on a rack to draw, and tidies a little more before she makes her way back to the shower to fetch him. The steam's become less billowy, and the water must be cooling by now. "Hey, sweetheart, did you drown yourself?" She pushes open the door and steps in.

Alas, Love will have to wait some more. When the door pushes open, Viktor's head looks over his right shoulder. He's just finishing up tying a towel around his waist, thanks, again, to the fact that his clothes are evenly split before running through the wash, or in a chest of drawers two flights above them.

It's a quick turn he does to face her fully, plastering a slightly sleepy but far, far more 'in the here and now' smile on his face almost as a matter of course. Probably because of the scars. They crashed out in her motel room. They crashed out for days here. Not once did he pull off his shirt without having another one ready to replace it. The short-sleeved tank was a thing of last resort, and showed just a hint of the various smattering lines of scars that littered his back. He'd pulled it of when going in to the shower, sure, but give the guy a break. Half asleep, and a second from the door? Not enough time to really focus. But when she walked in? Oh. Plenty of time. If she could count quick, she might have hit 11.

"Nope! Had to resort to a jug." So casual, so easy. For once in his life, Viktor adjusts a towel as a distraction.

Love could have waited outside the door and simply knocked, but she didn't, of course. Her pale gaze wanders across the expanse of his back, and all those scars there. She may have caught a glimpse of them before, but she just got warmed-skin eyeful, fresh from a shower. He's turning before she has a chance to really study them. And he catches her looking. She says nothing about them.

Damn that towel adjustment has her gaze dropping. She presses her lips together on a little smile when she catches herself doing that. Her gaze flicks back up. Normal revenge for this kind of maneuver would be to drop her towel. She, however, has no clothes to put on if she does that. Instead, she turns to step out and give him a moment of privacy. "You wouldn't happen to have something I could borrow to wear?"

"I do, if you're feeling up to the stairs." Her intent is well placed... possibly, but Viktor ruins it by following her right on out, padding feet he's only just now aware are still slightly damp across the hardwood. If he noticed her looking, he says nothing. He assumed she was, but, for once, he pinned it down to them being the most interesting thing to look at, instead of something to hide away. Didn't stop him from spinning around, but a few years of muscle memory are hard to shake.

When he reaches the base of the small spiral structure that goes to the first floor, he offers out a hand to send her on her way up first. Pointed, pointed eye contact. Probably because of the towel. "Straight up, second flight's right in front of you, sorry none of my stuff will have the cute over-sized look on you."

Well, they might fit a little wide, but there'll be no hoodie-skirts here.

Love glances over her shoulder, then takes that invite for what it is, and makes her way over. "I think I can make one flight." She heads over for the steps, bare feet quiet as she goes. She does take his hands, smiling at that offer, and brushes close by him as she goes, her hip against his. Her hand is lightly clasped in his, and when she moves up, her nails drag across his palm with the slip of it from his grasp. He can drop his eyes, if he likes, when she's a few steps up above him.

"I don't mind a close fit."

"Well, fuck. Because it's two." Viktor's hand almost clasps hers for a second, giving a little goading with his head and the slightest of risky hip-checks. Because, well, towel.

The first floor is something of a mixed storage space and spare sleeping area. There's even a small desk, a couple of singular shelves with various books on local geology, zoology and fauna that extend out from the slanted walls, and a small spare bed. It's also where the bedding, linens and other such items go, a couple of cabinets up against the back wall holding those. Up the final short spiral of stairs is the room Viktor was aiming for. It's the loft. The roof meets up at a sharp angle above a mattress that's only slightly raised from the floor, and extends out to touch the walls on either side, as well as the back. Pillows line the thing, plenty for actually sleeping on, as well as others tucked in underneath the sheet to stop flailing limbs from cracking into the wood paneling of the ceiling-roof interior.

That's not to say it's a small space, though. It's a long house, so there's a small, comfortable looking circular chair, a round knee-height coffee table, and three chests of drawers that form something of a horseshoe towards the opposite end from the bed. Most of the light in here is natural, with two windows on either side of the room, but when the deep purple curtains are pulled closed, it's obvious that the frankly obscene amount of fairy lights that run along the walls, up to the very peak of the ceiling, and criss-cross the open space above the bed provide most of the night light.

Love is guided up and to those chests of drawers. Sweatpants, hoodies, button down shirts, a pair of jeans if she so chooses.

And no. Viktor never drops his eyes.

Love makes her way up ahead of Viktor, looking briefly around the room before tracing some of those fairy lights with her gaze. She says to him, while pawing through his clothing for something very soft, "This must be beautiful lit." She pulls out an old tee, tugging it on over the towel, which the then drops, tugging it off. She takes a pair of sweatpants and steps into them, holding onto the chest of drawers to steady herself, still a little iffy from recovery. Her body feels like it ran a marathon though all she did was lay around and make pitiful sounds last night. "Very literal, you."

She rolls the pants down over her hips after tying them, so they ride low and show a few inches of belly and back ink. She glances up at the lights again, a smile teasing the corner of her lips. "Did you tell me what brought you to Gray Harbor?"

Viktor doesn't move her out of the way of the chest she's leaning on, because, well, she's leaning on it. There is a slight nudge to the side, though. It's so he can open one of the lower drawers to pull out a folded navy blue hoodie, and a pair of sweatpants that could actually be PJs. They're very fluffy on the inside, either way. Definitely not something he wanted to wear while sweating out his soul.

The pants are hauled up first, letting the towel drop so he can tie the waist cord, reaching down once he's done to pull the hoodie from the top of the dresser and only getting caught up once as he pulls it over his head. That... was effort. He has to take a moment to wobble softly, then leans in to touch her upper arm with the back of his hand. It's just for a second, and comes with the excuse of "Go lay down and pull those other curtains. That was too much stairs, and I know you want to see the lights."

Which means he has time to answer her question while he's using pulling the curtains as a distraction from outright staring at the ink where she rolled those pants down. "I didn't. Want to trade? I'd say 'show you mine if you show me yours', but I think you'd run with it."

Love has no qualms about watching him change. She steps back to sit on the edge of the bed, shoving a couple of pillows out of the way. She thinks better of that at the last minute, crawling back to lay back on his bed, her bare feet hanging off the end of it. She turns over, reaching for the curtains to tug them close, getting up to crawl a little farther over the bed to close them the final foot or so, her back to him. "I know. I really do want to see them." The lights. She glances over her shoulder, then shifts around to flop over on the bed.

Her hair's still up and out of the way, and she wriggles in to get comfortable, leaving room for him to join her if he likes. "If you want to see mine, Vik, all you have to do is ask me sweetly."

She says this facing him, her hand draped over her hip.

Those curtains? A good purchase. Despite the time of day, they show only the faintest glow of light from the outside world when they're fully drawn. Which means that Love's question comes just as the room goes dark.

There's the sound of Viktor's bare feet padding across the floor, as well as a failed attempt to stifle down a laugh. "See? Knew you'd run with that. You're forgetting that I've seen yours. Well, as much as a bikini covered. Didn't even have to ask."

And right as that final word comes out, he finds the switch. There are hundreds off them. About thirty in total are the source of the room's most ambient glow, a mix of purple and green lights at the far end of the room, switching into blue and purple, then red to reach the edge of the bed before it's a soft yellow light that falls on the form of Love. That's not to say all of the little lights above the bed are yellow. Mixed in are little pinpoints of every damn color, but they're much more subdued. They're detail, not actual light sources, even if a few of them do cast a dull glow on the wall.

The other 70 or so are tiny little dots of white, blue and orange, mixed in here, there and everywhere. The room is basically a mix-matched combination of spiderweb and starfield. It's plenty enough to read by over by the coffee table, but you might be catching eye strain if you're reading too long in bed.

The switch itself? Close enough to reach from the foot of the bed, which means that as they come on, Vik crouches down to slide and crawl across it. The base that mattress sits on is probably only about a foot and a half from the floor, after all. He doesn't touch her when he settles in beside, resting on his back and turning his head to watch her face. Both his hands sit low on his belly, thumbs toying with the singular loop of material that makes up what passes for a pocket on his hoodie. "I needed to get away. My family... Well. It's a big family. I needed some time out on my own."

"Oh," Love's reply is quiet, "I meant if you want to see it again." She laughs softly, and there's the sound of her body moving around on the sheets, smacking a pillow until it's comfortable to lay down on without hurting her neck. "You can enjoy that memory as long as you like. How good is your memory?"

When the lights flip on, she squints, her pupils reacting. She tips back in her slightly-too-large clothes and turns onto her back to look up. The tee she borrowed rests high up on her ribs, exposing most of her belly tattoo, which he's seen before, the pearl draping and delicate filagree. It's clear from her face that this delights her, all those warm pinpoints, color or warm white. She doesn't respond for a long while smiling up at all those lights. She reaches over, one of those inked, nail-tipped hands sliding over his hoodie pocket low on his belly. "A big family sounds nice. I'm an only child. So, I mean... I guess I think the more of you there are, the more opportunities for tight bonds." The less likely it is that 50% of your family will disappoint you. Ahem.

"This is so cool." Simple strings of lights or not, it delights her.

Viktor's quiet for a moment, prodding her ever-so-gentle in the side with his elbow at the sound of her laugh. He's looking at her, sure, but it's the sound that gets the elbow.

He doesn't say anything more even when her hand slips across him, instead placing his own on top, sliding his fingertips into her palm and considering something for a second. Well, two seconds. It's the lights. It's almost like they make all of his decisions come about 5 seconds slower. That, or it's her. Maybe both.

"It had its moments. Dinners were more of a nightmare than you'd think, though. Christmas was like throwing a cooked turkey into a hyena pen." He's got a little nostalgia wistful face going on, and then finally comes to the conclusion he was trying to reach to begin with. He wiggles. Yup. Viktor wiggles. He slides his way up the bed with a wiggle, planting his feet in against the mattress so he ends up angled slightly in the mass of pillows. The pull of her hand to have her slip on to his chest, still on her back, still able to see the lights? It's a gentle one. There's no insistence. It's a suggestion made in action alone.

And if she takes it, the arm and shoulder that end up underneath her will settle, wrapped around, low on her belly. "Best part of being overseas? Light pollution was less of a deal. The stars were amazing. I think that's why I moved to this place."

"I love cooking for a bunch of people. I can only make a couple things, but I learned them from little old ladies around the world." Love turns her hand in his. "Everybody knows you have to learn to cool from old people if you want the really good recipes." And the best pot, but that's another story.

Throwing turkey into a hyena pen. She laughs again, "That sounds nice." She moves when he tugs her, taking the opportunity to smoothly lift her body up and against his, half against, half atop his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. He can smell his own shampoo and body wash in her hair, on her skin. She mms softly, when his hand presses into the bare skin of her belly. His hands are warm. "Yes. The more remote, the more frosted the arm of the Milky Way. It's so beautiful. I haven't seen it in a while. Been in the city too long."

Viktor's hand holding hers moves to join the other already resting low. Yes, it brings the hand he's currently wrapped around with him. "Are you saying I need to bring you out here more often so I stop living on scrambled eggs, omelettes, and bacon?" He asks, his head tilting aside to watch what he can of her face under the soft glow of the lights. "It was nice. Overwhelming sometimes. Never quite sure if it's why I signed up or not."

His tone's gentle, if slightly self-inquisitive, and the hand not holding hers begins to trail soft fingertips over her bare skin in slow, lazy circles. A leg slides sideways, not much, but enough that there's a little more thigh contact than before. "Get away from a noisy, raucous family by join a noisy, raucous family with more guns and slightly more discipl-... With more guns."

When she talks of the milky way, his head leans against hers. It's not an easy motion, considering the position, but with a little lean forward, she totally gets at least a graze of his face to the side and top of her head. "So... why'd you come here?"

"Cheese omelets are one of my favorite breakfast foods. Rye toast with butter, cheese omelet, maybe some bacon on the side sometimes. Slightly chewy, not burnt. Heaven." Love's started waxing on about food again, so that must mean she's feeling quite a bit better today. Before it was only cake. No food, just cake. Sugar calories, pretty much.

Her fingers slip over the back of his wrist while his other hand traces across her belly. She shivers when he hits a ticklish spot she'll never admit to. Her back arches a little, but she stills the movement before it rolls down through her hips. "Everybody wants to see the world sometime, right? Best to do it while you're young enough to live through the dumb decisions you make overseas."

"Family." Oddly enough. "My father. He's from here. He sent me some letters, and then he disappeared. Left me his house and some other things." Yet she lives in a motel. "I came to yell, really. I think I came to yell. Silas isn't here to yell at, so now I have to sort out his mess." Her mess, legally. "Kind of been dragging my feet on that."

Viktor responds to the description of food, the sound of ingredients with little more than a shift from left to right and a soft sound of agreement that sees his hands wrapping a little tighter. His forearms, fluffy and comfortable in that hoodie, press along the edge of her ribs.

Does he make mention of the movement she offers? Nope. Look, Love. Pretty lights. Ignore his hands sliding up and around more, bringing the shirt with them as they go. He ends up reversing how he started. Now there are forearms crossing over high on her belly, and hands resting softly against her ribs. "I went from Wyoming, to a sandbox, to mountains, to Wyoming, to this forest." He explains, pulling her back a little when he presses into the pillows some more. "Would have liked to see more. Might do, some day. I think I did alright, though.

And then he's back to quiet when she's talking about family. The slight pressure from the hold she's in increases for a second. It's a gentle little squeeze, and... well. She basically gets headbutted in that mass of hair she's pulled up. It's soft, doesn't come anywhere near the scalp, but it's a touch. The most padded of bonks. "Why?" A simple question, probably to the last part, but sounds pretty open.

Love arches against him when his hands slide up over her ribs, a low move of her back. She doesn't come very far off of his body, but her shoulders press in against his chest and when she resettles, she slides her hands up over her head, just past his face, to rest against the pillows he's leaning against. "If you'd like a few suggestions, I only know the beaches. So unless you know how to surf, you might find that a little bit boring." Some people aren't into the beach, improbable as that seems. "You feel good." Credit where credit is due. The strength of his arms around her is lovely, softened by the cotton hoodie, his hands are gorgeous. Every time he slips into that no man's land between belly and ribs, she moves against him.

"Tell me what you miss most about Wyoming."

At his question regarding her feet dragging, she says, "Our relationship was strained and I don't know if this is a game or if he'll come back angry I told his properties, or... I suppose I need to make a decision and do it. I restarted one of his construction project, so that's a fuckload of money in. The rest I should sell." Maybe. "Maybe." Fuck. "Fuck."

It can't be said that Viktor didn't notice movement summoning movement. When one of her hands moves past his face, he leans in to catch the slightest hint of a touch. Totally subtle. Yes. "I like swimming. I'm sure some beaches are beautiful, too." She asked how his memory was earlier. He didn't really answer. Right as he was thinking of views to appreciate on a beach, the visual of how Love looked in that bikini is clear as day. The subconscious is a strange old thing, sometimes. Bringing up memories like that from a tangent. Making his arms slip up in reply to being told he feels nice, still dragging that shirt and only stopping when his be-hoodie'd forearms rest up against the underside of her breasts. "Coming from you? Highest praise."

"Nothing. Actually, no. I lied. I miss the Lamar Valley in winter. I miss going out to the east and taking a dirt road, where you could sit down on a blanket with some lunch and see nothing but flat stretch of land to the horizon. You could see storms rolling in from hours away. I miss waiting until Yellowstone was in peak tourist season to hit all the other hiking trails. Dead empty, and more animals than you'd see any other time of year. They wanted to escape the crowds as much as I did."

She got at least three squeezes during that, and his head rolled to rest against one of her up-lifted, pillow-resting arms.

"Construction project and properties? He, uh... Sounds kind of important? Is he the kind of guy that plays games like this a lot? Dumping everything and leaving you to pick up the pieces?"

"Yes, they are. Some are beautiful, and some are good for swimming, but most of the good surf beaches aren't the best for that." Love smiles, though he can't see it. He can hear it. She looks up at the lights and sighs a soft sound when his arms slide higher, dragging his borrowed shirt with it, baring her vulnerable, inked belly to his hands.

Her eyes go unfocused when he begins to describe the Lamar Valley, the planes, and views. Her eyes slip closed, long black lashes curling against her cheeks. She's ever been there, but it starts to take shape in her mind's eye, and the storms rolling in is really what gets to her. She slides her hand under the back of his head, sliding down to curl against the back of his neck. "No, he's never done this before, but he was..." She swallows.

"We didn't speak for years. And when he started trying to contact me again, he just sounded crazy. Eyes in the dark, voices in the night crazy, you know? Like something evil was after him and he—" She sighs out a breath. "I should have come sooner and gotten him help. I held a grudge and I abandoned him when he needed me." Technically, he abandoned her first. That doesn't make it better.

There's a slight roll of tension through Viktor when she speaks of her father. It could have just been a reassuring squeeze. That's sure what it seems like, at least. Especially when his head breaks away from pressing in against those hands against his neck, blinking softly as he cranes forward a little. It's not easy to get his mouth close to her ear, but he just thereabouts manages to pull it off. There's some extra pressure against her back, and just for a moment those forearms press a little harder against her. The whisper's soft, and coupled with his hands splaying wide to hold her. "Grudges exist for a reason, sweetheart. Whatever he's in to? It wasn't for you to drop everything and come running. You came at all. You're here now."

It's a subtle motion, her hair possible concealing some of the touch, but Viktor's mouth turns away from her ear to press the softest of kisses against the side of her head. The only other sign anything happened there would be the change in his shoulders, and the fact he stopped talking.

"Less focusing on what you can't change now. Let's figure out what you can."

"Perspective." Love laughs softly, turning her head a little when he murmurs against her ear. She looks up at the lights again, her eyes opening. "You're right. He was an asshole most of my life, and a few months of crazy letters doesn't make that any less true. I could have left it all to rot." She'd never do that, though. "I was so mad when I left Vancouver to come down here. I dropped everything. Yes, I'm on sabbatical, but I'm supposed to be painting. The point is research and enrichment." She smirks. Instead she got a job at a bar in a strip club working part time nights to afford the rent on her motel room.

If she sold all the properties now, it'd probably be a nice tidy profit. She could return home in a couple of weeks, back to Canada and the rest of her life. Instead, she's here, curled up in the embrace of a former-soldier she barely knows, her languid body warming to his touch, thinking about his his hands sliding under the borrowed fabric. "I need to have security cameras installed in the exterior of the strip mall downtown and sell a couple of these rental properties, or hire a manager. I know dick about rentals. The cabins on Sycamore, when they're finished, will take a while to recoup the build costs, but they'll be cute and that'll help make this place more livable for those who can't afford the Bayside prices."

Always leave the place better. "Enough about that. Do you think your family will come and visit for the holidays?"

Viktor was probably about to comment on her self-realization about her family troubles and property woes. But Love, this woman who he found himself altogether too comfortable with just resting here and looking up at fairy lights he'd installed to make the place feel like somewhere new, this woman who had come to his house after knowing him so, so little. Trusted him while the both of them rolled through some absolutely heinous flu symptoms. She's moving the topic on. He'd ask about the painting. He'd ask about Vancouver. He'd express surprise at the mention of the strip mall.

But she's moving the topic on. And she feels nice, laying against him like this. She deserves honesty. She deserves the smile his mouth places against her ear, nervous as it is.

"God help this town if they do."