Amy’s mouth twists down. “McDonalds?” she complains. You actually like McDonalds, but by the sound of it, Amy doesn’t, and you’re pretty sure you’re supposed to have an obligation to agree with your girlfriend, so you just nod along as she talks. She doesn’t say anything more, though, so you’re just left standing there nodding your head like a goof.
Her mother looks between the two of you, wrinkling her brow, before stepping back and drawing her shoulders together defensively. Smooth, forced calm rolls through her, settling over small spikes of frustration that spike merrily through her gut. “Is there somewhere else you’d like to go?” she asks.
Almost immediately, Amy nods eagerly. “Yeah!” Her face lights up, enough warmth flowing through her that you involuntarily turn to look towards her so you can see her a little better. “There’s a café up near, um. I can show you where it is. I’ve been there before. They make really nice lunches. And, um.” If you hadn’t turned to look at her, you’d miss the way her gaze flits towards you, and the way she bites her lip briefly when she notices you watching her. “I think Taylor would like it too.” Her mouth curls up into a shy, almost vulnerable smile.
Carol looks briefly at her, the irritation smoothing out almost immediately, melding into a smooth core of acceptance. “Okay,” she says simply. “Just give me directions.”
The car isn’t the smallest, but Amy doesn’t let that serve as an excuse to stop her from climbing into the middle of the back seat anyway, close enough to you that her leg presses against yours. As she explains, it’s the perfect seat for her to be able to see through the windscreen and tell her mother when to turn, not that you were complaining. You’re never going to complain if Amy wants to press herself against your side.
You take the opportunity to rest your hand on her thigh, perhaps just a little higher than is entirely appropriate with her mother in the front seat and clearly able to see what the two of you are doing. Amy squirms a little when you do, but after a moment, just spreads her legs slightly so you can slide your fingers down the inside of her thigh a little. Not too far, of course—you rather doubt you’d be able to get away with rubbing the top of her thighs, let alone their apex—but definitely high enough to make her squirm a little more.
The sights of Boston might have been interesting, but you’re more fascinated by the girl sitting beside you. This is a side of Amy you haven’t seen before; the mildly teasing, almost sexual side of her.
(Or, maybe, you have seen it before. Maybe it’s not about not having seen it before. Maybe it’s just about comfort. About the two of you coming to Boston—getting away from Brockton Bay, and the stresses of your lives there. Getting away from the memories of your bullying, of your Dad, of your Mom, of everything that’s gone wrong in the Bay. Letting down your hair, and snuggling with a girl who likes you for you in a place that smells of old paper and dust and the sweet vanilla scent of Amy.)
(But if that’s why you can relax, then why is Amy relaxing too?)
Amy doesn’t move your hand through the entire car trip, even though you daringly slide your fingers further up her thigh three times during the half-hour drive into Boston itself. Admittedly, after the first time you slid your fingers up her leg, she does place her arms over her legs, simultaneously giving you a makeshift shield from her mother’s view and making it much more difficult for you to really do anything. Still, you persevere.
You’re nearly finished writing your full name out on her leg when the car finally comes to a halt. You blink, looking up and away from Amy’s leg, as the car is shut off. You reluctantly pull your hand away, though any disappointment you might have felt is muted as you look towards Amy and see the same faint disappointment on her face.
As you undo your seatbelt and climb out of the car, you casually talk to Amy without twisting your neck to look at her. “So what is this place?” you ask.
She grunts, the sound followed by a loud sound as she pushes the car door closed behind her. You follow suit, and only then turn towards her again. “Arrioli’s,” she replies, casting a critical gaze over the building in front of you. “It was cleaner last time. Uh, it’s a small café. I was… The last time I was here, I went here for lunch. The owner knows me, kind of. They make really nice coffee, and I know you like your coffee.” She shoots a small smirk at you. The red has faded from her cheeks by now. Aw. “And their wraps are good.”
Carol perks up a little at that from her position behind Amy. “We should head in then,” she says. Her tone doesn’t reflect the low excitement thrumming around her. “Come on.” She doesn’t move immediately, though. She waits for the two of you to fall in step beside her before she moves to walk into the store.
Arrioli’s—Arrioli’s Fine Dining, as the store’s dark blue signage states proudly atop the entrance, and across the board behind the counter—is a quite welcoming restaurant. There aren’t too many other people in here at this time of day. There’s a family sitting at a table on the far end of the building, a mother and a father sitting with two young children, a toddler and a baby. At the counter, a man with a patched jacket is eating a burger, and at a table beside a window, an asian woman in her early twenties is sipping at a cup of coffee and staring at a laptop with wild, frazzled hair.
It’s a neat environment, all in all. The faint scent of cinnamon and rich coffee wafts over you, soothing you and agitating you in equal measure. There’s a small TV hanging from a pillar in the middle of the room, showing some kind of soap opera—you catch a title sequence displaying the name The Days of Our Lives before you look away, refocusing your gaze on Amy.
“Hm.” Amy hums a little, looking around. “Where do you want to sit, Taylor?”
You quickly glance around, looking for a space you can sit without having to sit near the other people in here. “Uh, over there,” you reply, pointing at a small four-seat table beside the front door, hidden from the rest of the café by a small partition. It looks a little crowded, with two of the seats comprising of a low-rising L-shaped seat backed with leather.
Amy shrugs, then nods. “Sure.” She moves to lead you over to the table, but you quickly step in front of her with winning smile and gesture for her to follow you. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t fight it, just follows behind you.
You slide in on the leather-backed seat, then shuffle over and pat the seat beside you. Amy rolls her eyes again, but this time with a little affectionate smile, as she squeezes herself into the seat beside you. You give her a wide smile as she comes to rest against you, the two of you pressed against each other, Amy’s warmth soaking into you. You’re close enough that you’re pretty sure you’d only need to turn your head and maybe dip forward a couple of inches to kiss.
A polite cough tears your attention away from Amy. Looking up, you see Carol standing there, giving the two of you an expectant look. “Do you want me to order lunch?” she asks tartly.
Amy flushes, the smile sliding off her face. Without a word, she reaches to the table and lifts a piece of paper you hadn’t noticed before—the café’s menu.
Without Amy’s smile to bolster your own, your smile quickly fades from your face as well. With a mournful expression, you reach over and take the other menu from the table, giving a hesitant glance up at Carol, who is just standing there patiently.
You try to read through the menu quickly. Thankfully, it’s not exactly a complex menu, carrying largely the standard items a café like it does; tea and coffee, sandwiches, muffins and cakes, and so on. There is indeed a wrap section, although it doesn’t have very much in it; two styles of chicken wraps, three styles of beef wraps (one with a spicy sauce), and a black bean wrap.
Beside you, Amy runs her finger down the menu, blinking thoughtfully. You lean over, tapping her on the shoulder. “Any recommendations?” you whisper.
She bites her lip. “I haven’t been here in a while,” she admits sheepishly, turning her head towards you—and away from her mother at the same time. “Not for about five months, actually. I usually just order a chicken wrap, though. Their chicken is really nice.” She looks down at the menu again, scanning it another time. “Maybe try the black bean wrap?” she asks uncertainly. “And you drink coffee, so… a cappuccino, maybe? I know you like the froth.”
“I do like froth,” you agree. You consider it for a moment, then nod. “Okay, sure.” You’ve never had a black bean wrap or anything like that, but you’re not really in the mood for chicken or meat right now.
Amy nods, hesitating only a moment before turning back to Carol, her posture guarded. “I— Can I have a spicy beef wrap?” There’s a small quaver in her voice as she talks, though it smooths out as she pushes on. “And a strawberry smoothie? And Taylor wanted, uh, a black bean wrap. And a cappuccino.”
Nodding her head in a businesslike manner, Carol turns towards you, her expectant expression turned almost bored. Sick nervousness lashes at the edges of your senses, trying to curl around the woman, as though trying to crush her; faint enough that you barely register it without actively using your powers, but also strong enough that you can feel it regardless. “Okay,” she says, no hint of any of those emotions in her voice. “How do you have your coffee, Taylor?”
“Uh—“ You scramble to think of a response, having been too caught up admiring Carol’s profile to follow the thread of the conversation. “Full cream, and two sugars.” You absently rub your stomach beneath the table, but, no, you’re not quite fat enough that you need to start drinking lite milk instead of full cream. Your jogging is doing enough to prevent the need for that, at least.
Carol nods, then turns without a word. Beside you, Amy lets out what almost sounds like a sound of relief before finally turning back to you. “Okay,” your girlfriend says, her mouth quirking up once again. “So, how are you liking Boston?”
Shrugging, you tilt your head back a little, then quickly sneak an arm around her waist—well, around her lower back, really, but it’s close enough to count, and low enough that Carol shouldn’t be able to see where your arm is beneath the table anyway. “It’s… nice.” You frown at how uncertain you sound. “There are a lot more people here than at home,” you try again.
Amy’s smile turns into a smirk, but she concedes the point with a nod. “There are,” she admits. Her tone turns wistful again. “I like it here. It’s more, I don’t know. It’s bigger.” Her smile fades, and she shuffles a little until she’s once again pressing against your side. “Brockton Bay is really… it’s a big town, but it feels small, you know?”
You hum. “Yeah,” you say vaguely. And it’s true, really. “I haven’t really seen much of Boston yet, though.”
“That’s true,” she concedes. A moment passes, and her brow scrunches in thought for a second, before smoothing back out, and she lays her head on your shoulder with a huff of laughter. “We’ll just have to come back at some point, then,” she murmurs. “So I can show you what I like about it.”
She jumps as you squeeze her hip a little, but relaxes again immediately after, though she does poke your leg in retaliation. Momentarily, you wish the seats were long enough that you could have Amy just turn around and lay her head in your lap so you could see her face without having to push her away from you. And that her mother wasn’t going to return any second now. “Sure,” is your reply, as you once again lift her shirt to place your hand against her bare skin. She shivers, but like she had in the bookstore earlier, she just accepts it after a moment. “I didn’t know you’d been here that often.”
In fact, going a step farther than accepting it, she reaches down and lays her hand over your own, gently caressing the back of your hand with her thumb. “I come here sometimes for work,” she mumbles. “Just every couple of months. I like to go exploring a bit while I’m here. It’s different from Brockton Bay. I like it.”
You start drawing small circles on her hip, enjoying the shivers you draw from her as you do. “You’re repeating yourself,” you inform her. You can feel her pout, but before she can respond, you lay your cheek atop her head and continue talking. “I don’t leave Brockton Bay very much. Dad works a lot, and we can’t really afford to stay in a hotel for long. Grandma and Grandpa live in Texas, which is a bit too far away.” Tactfully, you don’t mention the various bigoted things Grandma had said about other people the last time you’d visited, when the conversation had invariably shifted to politics.
“We don’t travel very much either. It’s mostly just me.” Amy shifts against you, lifting her head to scan the café, causing you to automatically do the same. When neither of you see Carol, she relaxes again, laying her head back down. “We have gone to New York a couple of times, for Mom’s work, but after Dad… Well, we don’t do that much anymore. We’ve gone to Canada before too, but only once that I remember.”
You shift your hand down as far as you dare, teasing your fingers at the hem of Amy’s jeans. You don’t actually try to slip your fingers beneath the waistband of her pants, but she startles anyway, hissing slightly—though, interestingly, she doesn’t push your hand away. Hm. “You’ve gone to Canada before?” you ask, voice mild. “That must have been nice.”
