2007-10-13: Shades Of Bogart And Bacall


Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: Spending a night in for the sake of a miraculously recovered Felix, the feeb begins to slowly initiate Mariska into all things American, starting her off with a little bit of Bogart and Bacall (The Big Sleep). It's something somewhere between a date and an interrogation.

Date It Happened: October 13th, 2007

Shades of Bogart and Bacall

Queens, NYC - Felix's Apartment

It's a ….date, almost? Because rather than going for the hard and fast drunkenness of vodka, Fel's tracked down a good wine, one robust enough to stand up to the spices of the Indian food he ordered in; vegetarian, in line with Misha's preferences. And there are movies. The Big Sleep, and Casablanca. Because if she's gonna live here, she's going to have to put up with Fel's bizarre and retro take on pop culture, and Tarantino really isn't the way to start. So, at the moment, he's lounging on the couch, goblet of wine cradled loosely in one hand, tucked up next to her in a way that doesn't irritate his new scars.

There's a little bit of mirrored irony to be found as the camera pans in over the pair watching Bogart and Bacall smolder together on the television set. Mariska has long ago left her appetite behind, the remains of her meal set aside on the coffee table, though she still clutches a glass of wine and even sips from it in sync with the characters on screen like someone who is totally enthralled in a movie is apt to do — drink when they drink, smoke when they smoke, sigh when they sigh.

No smoking in the house, happily. Fel's trying to keep that as an occasional vice, rather than an actual habit. Which somewhat explains the expensive cigarettes. «He's pretty much one of the most famous actors in the history of American cinema,» he explains, in a murmur, looking almost feline in his contentment.

The hand the isn't occupied with minding her wine has found its way over to Felix's head where her fingers comb through the hair just above the back of his neck in an occasional and lazy fashion, not unlike how one might stroke a pet. «He's a bit strange-looking, eh?»

«I know, huh? Proof that charisma can make up for much. Because he isn't really that beautiful, but you can't take your eyes off him.» He sets his own wine glass and slips down to rest his head in her lap, comfortably. Yay, pettings.

After days of seeing him prostrate in a hospital bed, Misha looks down with some concern as Felix settles in. «Feeling alright?» she asks, brow fretted in worry. The hand on his head slides onto his shoulder and then forward onto his chest so as to afford him some room to turn his face up to her in reply.

Felix rolls sufficiently on to his back to look up at her. «I'm fine. A bit tired, a bit sore, but overall not bad. She's literally a miracle worker,» he says, stretching languidly.

«I know,» she says down at him softly. «I saw.» Boy, did she ever! Mariska hadn't quite reckoned the full extent of Felix's injuries until he'd been partially revealed to the doctor and, even then. Wow. Her fingers fuss with the hem of his chest and she pulls it up from his waist a few inches in order to get a glimpse of the miraculously healed skin that now exists in the wake of so many stitched seams. What scars there are exist few and far between. More for his macho collection. Fencing scar, gunshot wounds, and now… two or three pink reminders of why a certain Jeremiah Richards was kept on Level Five.

Felix looks down at it, a little bemused, then up at her. And then actually winks at her. Hey. Keep taking the clothes off.

The movie is momentarily forgotten while her fingers stroll over his skin and then… hey, you. She catches his teasing look and bashfully returns his shirt back down to his waist the way she found it. Her hand returns to his chest on the outside of his clothes and… oh, look. A movie. Ahem. Witness Mariska playing it safe with the broken boy fresh from the hospital.

He won't push it. Not at the moment. He turns on his side, carefully, and at least feigns interest in the movie. At least he isn't obnoxious enough to say the lines in unison, even though he knows it well enough to. «So,» he begins, yawning a little. «What's the best way to woo you? Since we're in this together anyhow.»

Cue a terrified scream followed by a pair of gunshots! Felix's curious question is partially obscured by the swell of the orchestra and Mariska stumbles momentarily over the parts she thought she heard. «What…? You want to— woo me?» Hey, lookit that. She actually heard the important bits. However, she looks puzzled and can't seem to suss out if his inquiry bodes well or ill for his future success.

His stare is entirely guileless. «Yeah. We've gone about this all backwards, I know. The kid, then the marriage, then the courtship. But you might as well have one. I mean, I wanna know what makes you happy,» he says, simply. «So, I thought I'd ask. You seem pretty straightforward.»

Mariska blinks. Twice. «Well, I…» Have no idea what to say to that. Seriously. It's like she's suddenly found herself thrust into a dark room with a naked lightbulb swinging overhead. She wants her phone call! «…I like flowers.» There. That's a start.

Nothing says romance like interrogation in a cinderblock room, right? Fel makes a small, thoughtful noise at that. «Any particular color or kind?» he persists. Like he should be taking notes.

Bogie and Bacall wrestle into a monochrome kiss just as Mariska lifts her head to look for advice from the television set. Thanks, you guys, but that's not helping. «Tulips,» she confesses abruptly, returning her gaze to the man in her lap. «Purple. Red. Any color, really.»

Felix smile up at her. It….it's not his usual. It's small, and tight-lipped, and somehow smug. «Okay,» he says, innocently, looking back to the movie screen. «They had an off-screen affair as well,» he explains.

Mariska seems relieved to have an excuse to avert her gaze back to the television again and she watches with wider eyes while Felix amends that little piece of trivia. «Did they,» she says, not quite making it a question. «For how long?» Is it time to play oracle through innuendo now? Is she attempting to divine the length of their relationship in accordance to the Bogart-Bacall Law of Romance?

«I'm not sure,» he admits, even as he idly reaches over to tug her own shirt out of the waistband of her pants. All the better to kiss her belly, apparently.

A… bu… tickles! Her stomach flutters beneath his lips and there she is, looking down at him again. "You're cute," she says in English, affecting a shade of Carmen instead of Vivian, as the latter would require meaner words than she's inclined to mimic.

"And your English is improving all the time," he says, cheerfully, eyeing her.

«I can speak English just fine,» she claims, tilting her head back as she polishes off the last of her wine and then stretches to put her glass on the end table without disturbing the man's head as it rests on her thigh. «I just… don't like to.»

Felix leans to kiss her arm, just because he can. «Why not?» he wonders, blinking up at her.

«Because I'm not an American,» she replies, voice peppered with a genuinely amused chuckle while the fingers of her kissed arm gently caress his gaunt cheek. Silly boy! What kind of question is that?

Felix kisses her hand, though it's affectionate, at the moment, rather than lascivious. «I don't blame you, really. Americans are a nation of jaw-flappers.»

«You really are.» You. You Americans. Her tone seems to suggest she's only partially teasing about that, but it's by far one of her gentler insults to date… if it was even intended to me taken left-handed in the first place. Felix may be Russian-born, but he's clearly more American than Soviet — at least, that's how he's jotted down in Mariska's book. You know, the little black one. She flutters her eyelashes and closes her eyes when her hand is kissed. Maybe she's just tired and this is an excuse to catch a moment's rest. Either that or she's basking in the gray glow of the TV.

He doesn't bother to deny it. He's got the card, after all. He kisses her hand, palm, knuckles, wrist, up the arm. Tish, that's French!

Oh, this is… going some place… oh… um, Bogie? Bacall? Anyone? HALP! Aw, fuck it. Why bother playing hard to get at this point? Clearly, Felix is feeling up to it, possibly in more ways than one, and that means Mariska's absolved of any guilt that might emerge in the wake of any sudden bouts of "OW!" that could crop up… sooner rather than later. She's bowing her head even as he's climbing her arm with kisses and when forehead greets forehead it becomes nose to nose and then mouth to mouth. Despite that fact that this might seem like an ideal time to put any further conversation to bed, Mariska persists in whispering a few more words against Felix's lips, «Talk… to me…» Choose your own context.

«What? About what?» he says, dreamily. It's all more gentle, rather than fervent - blame the wine, the movie, and the new scars. HE draws back sufficiently to blink at her, blue eyes vague.

Having Felix upright affords Mariska a bit more flexibility and it allows her the opportunity to cuddle in close, tangling without being doubled over in half. «Anything,» she says to his chin, nibbling. «How do I… woo you?» The tables! They have turned!

«I'm already won, dollface,» he says, amused. At least he shaved today - he's actually terribly meticulous about it, using an old fashioned straight razor. Which doesn't disguise the current goosebumps. «You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You put up with me. I….just realized earlier I don't know enough about you. What you want, what makes you tick. What you dream about.»

AW! Isn't that just so utterly loathsome in its sweetness? What's more… Mariska's might actually be totally buying it. «I'm not—,» she starts to protest but then desists, consigned to be 'beautiful' for the moment if only for the sake of some much needed romance. «You make me sound more complicated than I really am,» she says, so close to kissing him again.

«You're not as simple as I am. And ….we really haven't known each other long. And yes, you are beautiful. Unless you grew up in some sort of secret colony of incipient supermodels, or something. You turn heads - I see it happen when you walk down the street,> he insists. Man, figure out what that brand of wine is, and buy a case or two. This is much more leisurely than a vodka drunk.

Buy cases?? More like buy stock. This stuff is brilliant. It's the magical brew that's somehow managed to transform Felix into a genuinely likable brand of human being! «We have time,» she insists sweetly, nuzzling affectionately against his jaw… however, lingering beneath those words is the shadow of a lie… as if, maybe, she doesn't really seem to think time is on their side.

Fava beans and a nice Chianti. It works wonders. He kisses her cheek, her ear, with great deliberation, twining his fingers in her hair. «All the time in the world,» he murmurs in return.

(Bonus track: It's No Good - Depeche Mode)

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