madeofstories | For Scripps, Dated 12/31

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For Scripps, Dated 12/31

Grace very distinctly remembers the events of New Years Eve one year ago.

Dressed up in clothes from another era, they all rang in the new year in a way that she can only describe as magical. And Grace's last moments of the previous year were spent with someone she didn't anticipate would be as near and dear to her heart now as he is.

This year, they've been plunged into a different place altogether, one that Grace has found equally as magical as the month has worn on. And tonight, it feels as if there is magic in the air all over again, as Grace pulls her scarf more snugly around her neck. She's waiting in Times Square, where she's supposed to be meeting Scripps tonight, but so far, she hasn't spotted him.

Perhaps she should have been a bit more specific as to which corner she'd be nearest to.

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Growing all the more excited by the idea of it, Grace picks up the pace as well, her grin widening. "Do you think they'll still have it?" she asks, hopeful, "Since the people here aren't really people at all?"

The idea of it is positively lovely, though, and she wishes she had though of it. Even if she doesn't need any of that to be content tonight.

"I think we should take whatever we like if they're not truly people at all," Scripps insists, grinning impishly as he begins to walk backwards. "I hope you won't mind me saying, but I'm nervous as fuck right now."

"Okay, then, let's talk about it," Grace says, all the more delighted by his grin and the way he's turned to face her, "Why are you so nervous?"

She doesn't mention that she is as well, but does think that it may help to clear the air a bit. At least she hopes that it will.

"I'm nervous because I put it off so long for religion's sake," he admits, because it's not about the fear. It's about the sacrifice. "I think maybe I've hyped it up a bit in my head, even though I know I shouldn't have. Except, then I met you and...well, it's a bit hyped again because you're so very...you."

"So what if we try not to hype it up?" she suggests, "Whatever happens, happens, and if it doesn't turn out the way we want.... then we'll just have to try it again. There's always time to practice. Unless you'd rather not, of course."

But now that they've decided to go ahead with this, she can't see any reason why they wouldn't. Available privacy permitting, of course.

That does solicit a bit of a grin from him. "I do rather like the notion of trying until we get it right. I mean, it's a bit determined, but I have been told that I possess a fair bit of drive," he says, giving the door to the hotel a light nudge behind him. "You won't mind if I'm terrible, at first? If I need a bit of coaching?"

"I'm going to immediately disown you and head out to seek my fortune on Broadway, if that's the case," Grace teases, leaning in to kiss him as she follows him through the doorway. She knows that Scripps isn't the type to have his ego bruised so easily, but she hopes that her comment doesn't offend.

"Go to Broadway without me? And who will play your accompaniment!" he notes, indignant to the very last. "Honestly, that would place a dagger in my heart that couldn't be removed," he insists, shaking his head at her. "Penthouse," he informs the person -- or non-person, truly -- at the front desk, grateful when he's handed a key. "And privacy!"

"One of our ghostly friends, of course," Grace says, her smile bright as Scripps is handed the key, "My career on-stage doesn't live or die by your fingers on ivory, Donald."

"Let's pretend it does?" He gives her a playful grin and pockets the key as he leads her towards the elevators. "If you're famous and successful, what am I going to do with all my time? I used to have a whole group of friends to keep me occupied and that number's been dwindling lately. It's all very sad."

"Empathize with the other members of the fan club," Grace tells him, and she tugs him into one of the elevators as the doors open. Perhaps it has been just the two of them since they met on the street earlier, but this is the first time tonight that they've truly been alone.

Not wishing the waste the moment, Grace presses a kiss to his lips before the doors have even shut again.

Edited 2013-01-10 03:23 (UTC)

"Well, I shall be the President, so perhaps it'll be me they're jealous of," he says, talking away in order to try and subdue any residual nerves that might be lingering. He's managed to cope with the worst of them and he's grateful for the kiss she lays on him as it gives him something to do immediately, threading his fingers through her hair.

"God, Grace," he blasphemes happily. "You're wonderful."

Grace wraps her arms around his waist to keep him close and grins up at him. She's smiling so hard that she fears her cheeks may burst.

"I think you've stolen my line," she says to him, though she's wondering if perhaps expressing a slightly stronger sentiment is a bit overdue.

"Have I?" he wonders, but he's merely teasing. He leans in and brushes a fond kiss to her lips, allowing himself to linger and share in the warmth of the intimacy. "I don't know," he whispers, easing one hand around her waist in order to pull her closer to the back of the elevator where the wall can support them. "I like to think I'm merely adequate."

"Absolutely not," Grace replies, and her heart begins to beat a bit more quickly as her next words come tumbling out, "I don't think that would be so in love with someone merely adequate."

"It would be extraordinary if you were," he swears, his heart beating ever-faster when the elevator arrives at their floor. "I do love you with all my heart, Grace. I may be slow on some things, but I hope you've never doubted that."

Hearing him return the sentiment makes her smile grow ever wider, and even though the elevator has slowed to a stop and the doors are opening, she doesn't resist kissing him again, smiling against his mouth.

"I didn't doubt," she says once she's pulled away, "But it's more wonderful to hear than I think I can say."

Scripps follows after her, stepping onto the floor and noticing none of its trappings or decorations. There is only Grace. "I think you'll find I'm very good at saying it again and again," he jokes with a broad grin. "I love you," he says. "I love you," again, lower.

"The third time was my favorite," Grace tells him, completely surrendering to the moment, wrapped up in it and in him.

"And I love you too," she adds, grasping his hand as they exit the elevator, because it feels wonderful to say, and she can't imagine leaving it to just the one time.

He doesn't fumble with the hotel key though he thinks he'd be perfectly permitted to, given the importance of this moment. With the door open, he's barely inside before he's taking off his suit jacket and letting it fall to the ground, not minding the wrinkles it will earn. "Do you want to wait for something to drink? Or shall we just retire to bed?" he murmurs, kissing her softly.

She steps only far enough away from him so that she can unbutton her coat, though she wishes that she didn't have to leave his side even for an instant.

"If that's what you'd like," she says, "If you would rather wait a bit longer..." Grace thinks the idea of it is terribly romantic and delightful, but she certainly wouldn't protest if they decide to leave the champagne for after.

"Not to borrow too much from a friend, but if I do wait much longer with the prospect of great things before me, I very well may explode," he confesses, helping her with her coat and taking the opportunity to brush fond kisses up the graceful glide of her neck.

"I'm not sure you've chosen the best metaphor, Donald," Grace says with a laugh, though she's crinkled her nose a bit at it as well. She's grown so giddy with anticipation now that any unfortunate word choice on his part is easily overlooked and forgotten.

"Or is it the best metaphor possible," he replies, with a pointed yet crude laugh attached to the words. He slides his hand to the small of her back to pull her into his arms, giving her a slight lift so he can carry her the rest of the way to the bed. "Not very romantic, though, true. Let's fix that."

"She bewitched me," he begins, a Burbridge verse in mind, "with such a sweet and genial charm."

Grace lets out a small surprised sound, not expecting to be practically lifed off of her feet.

"And who are you quoting?" she asks, after a year, used to her boyfriend's tendency to spontaneously begin speaking in verse. Perhaps tonight, it's not as spontaneous as usual, but it's been Donald's way for as long as she's known him.

It's become one of her favorite things about him, actually. And in times like these, it certainly makes up for the odd off-color joke.

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