Seven Swans, Seven Swans [Mick & Jeff]
Posted: 26 Jun 2013, 15:38
[None of this will ever be in chronological order, so please mind the time stamps!]
June 24th, 2013
She could tell anyone the exact number of freckles across the expanse of Jeff's back, even though she hadn't counted them out in over a year (fourteen, not including the three dotted on his ribs under his arm, which he argued didn't count.) When Mick's bare feet padded across the wooden boards of the porch toward him, she took the seat next to his on the steps.
They could've been reflections of each other, except Mick's feet settled on the direct step below so her knees were drawn up while Jeff's stretched one beyond that. He sat forward, she sat back. With his elbows on his knees and his hands together between his legs in the classic Jeffrey Caulfield pose, Mick stared at the back of his head for a passing moment before looking down the stretch of driveway that was never occupied by vehicles. What was the point of them, anymore?
"You finally come back long enough to shower and say little to nothing before assuming the position out here," she said, stretching her arms across her knees so her wrists draped limp against her shins.
He looked up and glanced over, offered a tiny twitch of movement in his cheek acknowledgement before looking back down at the bottom step and grass beyond it. He finally countered with, "Why don't you ever ask where I've been, or what I've been doing?"
"Why should I?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"Because you always come back with no wounds," she answered, giving her husband her attention.
Mick stared at the darker tint of his hair with it still damp, just as hers was from their shower. To her, his loose basketball shorts looked out of place on him compared to a pair of slacks, but that was only because it was all he wore, lately. She, on the other hand, completely dressed herself before coming out.
"Because," Mick continued, "you have all of the resources to survive, and I make sure of that."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about," he said.
"How else am I supposed to answer?"
"Honestly."
"I am."
"Why don't you ever ask, McKenna?"
"Because I don't want to know."
Jeff looked over at her, finally turning his head completely so that he caught more than just a glance. "You don't think you have the right?"
She stared, first, at his naked shoulder before lifting her gaze to his face without answering. From the way he stopped asking, she didn't have to answer.
He was the first to look away and, upon seeing Hamlet in the driveway, his shoulders straightened with his spine to sit up. She watched his elbows drag up the top of his thighs and settle there, instead, but she didn't move until Hamlet drew closer.
Mick glanced up under the heavy darkness of her hair and stirred from her place. Moving down the steps, she shifted on the bottom in front of Jeff, making the stairs passable for her Maker who she watched in his entire stride. Her focus fell between Hamlet's face and the width of his shoulders, sometimes as low as his chest, and caught minute glances in his walk up to the cabin. It wasn't until he was close enough to touch that she actually held his steady gaze, showcased by the narrow features of his face. Hamlet's bones, like the cut of his muscles, were all sharp and defined, highlighted by the shadows of his dark facial hair and the cascading strands across his shoulders.
He was as quiet as they were aside from the weight of his boots carrying him up the steps along their sides. Mick was the first to break the stare by glancing at the shape of his ear and, as though to follow suit, Hamlet looked down at Jeff's lowered stature. Though he sat straight with his shoulders squared and his head
Me: turned to look back up, he couldn't match the height of Hamlet's knee, much less hold a candle to his stance.
"Jeff," Hamlet regarded, climbing the last step to the porch with no delay for the front door.
Mick lowered her eyes to the back of his knees, and finally at the heel of his boots before he disappeared.
Jeff watched from over his shoulder, vaguely turning his attention behind before looking up at his wife. After a moment, she met his glance and almost seemed to smile. Almost.
As soon as her foot slid across the wooden plank to climb back up behind Hamlet, Jeff shifted and cleared his throat.
"I don't like the way he looks at you," he said to catch her.
"Which way?" she asked, almost amused in the way her eyebrows lifted a little.
"Are you a woman or a piece of meat?"
Mick followed the set of Jeff's jaw to the lobe of his ear and skipped her gaze up to his eyes. They were locked on her with an intensity that she was quickly becoming used to.
"And you don't look at me like that?" she asked. It wasn't an accusation, and Jeff knew it. He knew she wasn't asking why he did, but rather why he didn't.
Mick followed through in that step up and moved her fingers to Jeff's hair, brushing down the tips the wind licked up in scattered pieces before following Hamlet inside. Jeff, however, relaxed the tensions in his muscles once she was gone.
June 24th, 2013
She could tell anyone the exact number of freckles across the expanse of Jeff's back, even though she hadn't counted them out in over a year (fourteen, not including the three dotted on his ribs under his arm, which he argued didn't count.) When Mick's bare feet padded across the wooden boards of the porch toward him, she took the seat next to his on the steps.
They could've been reflections of each other, except Mick's feet settled on the direct step below so her knees were drawn up while Jeff's stretched one beyond that. He sat forward, she sat back. With his elbows on his knees and his hands together between his legs in the classic Jeffrey Caulfield pose, Mick stared at the back of his head for a passing moment before looking down the stretch of driveway that was never occupied by vehicles. What was the point of them, anymore?
"You finally come back long enough to shower and say little to nothing before assuming the position out here," she said, stretching her arms across her knees so her wrists draped limp against her shins.
He looked up and glanced over, offered a tiny twitch of movement in his cheek acknowledgement before looking back down at the bottom step and grass beyond it. He finally countered with, "Why don't you ever ask where I've been, or what I've been doing?"
"Why should I?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"Because you always come back with no wounds," she answered, giving her husband her attention.
Mick stared at the darker tint of his hair with it still damp, just as hers was from their shower. To her, his loose basketball shorts looked out of place on him compared to a pair of slacks, but that was only because it was all he wore, lately. She, on the other hand, completely dressed herself before coming out.
"Because," Mick continued, "you have all of the resources to survive, and I make sure of that."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about," he said.
"How else am I supposed to answer?"
"Honestly."
"I am."
"Why don't you ever ask, McKenna?"
"Because I don't want to know."
Jeff looked over at her, finally turning his head completely so that he caught more than just a glance. "You don't think you have the right?"
She stared, first, at his naked shoulder before lifting her gaze to his face without answering. From the way he stopped asking, she didn't have to answer.
He was the first to look away and, upon seeing Hamlet in the driveway, his shoulders straightened with his spine to sit up. She watched his elbows drag up the top of his thighs and settle there, instead, but she didn't move until Hamlet drew closer.
Mick glanced up under the heavy darkness of her hair and stirred from her place. Moving down the steps, she shifted on the bottom in front of Jeff, making the stairs passable for her Maker who she watched in his entire stride. Her focus fell between Hamlet's face and the width of his shoulders, sometimes as low as his chest, and caught minute glances in his walk up to the cabin. It wasn't until he was close enough to touch that she actually held his steady gaze, showcased by the narrow features of his face. Hamlet's bones, like the cut of his muscles, were all sharp and defined, highlighted by the shadows of his dark facial hair and the cascading strands across his shoulders.
He was as quiet as they were aside from the weight of his boots carrying him up the steps along their sides. Mick was the first to break the stare by glancing at the shape of his ear and, as though to follow suit, Hamlet looked down at Jeff's lowered stature. Though he sat straight with his shoulders squared and his head
Me: turned to look back up, he couldn't match the height of Hamlet's knee, much less hold a candle to his stance.
"Jeff," Hamlet regarded, climbing the last step to the porch with no delay for the front door.
Mick lowered her eyes to the back of his knees, and finally at the heel of his boots before he disappeared.
Jeff watched from over his shoulder, vaguely turning his attention behind before looking up at his wife. After a moment, she met his glance and almost seemed to smile. Almost.
As soon as her foot slid across the wooden plank to climb back up behind Hamlet, Jeff shifted and cleared his throat.
"I don't like the way he looks at you," he said to catch her.
"Which way?" she asked, almost amused in the way her eyebrows lifted a little.
"Are you a woman or a piece of meat?"
Mick followed the set of Jeff's jaw to the lobe of his ear and skipped her gaze up to his eyes. They were locked on her with an intensity that she was quickly becoming used to.
"And you don't look at me like that?" she asked. It wasn't an accusation, and Jeff knew it. He knew she wasn't asking why he did, but rather why he didn't.
Mick followed through in that step up and moved her fingers to Jeff's hair, brushing down the tips the wind licked up in scattered pieces before following Hamlet inside. Jeff, however, relaxed the tensions in his muscles once she was gone.