steelartisan | Not a member of defy_ka with this journal. Oops. So the random AU thread goes here instead!

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Not a member of defy_ka with this journal. Oops. So the random AU thread goes here instead!

Piotr is ensconced on a rock outside Milliways, with a large sketchpad in his lap and a pencil case sitting on his empty bag.

He's working with charcoal at the moment, and from memory. The image slowly taking shape is that of a woman, with long pale hair in a braid and a lopsided half-sad smile.

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Piotr Rasputin is a gentleman. If he were any more of one, Maya would kill him.

The time for patience and the slow, cautious dance is passing, she thinks, watching the sunlight play across his face; feeling that solid, warm point of contact between them. Maybe it's time to go for broke; to take a risk.

She takes a deep breath and says, "Piotr--" but the problem is, she hasn't thought beyond that. Her sense of conviction isn't much help.

He glances over, eyebrows lifting a little in inquiry -- but she's broken off, and "Da?" he says, and thinks that perhaps it comes out a little too fast, overlaps that stuttering pause of hers, and he has half an idea of what she's going to say.

'Oh my God--' says Maya's disgusted courage, in what she always imagines as Alex Goncharova's voice. 'Would one of you just do it already?!'

Take a risk.

She doesn't allow herself time to think about it.

She reaches for him -- her palm on the back of his neck and her fingers slipping into the short hair at his temple, just behind his ear -- and she swiftly leans in and up and kisses him.

(Her heart is pounding.)

--Okay, he was maybe expecting something a bit more gradual.

But after the first startled instant (barely an instant, and he's already leaning down to meet her as she darts in) one hand rises to cup her cheek lightly, and -- this is Piotr, really not complaining.

He's kissing her back.

Maya didn't expect much different, but it's still a crushing relief; still a thrill. She eases off a little; the pressure of her lips turns less fierce, less desperate. She doesn't need to fight for him.

She brushes kisses along the line of his mouth, to the corner, and she lingers there before she leans back, just enough that she can see his eyes; not enough that she has to move her hand.

For a minute, she doesn't know what to say; for a minute, she really isn't thinking about it, because she's a little preoccupied with how hot her cheek is under his palm, and with smiling. Her face is shining.

"I got impatient," she says, and she almost laughs.

Piotr does laugh, just a breath and almost silent. "Khoroshiy," he says, Good, and brushes his thumb softly over her cheekbone.

And then, "I was not -- I didn't want to push." He's searching for the right words, but there's still a soft, surprised smile on his face, in his eyes. "But I would have too."

"I am glad," and his gaze flicks down to her mouth and back up to those bright (white) eyes, and he's the one who leans in this time.

Maya's smile turns softer -- more warm, less blinding, and no less pleased (if anything, even more so) -- with the caress, the confirmation, the surprise in his face.

(The flick of her eyes mirrors his, in the instant before his mouth finds hers.)

Using the element of surprise gives the attacker a tactical advantage, she thinks giddily, and Piotr will find himself kissing a smile, its wearer laughing just a little bit, just two breaths, before her fingers curl at the back of his neck and she stops thinking of the officers' handbook and starts thinking of Piotr instead.

Her other hand rests on Piotr's knee. His mouth is soft. The sun is warm on her upturned face. Maya thinks, for the first time in years, I could get used to this.

When he pulls away it is, as before, only a few inches; only enough to see that small warm smile instead of kissing it, and to meet her eyes again with warmth of his own.

He should say something, he thinks vaguely, but no words spring to mind. So he only leaves his hand resting against her skin, and tips his head slightly into her touch, and distantly hopes he isn't smiling too much like an idiot.

(He's not. But he is smiling, and that pleased contented look isn't likely to go away any time soon.)

There's a certain quiet care in her face, in the way that she squeezes his knee. "I haven't dated in ten years," she says, "and Piotr, I don't know how an interdimensional -- how does this even work--"

But Maya is borderline-laughing as she talks, swift and a touch giddy, words tumbling over each other. Her fingers are still at the nape of his neck; her smile is still aimed directly up at him, and it has grown dazzling again.

(She says 'haven't dated in ten years' and she thinks of Marcus; she can't not. It's been eleven years, and she didn't see anyone romantically before or after Marcus Antares; not til this very second. Once, the thought of Marcus just now would have stopped her cold.

Now, she remembers, Pray for the living, Maya -- imagines she feels a slight, warm breeze brush the back of her neck seconds after rustling through the trees -- and she smiles at Piotr.)

"We will figure it out."

It's not that easy, of course -- but it's not that hard, either; it's no harder than having any relationship as an X-Man, he suspects, and there's time for the details anyway. It's far, far too early to be thinking of hard choices. This is common ground at the end of the universe, and sunlight on their faces, and Maya's smile and the memory of her mouth against his just moments ago.

He covers her hand on his knee with his own, and laces his fingers loosely through hers after a moment. Maya's hand is slim, smaller than his (of course), but they fit together comfortably all the same.

"We are here. It is a good start."

"Okay," she says softly, and she curls her fingers around his, knowing -- without having to look -- that her hand is dwarfed by his. "Khoroshiy."

It will take effort to untangle their hands. She likes that. His hand is solid, warm; work-roughened but gentle, a steady weight over hers. She likes that, too.

Her left hand moves, sliding carefully to cup his jaw. She leans up and presses her lips to his again, slower this time; taking her time. It isn't for any particular reason, other than: she can, and she's happy, and she wants to.

They're a little intoxicating, those three reasons. Maya doesn't mind.

They're good reasons.

Twenty minutes ago, he was focused on the curve of a jawline in charcoal on paper; now that jawline is warm beneath his palm, and Maya's hand twined with his on his knee, and Maya's lips soft against his. He's smiling again, and so is she.

They're good reasons, and this is about the best way to spend an afternoon he could have thought of.

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