milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Satine has a bracelet. It's about thirty years younger than she is, but (so is he) she can't stop admiring it.

You should admire it too.

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Ai, she can't get that close to him without getting caught! Jack lifts one hand to place behind her neck and strokes his thumb against her skin.

"I don't think I'd make a good bohemian. I'm too bourgeois."

Mm, stroking. Jack Driscoll, you are one smooth frood.

"I don't know about that. I could test you. Do you believe in beauty?"

...unfortunately, unlike Christian, Jack is a fan of tl;dr.

"Beauty is not something you can believe in; it's something that exists. It's a fact."

What on earth is that?

"You can't feel that it simply exists without believing in it."

In internet speak, it means "too long; didn't read." When applied to Jack, it means that this particular writer likes to talk.

A lot.

"But asking if I believe in beauty supposes that beauty is something that requires faith. Those with eyes to see, ears to see, and fingers to feel know there is beauty; even the most hardened individual cannot deny beauty."

...see?

"It's not so much that it exists that they're interested in; it's that it persists, in the face of all, whatever comes to pass. That's how I've always understood it, anyway."

Why Satine is even arguing the point, I'm not sure. She's a cynic, and therefore not yet a true, full-grown Bohemian -- not much freedom and no love at all for her. Shh.

...give Jack about...a week or less and we'll see how much love there is for her.

Beat.

"Then, yes, I do believe in beauty."

To leave Satine? For that skinny little gorilla toy? He deserves her. ;)

"Then how about freedom?"

Oh, in a week or so Jack wouldn't *dream* of leaving Satine. He wouldn't dream of doing it now, either. Not really.

At this, Jack smirks.

"I'm an American. Of course I believe in freedom."

"See? You're halfway to fitting right in. Toulouse will love you: I hear he's looking for a rugged Swiss goatherd."

She cocks an eyebrow, and picks up another strawberry. "Truth?"

She bites the tip off the red berry.

Bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiink.

"I believe in truth." Blink. "Speaking of which, do you really think I resemble a rugged Swiss goatherd?"

She shrugs airily. Innocently. "A good deal of it depends on the makeup. There is something a bit rugged about you, though, New Yorker that you are." The end of the strawberry vanishes.

"And now for the final hurdle. Do you, Jack Driscoll, three-quarters of the way to qualifying entirely, believe with all your heart, all your soul, and all your being, above all other things, in love?"

"I can't do a Sweedish accent," he admits.

And it's very lucky that the strawberry vanishes, because to answer that question properly, Jack must do this: gently turn Satine's face in his direction, lean in closer, and give her a kiss on the lips.

"Yes," he says, pulling away from her slightly.

Her eyes close; she leans into him; it's just like in that movie they saw.

When they pull away, she looks startled, almost shaken. There are a few long moments of staring into his face before she manages to speak.

"Well," she says, and it's an unfeigned whisper, "perhaps you're less bourgeois than you think."

"Perhaps," he says, staring into her eyes. A soft smile plays at his lips.

It's one of those moments where no one else is in the room but them. At least perceptually.

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