[ (Mr. and Mrs. Marling. Funny, the way things turn out. But ultimately, the commitment that Iain has made isn't necessarily about time or location. He doesn't do anything he hasn't premeditated and he doesn't do anything he doesn't want to, least of all allowing himself to fall into any emotional attachments. But he's fallen for her, and he's put down solid proof. Proof that can be traced, proof that can be held and touched and seen and spoken. And that's much more than Iain Marling has ever given anyone else in his whole life.) ]
MSG RECEIVED 3.46AM nope.
[ But then, momentarily, a video message comes through. It's grainy, due to the shitty quality of his phone camera, but still, his features are distinguishable. There's not much light — just enough to illuminate his face and the round of one shoulder. He's squinting into the meager light the camera provides, but still, he's smiling, halfway between alert and asleep, hair tousled. In the darkness, he presses the tips of his fingers to his lips in a kiss, then bowing his hand toward the camera before the video cuts out. ]
He's a sweet one, that Mr. Marling. Funny, because 'sweet' isn't a word anyone would ever think to associate with him, and for good reason. Iain isn't particularly cruel but he's not particularly kind either. In most things he is as he has been for many years now: direct, efficient, understated but always always to the point. The missus is the exception to that rule, of course (she's the exception to every rule, truth be old), and while Iain doesn't manage to be a different person when he's around her, he does manage to be that much more human. Vulnerable, in a way; open; raw. (She's the only person who's gotten close enough to slit his throat and, once upon a time in a bathroom 12 stories up in Tokyo, he even gave her the means. He put it, handle-first, into her open hand.
Marling had decided she loved him, right then and there. She hasn't looked back since.)
When her video reply comes across the line, it shows Marling not nearly as sleep bedraggled or worn. She looks like she's just begun to unwind from a long day, her hair still half up in a loose, unravelling chignon and her fake lashes still one, her lipsticked smudged clean. Fairly PG-13 for Marling's taste until the camera pans down to show the lace of her bra and the elaborate tattoos patterned across the tops of her breasts (and further below, the bare expanse of her stomach, her navel and the blur of her hips). She winks into the camera, the tip of her tongue appearing at the corner of her mouth. ]
[ He's sweet on her — sweet as hell. No one who knows him would ever believe it, of course, but he is. He smiles for her, talks for her, drives for her, and he's given her the chance to kill him to top it all off, gives it to her every single time they're together. (She's the exception to every rule. She hadn't always been, of course, but those days are long past and there's nothing that could happen that would erase what's gone between them since.)
The video brings a smile to his features, and he stares at the paused image for a long moment — at the twist to her lips and the brightness of her eyes, even on the tiny phone screen — before he types back a response. ]
MSG RECEIVED 3.54AM must really be getting old if you need to ask
MSG RECEIVED 3.56AM u wouldnt believe how old even if i told u, luv
[ Then, silence. One minute. Two minute. Ten.
When the video comes over it's still only just a clip, but considerably longer than the last. She's settled now, back leaned against what appears to be some kind of modern abstraction of a headboard, fashioned out of dark-stained wood and oddly industrial chrome accents. Marling gives the camera another little smile before she goes about the process of removing her bra, unhooking it in the back before losing one strap and then the other. Holding the cups to her breasts, she gives her chest a suggestive tilt towards the camera before finally peeling it back.
She gives the bit of cloth and lace a dangle from her fingertips before tossing it carelessly away, the camera falling away from her face as it drops down to inspect all that newly revealed skin and ink. ]
[ He shifts in bed as he watches the video, propping his head up against the wall, one arm held over his eyes as a sort of makeshift shade as the light from his cell phone screen flickers in the dark.
There's no question as to the fact that he's a lucky man. Though his eyes wander where the camera directs them, it's her smile that he focuses on, the image remaining in his head even as he watches the slow reveal of her breasts and torso. (He loves the expression on her, when it's sincere. Maudlin, probably. A weakness, most definitely. But he's past the point of being worried about that.) He plays the video through once more before typing out a response. ]
[ She smiles plenty, always has, the arcadist formerly known as Miss Moneypenny (now Mrs. M of a different kind). The first time they'd ever met she'd been all smiles too — and girlish gaul and brutish bite, burnished with champagne and silver gold, wrapped up in studded leather and technicolor trappings. Since then her mouth has been a venus fly trap, it's been a wolf's smile full of wolf's teeth and a brawler's bloody maw, but with Iain there's something else — something fleeting but which always returns in the end. Not a softness but a quietness, a ruefulness dipped in sweetness, all that saccharine giving her a kitten's claws (still capable of prickling, of breaking the skin and drawing blood, but in way that says pet me, hold me, never leave me; keep me and I'll love you forever).
A moment passes, then two. Then the phone rings. ]
[ The first time they'd ever met, he'd been nothing at all. A thin line for a mouth, a dead sort of sharpness to his gaze, nothing but economical action and efficiency. Now there's a glow to the way he looks at her, and he goes above the minimum both in action and in speech for her sake. It's a curious thing, how they've managed to meet in the middle, but not something he'd change for the world. (There's nothing — nothing — that he wouldn't do for her.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
✉
MSG RECEIVED 3.46AM
nope.
[ But then, momentarily, a video message comes through. It's grainy, due to the shitty quality of his phone camera, but still, his features are distinguishable. There's not much light — just enough to illuminate his face and the round of one shoulder. He's squinting into the meager light the camera provides, but still, he's smiling, halfway between alert and asleep, hair tousled. In the darkness, he presses the tips of his fingers to his lips in a kiss, then bowing his hand toward the camera before the video cuts out. ]
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He's a sweet one, that Mr. Marling. Funny, because 'sweet' isn't a word anyone would ever think to associate with him, and for good reason. Iain isn't particularly cruel but he's not particularly kind either. In most things he is as he has been for many years now: direct, efficient, understated but always always to the point. The missus is the exception to that rule, of course (she's the exception to every rule, truth be old), and while Iain doesn't manage to be a different person when he's around her, he does manage to be that much more human. Vulnerable, in a way; open; raw. (She's the only person who's gotten close enough to slit his throat and, once upon a time in a bathroom 12 stories up in Tokyo, he even gave her the means. He put it, handle-first, into her open hand.
Marling had decided she loved him, right then and there. She hasn't looked back since.)
When her video reply comes across the line, it shows Marling not nearly as sleep bedraggled or worn. She looks like she's just begun to unwind from a long day, her hair still half up in a loose, unravelling chignon and her fake lashes still one, her lipsticked smudged clean. Fairly PG-13 for Marling's taste until the camera pans down to show the lace of her bra and the elaborate tattoos patterned across the tops of her breasts (and further below, the bare expanse of her stomach, her navel and the blur of her hips). She winks into the camera, the tip of her tongue appearing at the corner of her mouth. ]
MSG RECEIVED 3.51AM
fancy a show, old man
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The video brings a smile to his features, and he stares at the paused image for a long moment — at the twist to her lips and the brightness of her eyes, even on the tiny phone screen — before he types back a response. ]
MSG RECEIVED 3.54AM
must really be getting old if you need to ask
✉
u wouldnt believe how old
even if i told u, luv
[ Then, silence. One minute. Two minute. Ten.
When the video comes over it's still only just a clip, but considerably longer than the last. She's settled now, back leaned against what appears to be some kind of modern abstraction of a headboard, fashioned out of dark-stained wood and oddly industrial chrome accents. Marling gives the camera another little smile before she goes about the process of removing her bra, unhooking it in the back before losing one strap and then the other. Holding the cups to her breasts, she gives her chest a suggestive tilt towards the camera before finally peeling it back.
She gives the bit of cloth and lace a dangle from her fingertips before tossing it carelessly away, the camera falling away from her face as it drops down to inspect all that newly revealed skin and ink. ]
MSG RECEIVED 4.07AM
see anything u like
✉
There's no question as to the fact that he's a lucky man. Though his eyes wander where the camera directs them, it's her smile that he focuses on, the image remaining in his head even as he watches the slow reveal of her breasts and torso. (He loves the expression on her, when it's sincere. Maudlin, probably. A weakness, most definitely. But he's past the point of being worried about that.) He plays the video through once more before typing out a response. ]
MSG RECEIVED 4.12AM
every bit
✆
A moment passes, then two. Then the phone rings. ]
✆
He picks up on the second ring. ]
Ta.