Rating/Classification: PG-13, Skye/Coleman, humor, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Nope...not mine!
Summary: Oh, come on...half the town is at a Halloween Ball...how can I not
wonder if my guy is there?
The Ranger grabbed her bustle and Skye jumped, nearly spilling punch down the bodice of her antique gown. "Hey! What the Hell...?"
"Damn, Woman...do you even *have* an ass in there somewhere?" The growl was low, husky, against her ear and enough to make the glass cup slip from her fingers entirely and crash to the floor... where it immediately
"Coleman!" She would know that voice anywhere...it haunted her. It never quite went away. Like a persistent cold sore.
She wormed away from the arm that was trying to snake around her waist since the hand attached to it couldn't cop a proper feel. When she turned
to him, she didn't know whether to marvel at the positive effects of leather or wonder who the Hell he was dressed as. He wore what looked like...gauntlets, some kind of jerkin, and chaps... and a lengthy green cape with intricate leaves keeping it hooked together. All in all, it suited his usual scruff better than his awful taste in paisley shirts. He looked... nearly edible.
"What are you dressed as???"
She went for the second option. It was safer.
"Ain't you ever seen 'Lord of the Rings'?" At her blank expression, he
shook his head, wearily, muttering something about "taste" and "rich girls". "Well, you should," he said, louder. "You might benefit from a little fantasy."
"I have plenty to benefit from right now," she assured, dryly, delicately
moving away from the incriminating shards of glass.
Of course, he followed her. "So, what are you? A tight-assed bitch?"
She made a rude gesture, glancing around to make sure that no one of
consequence had seen it. "No. Marie Antoinette."
"Let 'em eat cake, huh?" A smile quirked on the edges of his lips and this
time, he managed to slide an arm around her despite the three feet of skirt keeping him at a safe distance. "Thatta girl."
"Coleman..." She repressed a shiver as his praise feathered down the side of her neck... and before she knew it, he was whisking her out the doors
and into a dark alcove. His leather gloves were warm against her skin...the friction of his thumb against her lower lip made her mouth part before she could stop it. "What...what are you *doing*?"
"Eating cake," he chuckled, softly.
She managed a small whimper of protest before he kissed her. Enough to count, she could tell herself later. She put up a valiant effort...
And then she slid her hands beneath his cape and kissed him back.
October 31, 2003.