2007-03-31: To Chinese Slavers


Gwen_icon.gif Grant_icon.gif

Summary: Gwen turns up. Grant didn't change the locks.

Date It Happened: March 31, 2007

To Chinese Slavers

Uptown, NYC - Apt. 801 - Parkview Estates

It is getting on in the day, and Grant turns on a lamp before he sits back down, cross-legged, in front of his laptop. A cigarette smolders in the ashtray just beside it, and soon the space is filled with the sound of clacking. Basically a normal night, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt and reading glasses, expecting only to crawl into bed once his creative energy has gone. If it hasn't already, if the abuse of the backspace key is anything to go by. Maybe he should get drunk, /then/ write America's next great novel.

Perhaps being drunk would help Grant deal with what is sure to be his latest problem. There's the sound of locks clicking and then the door to his apartment opens. How, would one ask? Well, the answer comes in the form of one Gwen Louis, striding into the apartment as if she never left it with a large bag slung over her shoulder and a big suitcase on wheels right after her. Oh yes, she kept the keys from when she lived here. "Snookums?" she calls out since she doesn't see him immediately. "You here?"

Clackclackclack… clack… Grant's typing comes to a halt, not so much at the sound of someone opening his locked door, but at that sound of /that word/ with /that voice/. "Gwen?" he says, in disbelief, hand coming up to remove his glasses, fixing her with a characteristic stare. Taking in her, the luggage, back to her, as he moves to stand up. "Heck, do you try knocking?" Pants, he needs pants.

Pants? Who needs pants? Gwen looks just as stunning as ever in high heels and her hair curled just right. Dropping the bag off of her shoulder, she puts it right be her wheeled case. "Aw, but I thought I didn't need to knock, honeybee." She even has the nerve too look hurt at the suggestion. Then, she gives him a coy smile. "I like you better with your glasses on."

Drinking really would have been a good idea. Grant shuts his eyes just for a few moments, and when he opens them - yep, she's still here. Okay. He points at her with said glasses. "I think you like me just fine as long as I got something you want," he says. The suitcase and the bag get a suspicious - nay, wary look. "So… what do you want?"

Click. Clack. No, that's not Grant's computer, that's the sound of Gwen's heels on the fancy hardwood floor as she slowly sashays her way over to the professor. It's not even like it's a conscious move of her hips - it's just what the heels do to her walk. That hurt look is back on her face and she even pushes her lower lip out just a bit. It's a tiny pout. "I can't believe the things you think about me." They're true, of course, but that's beside the point. "I missed you, snookums."

"/I/ can believe the things I think about you," Grant puts in. "And if you missed me, /babydoll/, then why'd you take off?" It's posed as a dig, that question, but there seems to be some genuine confusion behind it. Even if he should know better. Such as, he should know to go and drag her things back out into the hallway, lack of pants or no, but he instead stays right he where he is.

If Gwen is flustered by these questions, she certainly doesn't show it. Instead, she waits until she's right in front of Grant and attempts to wrap her arms around his neck. The pout is still there and getting even more pronounced. "I was kidnapped. Horrible horrible unlawful people. They tried to sell me into slavery in China. Blondes go for a high rate there, ya know." Closer and closer her face comes until she attempts to rest it right on his shoulder. "I barely escaped with my life. I thought about when I could come home to you every day." Is it possible to take anything Gwen says seriously? But she says it with such a baby innocent voice.

Grant rolls his powder-blue eyes skywards as she talks, puts her arms around his neck, rests her head on his shoulder. He does nothing to stop it, though his hands rest resolutely on his own hips. "Gee," he says, when she's finished. "For an escaped slave, you're looking good. Write a book on it, it'll do great with Oprah. Gwen?" This time, his hands come up to cup her jaw and cheeks almost lovingly, angling her to look at him. "What do you want?" he repeats.

Unperturbed by Grant's willpower at resisting her charms, Gwen smiles and keeps her grip on him. "They let me keep my Prada. Really, I was grateful. I mean, some of that stuff's vintage!" When Grant brings her face up to look him right in the eye, her eyes twinkle, but the smile falls. "Grant, honey, I want to come back. I missed you." Plus, she lost the lease on her apartment, but she doesn't want to say that. Her voice lowers just a bit, she leans forward to whisper in his ear. "I'll make you your favorite dessert. Hmmm?" Her hands drift from his shoulders down to his waist. "We could eat in bed. Get a bottle of wine?"

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Grant would like to say that the offer doesn't appeal to him, but it harkens back to happy times. Happyish. He gives her a look, at least, but his hand slips back to comb through her hair. "There's a bottle of merlot in the fridge," he says. "But I'm not convinced." Maybe a little convinced.

Oh, Gwen is not convinced that Grant is not convinced. She can mostly tell when she's getting her way. Pressing herself gently against him, she brings her lips oh so close to Grant's own, but stops right before they can touch. "Get a corkscrew and I'll convince you." Then, a soft brushing of lips if he doesn't push away from it. "Promise."

At the feather-light sort of kiss, Grant doesn't move away. In fact, he seems almost ready to kiss her again. His thumb brushes along her jawline, before he steps back. "You're not moving back in," he says, finally, though he walks towards the kitchen, wooden floor beneath his bare feet changing to tile. "But you can stay." He's open to convincing, apparently.

Gwen gives Grant a soft smile when he almost kisses him and doesn't seem to be too put out by the fact that he steps back before it can come to realization. "That's all I'd want, bee." Slowly, she follows after him to the kitchen. "Now. Where are your glasses?" Of course, she knows since she lived here before. "And your cookie sheets?"

"Nothing's been moved around," Grant says, shortly, setting his reading glasses down on the counter, finding a corkscrew and then the merlot. We're back in business. He works on opening the bottle of wine. "Top cabinet for glasses, cookie sheets in the bottom of the pantry, someplace." When she's not looking his way, he can't help but sneak glances.

As Grant is working on the wine, Gwen grabs two glasses in each of her hands. If she notices him sneaking glances, she doesn't show it. If she /did/ it would only please her to no end. Once the wine is corked, she holds out the two glasses for him to pour them each a glass. The cookie sheets will come later.
One for you, one for me. The glasses are filled, the bottle is set back down, glass taken from Gwen's hand and clinked against the other. "To Chinese slavers," Grant says, raising said glass before knocking back a liberal sip of the red wine. It's not the cheap kind, but he's happy to drink it like it is.

Gwen clinks her glass against Grant's carefully. It would not do to have glasses broken. "And escaping them," she adds to the toast. Just like Grant, she takes a long drink of the merlot. Oh, she does love good wine. There's a short amount of silence on her end as she swirls her wine around. And then, because this is just as good a time as any, she sets her glass down with a clink onto the counter and reaches forward to grab the front of Grant's shirt and give it a generous tug. This kiss would be all passion and none of the gentle brushes of before.

He's not easy. Just lonely. As if sinking back into a familiar rhythm, Grant allows the tug, mouth easily meeting Gwen's in the kiss and clumsily, blindly putting down his glass of wine. As usual, he gives in for entirely the wrong reasons - but he knows it, so maybe that makes it okay. His arms wrap around her as he pushes her back against the counter. Hey, she makes a good argument, even if there aren't words involved.

And those are the kind of men that Gwen knows how to handle the best. Because she's so very good at being company. And though words may fail her, she's always been an action oriented girl. As soon as Grant starts to reciprocate, her back hits against the counter and she grins into the kisses. Even with her eyes closed, she knows where things are in the kitchen. Pushing back, she aims so that even while they're still kissing it'll be his back that will crash up against the fridge. There's a giggle that escapes during this.

"Mph," is Grant's only reaction to getting pushed back against the fridge. He breaks the kiss off to take a breath, head thunking back against said appliance. "Insane. You." This time, though, he smiles. Only a little, even if it's a sardonic smile. "Kind of missed it."

Gwen returns the sardonic smile with a smirk of her own. "Of course you did. Sanity is so boring." Now that she's got him right where she wants him, she's not about to let go. "And you're no mental health poster kid, either." That's why they work. Sort of. In a not at all sort of way. "Now kiss me again." And she's not about to take any arguments.

Thud! It is a gentle thud, but a thud all the same, as Grant switches their positions, pushing Gwen up against the fridge as he kisses her as asked, arms still firmly wrapped around her. When his mouth gets to her throat, he walks them both backwards. "Grab the wine," is his instruction. No promises for the future, but tonight is a given.

"Mm. That sounds like it could get messy," Gwen purrs. It doesn't sound like she minds. As they walk backwards, she does reach out for the neck of the bottle of wine. As she's preoccupied with kissing and keeping a hold on Grant, it takes a few tries before she gets a good grip on it. She's pretty confident that all she needs is one night and one of her dynamite double chocolate cakes to wiggle her back into this spacious apartment.

"Wine is important." That's all the explanation she gets. The French doors are easy, as the two semi-stumble through them and into the bedroom, if only for Grant's lack of grace. He lets her go, only to take the wine off her and set it down on the bedside table. "You owe me an explanation, though," he says, backed turned to her as he peels off his t-shirt. "A real one. Least you could do."

Matching his shirt for her own sweater, Gwen raises an eyebrow at Grant. "A real explanation? Chinese slavers weren't real enough?" That pout is back. She doesn't take off her heels yet, but she does keep her hands on the zipper of her skirt. But, she lets her hand drop and approaches Grant again. "A real explanation? I don't have one, snookie." Which is better than saying she was looking for something better.

Grant really doesn't have much further to go after the t-shirt is shed, so he turns back to her, after taking an oh so classy swig of wine straight from the bottle. He sets it down again as she approaches. "Then it's better this way," he says, mildly. Perhaps there /is/ a tone of hurt in his voice. But he is unassuming, pulling her closer.

Oh yes, quite classy, Grant. Not that Gwen really minds. Even when she's pulled closer, she takes a swig straight from the bottle herself. Then, after she sets it down, she wraps her arms around him again before pushing him backwards onto the bed. "If you say so. But there's still desert in it for you if you let me stay."

"Well who can say no to dessert," Grant says, once he has allowed her to push him back down against the bed. Like most things in his apartment, it is, in a word, luxurious. He holds out his hands for her. "You're staying." No length of time is promised, but then again, that was never a point of negotiation in the first place. Just like old times.

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