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Entry tags:
F: Senses
Fandom: FAKE
Pairing: Bikky/Carol
Warnings: Sap
Rating: PG
Summary: He realises how much he missed her. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nanthimus.
Carol breezes into his life for a visit about as unexpectedly as she generally turned up on the doorstep when she felt like surprising him. She gives him only enough warning so that he's half way through shifting the pile of dirty clothing somewhere out of sight when she knocks on the door. He drops a pair of dirty boxers, starts for the door, thinks better of it, wedges the dirty boxers under the sofa and kicks the rest of the pile behind it, and then goes to answer the door.
She's pretty as ever and she comes in with a wave of chatter and nice perfume. He thinks, somewhat embarrasedly, that he could spend about ten minutes just smelling her, perfume and shampoo and all that girly stuff, because she always smells nice.
"Are you even listening?" she asks, half way through some talk about something she and her friends did the week before. Bikky tries to steer her away from looking behind the sofa, but she deflects him breezily and starts talking about washing instead.
He is listening. More or less. Mostly, he's sensing. Hearing the sound and tone of her voice rather than her words, watching her movements rather than noticing the purpose, smelling the scent of her without trying to categorise it.
"Bikky?"
"Sorry," he mumbles, and then pulls her close, kissing her eagerly. That, more than the sight, scent or sound, reminds him of how very much he's missed her.
Pairing: Bikky/Carol
Warnings: Sap
Rating: PG
Summary: He realises how much he missed her. For
nanthimus.Carol breezes into his life for a visit about as unexpectedly as she generally turned up on the doorstep when she felt like surprising him. She gives him only enough warning so that he's half way through shifting the pile of dirty clothing somewhere out of sight when she knocks on the door. He drops a pair of dirty boxers, starts for the door, thinks better of it, wedges the dirty boxers under the sofa and kicks the rest of the pile behind it, and then goes to answer the door.
She's pretty as ever and she comes in with a wave of chatter and nice perfume. He thinks, somewhat embarrasedly, that he could spend about ten minutes just smelling her, perfume and shampoo and all that girly stuff, because she always smells nice.
"Are you even listening?" she asks, half way through some talk about something she and her friends did the week before. Bikky tries to steer her away from looking behind the sofa, but she deflects him breezily and starts talking about washing instead.
He is listening. More or less. Mostly, he's sensing. Hearing the sound and tone of her voice rather than her words, watching her movements rather than noticing the purpose, smelling the scent of her without trying to categorise it.
"Bikky?"
"Sorry," he mumbles, and then pulls her close, kissing her eagerly. That, more than the sight, scent or sound, reminds him of how very much he's missed her.
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