by Fehrkitten

Michael climbed up to Liz's balcony, tentatively poking his head over the edge, observing her bent over a book as usual. He hovered on the ladder until she looked up at him.

"Is everything okay, Michael?” She lowered her eyes back to her math homework. He knew she was surprised to see him, but was glad she didn’t ask why he was there.  

"Yeah," he said, then muttered under his breath, "Just peachy.”

“It isn't a good time to be at the trailer," he added after a moment, and she nodded. He watched her carefully avoiding his gaze and appreciated her respecting his space. He hated revealing anything personal and it was nice not to be pushed to talk.

Is there something you'd like to do tonight?
I got some bridges to burn
I'd like to fly away tonight
For whatever it's worth

"That's okay," he said, wandering over to the telescope. "I'm not much of a talker.” He sneaked a glance at her, curled up in a lawn chair with her books spread out around her, journal tucked by her side.  She chewed on the end of her pencil thoughtfully and wrote something, then looked at him.

"Would you quit hovering and sit?” The flash of small white teeth let him know she was just teasing, and he resisted the tug of an answering smile as he complied. He felt almost as though Liz's calm was palpable and hoped that some of it might soak into him. He wasn't sure why his feet had pointed him in the direction of her balcony but her quiet acceptance relieved him.

"Do you want a soda or anything?" she asked, and he started to refuse, always prickly over 'imagined charity' but she continued right over his reticence. "And I baked today, I could use an opinion,” she offered, and he found himself agreeing, moved by the appealing shyness in her smile.

"If it isn't too much trouble," he said, and she unfolded herself from the chair, popping back through the window and going downstairs. Michael watched her bare feet as she walked off and sniffed the lavender she left in her wake, nostrils flaring appreciatively. Liz always carried good smells with her, even when she was looking at him over plates of fried food at the Crashdown.  

Keep the salt out of my eyes
Can you keep the heat in the air?
Maybe I'm making the whole thing up
And there's nobody there

"Here, I didn't know what you wanted to drink so I brought you a cherry Coke.” As she approached the window from inside, he stepped up quickly and took the tray from her hands so she could climb back out onto the balcony.

She flashed him a surprised, grateful look and he said dryly, "I do have manners here and there, you know."

"I know you do, Michael," she said quietly. "So do I.” She produced a small bottle of Tabasco and was rewarded by a rare Michael Guerin smile.

"So I see," he said as she tucked herself back into her chair, snagging a piece of bread from the plate. He dropped into the chair next to her, perching on the edge and following suit, lifting a piece of bread and examining it, starting guiltily when Liz laughed, a merry, tinkling sound in the warm, dark night.

"It's cinnamon-streusel bread," she lectured him teasingly, poking his calf with her bare toes, apparently more at ease with him now that he had relaxed a little bit.

"I knew that," he returned gamely, still looking at it.            

"Then why are you staring at it?" she asked, and he half-shrugged.            

"Can't remember the last time I saw anything fresh baked," he commented, pretending not to see the sympathetic look that flashed across her delicate features.

"I'm sorry.” She placed a small hand comfortingly on his forearm, light olive skin an interesting contrast with his more peach-toned coloring. He looked at her hand, then at her, pleasurable tingles coursing through him from the unexpected but not altogether unwelcome contact. She removed her hand to turn a page and he missed the brief warmth of her fingers. He hoped she hadn't misinterpreted his glance at her hand as disapproval, but Liz had never really touched him before and her impulsiveness had just taken him by surprise.           

"That's okay," he said, stuffing the bread into his mouth. He cocked a brow at her as she watched him chew and swallow, and she looked relieved when he pronounced it good. She returned her attention to her math homework and he ate silently, watching her work, fancying that he could hear the wheels turning in her logical bear trap of a mind as she tackled the math.            

He let his gaze move from her delicate face to her bare legs and she shifted without looking up or ceasing to write, crossing them at the ankles, book balanced across her thighs. Michael looked at her little feet, slender with straight toes and powder blue polish, lying so close to his knees he could have reached her without even leaning forward.  

I called your machine just to hear your voice
I know you were listening when all I could hear was noise
And all of the dreams around my bed call your name
Like they want you dead
But I can't keep the rain from getting in
One more night

Maybe if he hadn't been uncharacteristically comfortable sharing silence with her, he never would have done what he did next:  he touched her foot, a whisper soft caress of his fingertip over the top arch, and changed her polish to dark blue. She looked at him, wide-eyed, and he blushed. Both were more startled by the touch than by the controlled display of his normally wayward powers.

"Dark colors look better on you," he admitted, watching her smother a grin before indicating her other foot.            

(to be continued . . .)