The Balls in Our Courts [F.SxO.CxT.S]

Interlude

Author's Note: Many people begged for a last night in Paris. Admittedly, I was not going to write anything special. However, seeing as so many people wanted -something- I changed my mind. I kept trying to combine it with the next chapter, but it didn't seem right. So, please enjoy this little interlude. Thank you for your support!

"Will we celebrate?" she asked, leaning against the hotel window that overlooked a picturesque Parisian street. She watched as the cars honked by and women in nice coats navigated the cobblestones in their leathered heels. Oh how she wanted to be down there with them. Prancing around in her finest dress, baguette in one hand and a box of macarons in the other. She kneeled on the chest, hands flat against the glass—keeping that wonder in her soul. Tommy sighed, his finger hooked under his tie to pull it loose. He watched as she rested her forehead to the window. "I'll be in the papers." That last bit was a whisper, perhaps not meant for his ears.

He moved forward, pressing his hand on her lower back, lingering just long enough for him to question why it was there in the first place. Removing it, opting for a cigarette instead. Her and him looked at the same Paris streets differently. While she saw wanderlust and hope, he saw nothing, but remnants of his past. The streets became narrower until they shrunk like tunnels underground. But she didn't understand that. No, she didn't. Tommy hated Paris. Tommy loathed France.

And she couldn't begin to understand the darkness that it held.

Amelia slid down on the chest, sitting on it as if it was a sofa. Smiling, she asked, "can we walk along the river again?" He averted his attention from her, focusing on a distant street lamp and how it glimmered in the night. Her round, curious eyes softened as her smile eased. "Mr. Shelby," she called to him, her fingers running down his arm. "You've hardly said anything to me since we left the arena." Taking a long drag on his smoke, he held it in his chest before blowing it out in ringlets. Slowly, he looked at her, flicking the ash lazily in the crystal ashtray. Amelia watched as he just looked at her, no expression and no inkling of thought.

But he was thinking. Deeply, actually. How France shifted everything. How it marked him then and changed him from a boy to a man who only thought he could manage his emotions. And now, with her. How the Devil himself only pulled him deeper. His fingers were tainted with the sins he committed. And how she could smile at him only made it worse. How could you not hate me? Tommy closed his eyes for a second as he put the smoke out in the tray before reaching out, his hand softly cradling her cheek. She didn't flinch or protest, meeting his hand with hers, gently. "We have an early train-"

"And you don't sleep," she said, pointingly, holding his hand and bringing it to her lap. His eyes travelled down, watching as she caressed in circular motions. "And I'm not sleepy. May we go to the river? It smells better than the canal in Birmingham."

And he agreed.

They took a stroll over a bridge and down towards the edge. He walked closest to the water, guarding her as she was still getting used to heels. Snugged up close, he held her at the waist as if she was a liability on her own. Other than the echoing clicks of their shoes and the ripples of the water, the air was peaceful. Quiet and tranquil, she thought. But when she looked up at him, the stress lines at his temples said otherwise. "You don't like it here," she said, bringing him to a wooden bench where they sat, staring at the water.

Before he could answer, he went for another smoke, but cursed to himself as he realized he was out. The only thing in his pocket was a single gold wrapped chocolate truffle, which he handed to her. There was a beat or two before he said, bluntly, "no."

Amelia hooked her finger over his index, holding it. "My daddy has never been to war. I have never been to war. But I see, what I imagine, is war everywhere. Feel it." Tommy's breath hitched and his hands tensed, clenching for summer. He never talked about his time buried feet down unless he was half a bottle of whiskey down. "With Michael and my mom...I suppose that is what war looks like." He would have argued about Michael if there wasn't at least part of him that knew, in a way, that she was right. Siobhan Clarke mourned a boy that, in a way, was sent to a war. And just like Tommy, he had no business on the battlefield.

"It's life," was his explanation. No further elaboration needed. Amelia felt it, felt his pain that he tried so hard to conceal, but couldn't. She squeezed his hand.

"Tomorrow," she said, bumping into him lightly. "We'll go home."

In the meantime, she unwrapped the truffle, and bit just hard enough along the crease to split the ball in half. While she allowed the chocolate melt on her tongue, she went to press the other half to his lips, but he flinched away. "You never eat," she accused, pressing her lips together. "Try it. Maybe you'll like it better than those cigarettes."

Tommy snorted, giving her an amused look. Amelia sat up on her knees, reaching over, fighting a silent battle with him to eat the chocolate before it melted. When it pressed against his lips, leaving traces of sweetness, he sucked it in, allowing the chocolate to take over his mouth. Her thumb lingered between his lips. His teeth caught it before sucking it in, savoring whatever was left on her finger. Such an ironic twist that it was now him with her fingers in his mouth. Amelia smirked, pulling her hand back. Her eyes shifted to a smidge of chocolate at the corner of his lips and wiped it with a quick swipe of her thumb. Tommy expected her to wipe it on her coat or the bench, but Amelia giggled as she sucked on it. The thumb was still wet from him. She sucked it in, her tongue swirling around before pulling out with a pop. Amelia meant nothing by it and that's what made it all the worse for Tommy.

"Only the Devil doesn't like chocolate, Mr. Shelby," she teased, and she was joking of course. Because she often questioned if Mr. Shelby was, indeed, the Devil. And he, himself, took claim to that title often when people hesitated to do business with him. And so, when he spared her no grin or smile, it surprised neither of them. She watched him for a second long before brushing at the corner of his lips where some chocolate rested. Hesitating for a moment, she smiled, her other hand playing at the hem of her coat. And then she went for it.

After everything, she wanted to be the one to make the choice. He already had too much. Too much choice, too much authority, too much power. And before he could decide any longer, she wanted to take some control. Amelia leaned up towards him and pressed her lips against the corner of the mouth. Just innocently. Nothing too assuming or forward, but a little thing that ended as fast as it started. He hardly had time to even tense up. When she peeled away from him, he reached out, grabbing her wrist as nothing more than a reaction. Both looked at eachother from the opposite side of the poles. Him, as cold as ice—him unreadable. And her? Soft and trying.

He turned his attention back to the river, watching the street lamps flicker in the reflection. They both averted their attention, eyes following a line of gold specks. Tommy reached up and wiped where she had kissed him, and mumbled under his breath, "I guess those snogging parties didn't teach you much." It was an attempt at dry humor to ease the situation. But to Amelia, there was no situation. She simply gave him an affectionate, but unassuming gesture.

To of course signal that she also held some power.

Innocently, with a little glint in her eyes, she asked, "whatever do you mean by that, hm? I was simply doing as one does when they want to be cheeky." He raised his brow to that, shifting his eyes to glance towards her. It got him to crack a grin, at least. "And I'll you know, I'm an awful snogger with as much practice as a doorknob. Ask Finn."

"I have little need-"

"Hm, considering you're an engaged man, and if I shall remind you, I'm a stupid girl," she nodded towards him, trying to keep the situation light when she remembered his abrupt aggression from the other morning. Her smile turned sour. "Unless you forgot."

Tommy saw where the conversation was headed and stood, fixing his coat. He pretended to look at his pocket watch, and said, "we have an early trip." With that, he started to walk ahead, lost in his own head. Amelia watched him before sliding from the bench and following along. Her last night in Paris was not as expected. There was no French wine or cheese, and certainly no Parisian bliss. Instead, it radiated with the feeling of a stab with a dull edge knife.