yosafbridge | OOM: Upstairs.

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OOM: Upstairs.

After a particularly rousing evening, Saffron wakes up to a dimly lit room and a body sleeping soundly in the bed next to her.

He doesn't look like he'll be waking up any time soon, so she dresses quickly and quietly, running a comb through her red curls, and then slips downstairs to bring a few things back up to the room with her.

There's a tray in her hands when she comes up, with a hot thermos full of good, strong caf and some assorted breakfast food - a plate of eggs, some toast, a bowl of assorted sliced fruit. Most of it she wouldn't touch herself, apart from the fruit (and Bar serves fruit that's all kinds of fantastic), but when she'd put in the request, it's what she'd been given, and she can at least nibble on a few things.

He's still asleep when she gets back, so she sets the tray down at the foot of the bed, kicking out of her jeans to leave herself in his shirt, and then crawls back under the covers to drape her body over his, leaning in to nibble on his earlobe.

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"There'd be something to say about it if they did."

Admittedly, she's not a fan of sharing, and if it's left up to her, he won't be disappearing any time soon.

"Is that right?" he asks, following her arm up to the curve of her neck.

"Tell me."

He's doing a thoroughly good job of causing her to forget her words; she'll give him that.

"Not so sure I can; you're making me all kinds of distracted," she says, soft and teasing.

He grins, by this point so close that he fancies he can smell traces of strawberry on her breath.

"Don't suppose there's anythin' I could do to help you focus?"

She bites her lower lip, hints of mischief in her grin, her eyes sparkling dangerously.

"Keep it up and one might be under the impression that you were insatiable."

(Not that she's complaining.)

He holds up a hand as if in protest.

"Only when it comes to the finer things in life."

"Such as?"

She leans forward to wrap her lips around one of his fingers.

"Apart from the obvious."

He drags his teeth across his lower lip, sucking in a deep breath.

"Good food," he begins, eyes fixed on her, "Good conversation, beautiful women -- none of which I can complain about lacking at the present moment."

She grins, then giggles, a soft vibration around his fingertips.

"Happy to satisfy."

"Oh, I'm more than satisfied," he assures her, running his tongue once along his lips.

"Can't imagine any man wouldn't be."

She's still grinning as she pulls away from him, reaching out towards the tray to stab and eat a forkful of what's left of the scrambled eggs before they get cold.

"You're right. These are good."

"Lady Bar ain't known for doin' things halfway," he says, shrugging one shoulder.

"Not when it comes to food."

"You don't seem to have that problem, either," she tells him.

Not based on his track record from last night.

"I try my best," he assures her, grinning over the rim of one of the mugs.

"And I'd repay the compliment."

There's a part of her that tries not to be skeptical; everyone has their angle, including her.

Maybe that's why it's difficult for her not to doubt.

"I don't know about you, but I've always done much better with the showing rather than the telling."

He quirks one eyebrow, setting the mug he'd been holding back down on the tray.

"Sometimes the telling's the fun part, sugar," he says, "Not to say that you don't put on a hell of a show."

"I don't doubt that you're a wordsmith."

She lays back on her side, propping her head up on one hand, one leg idly sliding against the other.

"A man's vocabulary can be his best friend," he responds, not completely keen about going into the origin of said vocab but proud of it nonetheless.

"Especially when one's in the business of buyin' and sellin'."

She's not going to press. She knows better.

"And you, baobei, appear to have a very talented tongue."

He nods briefly at the various objects about her room.

"Don't look or sound like you ain't been writin' yourself a pretty script or two, either."

"They weren't earned the honest way, if that's what you mean."

Most of them, anyway.

"Some of them only have a temporary place here."

"I ain't exactly the person to talk to about an honest living," he admits, half-amused.

"And as far as temporary goes, ain't nothing you can hold onto forever."

"Maybe not."

She eyes some of the art in one corner of the room.

"I'll just hold onto these until I can pass them off for a pretty penny."

His eyes flicker in the same direction.

"You got a market in mind?"

"It's broader, here," she tells him.

"Back home, I'm a little easier to recognize."

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