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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"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."

"Ah-ha."

He knows how that goes.

(It's hard not to when you've had your face plastered on television screens around the nation.)

Imagine that on an intergalactic scale.

Though things have quieted down, mostly, since the leaking of information on Miranda.

But not by much.

"Somehow I knew you'd relate."

There's a part of him that thinks he would enjoy the infamy, and another that knows he just doesn't need that kind of press.

"Birds of a feather."

Truth be told, she's never been a fan of too much attention. It makes it harder to stay under the radar.

"Something like that."

Her gaze turns to the near-empty tray, and she rises to set it aside before stretching out alongside him again in the bed.

"Tell me, though," he begins, walking his fingers along the curve of her waist.

"Where exactly is it that you hail from? Between the odds and ends you've got stowed away here and the fact that speakin' Mandarin seems to count as a daily thing, I must say that I am intrigued."

"It's quite a ways into your future, I imagine," she tells him. "By about five hundred years or so."

A pause, as she tracks the path of his fingers with her eyes.

"And I don't hail from one place in particular so much as lots of places. It's easier to do when you can travel between planets, the way we do."

"Interplanetary travel?" he asks, raising one eyebrow.

"And I thought stopping for directions on a cross-country jaunt was a hassle. What kinda crafts you get around in?"

"Depends. Could be something as high-class as a civ shuttle or as dismal as a Firefly," she murmurs.

She doesn't have a very good track record with those.

More rhetorically than anything else: "Whatever the situation calls for, huh?"

"I've learned to be accomodating over the years," she says, shifting against his touch.

She lifts a hand to brush a few stray hairs away from his forehead.

He is perfectly willing to let himself be fussed over, when it comes down to it.

"You don't give yourself enough credit."

"Don't mind you being the one to give it to me," she teases.

Her hand slides down from his hair and stills briefly along his jaw before finding a mark she'd made last night on his neck. There's one very nearly similar on almost the exact same spot on her. (Mine.)

He hums under her touch, stretching briefly out on the bed.

"Then it sounds like things'll work out just fine."

She's tempted to agree, but she's never been that optimistic.

Instead, her hand moves down from his neck and starts to trail lower - that, she can do.

"Heavens, aren't you lovely," he breathes, fingertips trailing across her skin as his muscles tense under her touch.

"I'd put good money on the fact that I'm the luckiest man on several planets if I'm to get the scale right."

She moves quickly, seizing the opportunity of her distraction as she pins him down to the bed, one hand reaching for his wrist to pull it up and up over his head.

Her fingertips trace the veins on the inside of his arm, blue under the skin (red outside) before her hold tightens a fraction of an inch and she keeps it there, like a makeshift handcuff.

"Some tried their luck before," she admits, leaning down to swipe her tongue over his upper lip.

"It didn't work out."

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