Choking On Sapphires

15 Sympathy For The Devil

You are once again spending your Friday night in the study with Alfie. This was becoming a reoccurring theme. He's sunk back into the couch in front of the fire. His glasses sit on his nose, it buried in a book. His feet covered in slippers and crossed at his ankles, the grey fabric matching the pajamas he was wearing, all covered in patterned light silk robe you'd talked him into trying on and he'd actually loved it. He hadn't admitted it but you'd seen him in the kitchen in the middle of the night wearing it and seemingly nothing else. Once you'd seen this you knew your theory about it feeling good with his sensitive skin was indeed correct. Aggie had pulled you out of bed to see him, and although you hadn't been opposed to getting to see him in such a way, you found her matchmaker tactics a bit heavy handed even if they were well-intentioned.

You're sitting incorrectly in a chair, sweet sucked in your mouth, a common approach to lounging in your home. At first it had caught Alfie off guard, catching you upside down and sideways in chairs reading. He'd even come across you perched on table tops and laying on stair banisters in the sun much like a cat on occasion. Currently, you're sitting with your knees bent, legs hanging over the back of the chair, your back in the seat. You've been staring at the ceiling for a bit, just letting your mind wander where it wanted.

You were contemplating Alfie Solomons currently, as you found yourself doing far too often lately. Watching his nostrils flare and nose twitch over his fluffy mustache. You contemplated the charming glasses that sat atop his nose. His heavy, focused brow atop piercing eyes, even without the powerful look behind them, the blue enough to stand on its own and still affect a woman without the addition of intent behind them. You smile at his dark hair, currently lax and messy, longer bits falling about his forehead and ears. He was in such a state, as he'd had a bath after dinner and was now in full recline for the long haul into the night with the lovely plans of doing nothing in particular. His gingery beard, in a mix match to his dark hair reminds you of a Calico cat and makes you hum quietly in amusement. His rough hands with scaled knuckles hold an old book, you think you recognize the language to be Russian. He clears his throat, completely unaware of your study of him. You find yourself jealous you can't read Russian. You knew a handful of swears and basic directions from your childhood nurse, Ida but you only had very limited knowledge past that. You chew the inside of your cheek and consider learning Russian. You shift your weight in the chair, contemplating how intelligent he is. And not in the obnoxious academia way that you were too well acquainted with. He wasn't simply informed, he was clever. Your favorite expression of this being his quick and funny wit. Your mind then reminds you of how much he made you laugh, causing your nose to wrinkle subtly in consideration of how much you enjoyed his company. You switch back to considering the breadth of his knowledge before you take too many steps down that road of thought. Surely there were things for you to learn from this brain.

"Alfie?" you call out inquisitively.

"Hmm?" he says with a grunt, eyes not leaving his book.

"How well versed are you in Faberge?" you ask while you swivel yourself around, legs now over the side of the chair, your back against the opposite arm. His eyes look up from his book and over at you.

"Quite a bit, sweetheart. What d'ya want to know?" he removes his glasses and closes his book.

"Oh, nothing in particular," you shake your head. "I was just thinking about them." you say biting your lip. "Have you ever come across one?"

"I 'ave." he nods, bottom lip jutted out just slightly.

"Which?" you pry enthusiastically.

"Lillies of the Valley and a few of the Russian ones, but I didn't get as good of a look at 'em as I did the Lillies." he says with a fond, nostalgic tone.