Derek can't cope with her joking, though, for once. He lifts his head and looks right into her beatiful eyes and takes his life in his hands. "I needed you," he says quietly, so seriously and yet so forcefully that it's like every other sound in the room - in the world - goes away.
Penelope is silent, a little stunned, her soft mouth hanging open, a pink blush creeping up her face. "You - you have me," she says, stuttering.
Derek holds her gaze, and while he watches she gets pinker - her face, her neck, down into the t-shirt, probably all the way down to the V of the kimono and maybe deeper. "Penelope," he says. He meant to explain how he trusts her and what she means to him without pressuring her, but all that comes out is her name, hoarse.
She swallows and lifts her chin a little, takes a deep breath that presses her breasts against his chest. "Derek." It's soft, but determined. "You can always -"
He touches her face, incredibly, like his hand is moving without him and he's watching himself on tv; Derek has never - quite - given himself permission to do that, for all the times he's touched her, even brushed her cheek. The intent is different, now, he knows it and she knows it, when his hand lifts from behind her and cups her cheek, thumb grazing over her lips and she stops speaking, eyes wide, pupils blown. Her mouth moves against his thumb, maybe shaping his name, but no sound emerges.
"I needed you," Derek says again, and moves his hand enough to touch the silky ends of her hair.
She shakes her head slightly and a curl bounces against his knuckles. Then she reaches up and touches his wrist and hand where he's touching her face, cupping it, threading her fingers with his and tilting her face to smile a little at him.
"Derek," she says, with a fond note of exasperation, and turns her face into his hand, holding it there trapped in a grip that he knows is strong despite the delicacy of her hands and fingers, and then he's feeling eyelash on his fingertips and the gust of warm breath when she sighs and her mouth brushing his wrist, up into his hand, lips open, gently kissing his palm and he can't move, can't think, because that touch of her mouth on him goes through his entire body like an electric current and thank God he's still grounded to the floor or it might fry every synapse.
"Pen-" he chokes.
She releases his hand and looks at him, still pink, and warm and so soft and solid and familiar when he pulls her the rest of the way into his arms.
3/3
Penelope is silent, a little stunned, her soft mouth hanging open, a pink blush creeping up her face. "You - you have me," she says, stuttering.
Derek holds her gaze, and while he watches she gets pinker - her face, her neck, down into the t-shirt, probably all the way down to the V of the kimono and maybe deeper. "Penelope," he says. He meant to explain how he trusts her and what she means to him without pressuring her, but all that comes out is her name, hoarse.
She swallows and lifts her chin a little, takes a deep breath that presses her breasts against his chest. "Derek." It's soft, but determined. "You can always -"
He touches her face, incredibly, like his hand is moving without him and he's watching himself on tv; Derek has never - quite - given himself permission to do that, for all the times he's touched her, even brushed her cheek. The intent is different, now, he knows it and she knows it, when his hand lifts from behind her and cups her cheek, thumb grazing over her lips and she stops speaking, eyes wide, pupils blown. Her mouth moves against his thumb, maybe shaping his name, but no sound emerges.
"I needed you," Derek says again, and moves his hand enough to touch the silky ends of her hair.
She shakes her head slightly and a curl bounces against his knuckles. Then she reaches up and touches his wrist and hand where he's touching her face, cupping it, threading her fingers with his and tilting her face to smile a little at him.
"Derek," she says, with a fond note of exasperation, and turns her face into his hand, holding it there trapped in a grip that he knows is strong despite the delicacy of her hands and fingers, and then he's feeling eyelash on his fingertips and the gust of warm breath when she sighs and her mouth brushing his wrist, up into his hand, lips open, gently kissing his palm and he can't move, can't think, because that touch of her mouth on him goes through his entire body like an electric current and thank God he's still grounded to the floor or it might fry every synapse.
"Pen-" he chokes.
She releases his hand and looks at him, still pink, and warm and so soft and solid and familiar when he pulls her the rest of the way into his arms.
__________
(Yes, that IS the end.)