1.2 | The Prince of Thieves

Interlude: ONE SHOTS

One Shots OR A Series of Long and Short Shots from TYB to TPOT

fruit

Apples, pears, blueberries, strawberries, kiwis, bananas, oranges...

Hana stares at the enormous fruit basket sitting on the kitchen island as Leon stands beside her, hands on his hips, an affronted look plastered on his face. He's still panting a little from dragging the behemoth of a gift from his car and up to the apartment.

'The boys gave it to me as some 'surviving one year' thing,' he explains, patting his damp forehead with the back of a hand. 'Frankly, I don't know which survival of what they were talking about but...it's a gift. And expensive.'

She pokes at the plastic that is wrapped around the entire basket. How the packers have stuffed so much into the basket is beyond her as it towers above her face and comes with two bottles of red wine that stick up from the back. 'How do you know it was expensive?'

'It came with the bill stuck to it.' The side of his mouth cracks into a grin. 'They purposely left it there for me to see.'

'But what are we going to do with so much fruit, though?'

'Oh. Hmm. Applesauce with vanilla ice cream?' he suggests as he points to the respective fruit. 'Pear soup...smoothies...sorbet...pancake toppings...sangria...'

'Sangria?' she repeats, remembering the first time they made the drink and how long it took them to finish it. What happened after the first few glasses was an added plus, but she couldn't stand the sight of fruits for days after that.

'I promise, nothing will happen,' he says with a huff, as if it's the last thing on his mind, but it immediately makes way for a sly smirk. 'Unless, you want something to?'

'Sangria is fine,' she says snappily. 'But no alcohol again!'

vulgar

It's a Friday night, and he's home early for once. They're slumped on the couch after a filling dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, unwilling to move while idly flicking through the various channels on offer. He pauses at a channel where a movie seems like it's just starting, before dropping the remote between them.

'What's this?' she asks. It's an English-speaking film, one she hasn't seen before, and it's probably an old one going by how the colours aren't so bright.

'American Psycho,' he says, nodding at the title screen that just appears.

She's not one for horror films – the title sounds scary, so she assumes its horror – but he seems content to watch it, so she tugs a pillow to her lap and curls her legs under her. She doesn't quite catch what it's about. An absurd morning routine is followed by some name card competition and a murder, peppered with conversation she doesn't understand.

When the scene switches to where the main character has two women in his bed, her brows raise and she stiffens. This is not the kind of show she wants to watch with him beside her, but she doesn't say a word, not wanting to look like a prude.

The main character has some really odd habits, she thinks, as he records their acts on a camera and poses in the mirror while in the midst of some thrusting action.

'That's so vulgar!' she exclaims when he gives one of the women an instruction, and she proceeds to stick her head between the other woman's legs.

Vulgar. That's a word she picked up from a book she was reading.

He turns to her with a slight smile.

'Vulgar?'

Instantly, she flushes and sinks her chin deeper into the pillow she's hugging. She didn't think he'd been paying attention to her random comments.