thismaskiwear | A Hotel Room at the Renaissance Curacao Resort and Casino, Sunday

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A Hotel Room at the Renaissance Curacao Resort and Casino, Sunday

As far as Christmas presents went, this one was -- something utterly unprintable, if you asked Katchoo to put it into words. She was not at all inclined to disagree with Francine's evaluation that Arthur was, indeed, a crazy person for doing this for them.

She'd had a constant refrain of this is crazy this is crazy this is crazy running through her head the entire trip here (portal travel, whatever, it was still enough time to cram in a lot of that refrain) that had only gotten louder when they'd arrived at the hotel, throw in a nice counterpoint while they waited to check in, and add drums on the way to the room. Fumbling with the keycard was probably even in rhythm with that mental music loop.

But here they were, in a resort hotel in Curacao, with the door to the room swinging open, and really Katchoo thought she'd be pretty nonchalant about it after a lot of the amenities she'd seen, but --

"Holy frikkin' crap."

[OOC: For that girl who's here with her. Duh.]

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It was weird to feel jealous of someone dead, and made Francine not want to glance at the mirrored doors of the closet in case she wouldn't like the person she saw there at all. "Did you have a private beach there too?"

Which made Katchoo reach for Francine's hand as she nodded. "Private everything, just about. It was the only house around for at least a mile, probably." That was probably a bit of an exaggeration, but fond recollection tended to have that effect.

Francine wasn't slow in giving it to her, rolling onto her side behind Katchoo. "That sounds nice. For a while, at least. I think I'd start to miss having people around, though."

"It was exactly what I needed for a while, after too many people around for too long." Katchoo didn't exactly lean into her, but she did scoot a little closer. "It was quiet, it was gorgeous . . . perfect, really. 'cept for the lack of you."

Ouch. In a more or less good way. She so accidentally asked for that. "Dork. I'm sure Houston was putting that on their travel brochures. You may have black sand beaches and waterfalls, but we have Francine Peters. ... And beef."

Funny how the running-away thing would've made it impossible for Francine to be there anyhow, but Katchoo realized that had probably stung and squeezed Francine's hand anyway. "The beef's just for the last couple people who weren't sold on the trip yet?"

Actually she'd thought it was sweet; it just made her feel guilty for the thought three thoughts ago. "Like I can compete with Grade A Prime Rib?"

"Sure you can. I'm more into rump roast, myself," Katchoo said, smirking.

"Uh!" That required a Grade A whack with a goosedown pillow in a 300 thread-count case. "That's way too soft. Find me something better to beat you with."

Katchoo so had that coming. Also, with a faceful of pillow (this happened a lot lately, but she wasn't complaining) and now listing slightly to one side, the only thing within reach was the lamp on the nightstand and no. "How 'bout I let you bury me in the sand when we hit the beach instead?"

"Well, that's one way to solve the no bathing-suit problem." Francine reclaimed the pillow and rolled over onto her stomach to peer over the edge of the bed at her luggage. "I think mine's in..." The brown one, but that made her remember what was tucked into the front pocket of the blue one. "Ooh, Merlin's presents."

"Your bathing suit is in Merlin's presents?" The bed was comfortable but she'd be in the way from here, so Katchoo tried to half-climb, half-flop over Francine and stretch out beside her.

. . . the bed's comfort merits were not entirely its own, see.

The bed was big enough to hold about nine Katchoos, if you counted how many times it would take her to roll from one side to the other. There was plenty of room. Not that Francine was going to point that out if Katchoo felt like stretching out right next to her.

"No, Merlin's presents are in that suitcase." She reached down for the zipper pouch on the front, and pulled out two small, more or less identical box-shaped packages.

Shockingly, there were boxes inside them.

Boxes inside box-shaped packages? What was this world coming to?

And Katchoo would damn well stretch out right next to Francine if she felt like it, thank you, and she did feel like it, so there she was, massive amount of bed acreage be damned. Besides, how better to appreciate the Skittles-ness of the bedspread than to maximize the amount of it you could look at?

Because that was the real reason. Right.

"Should I worry about what's inside?" she asked, peering at the boxes to figure out which one was hers.

"Probably." Francine turned the one in her hand over and pointed to the... well, you could sort of call it a tag. "Mine's the one with all the extra e's." ...Katchoo's was the one with a W.

"It's either magic or he bought it with Arthur's credit cards, or he made cookies. Any way you go, really..."

Katchoo got a good look at the tag-like . . . things, and stifled a giggle. YES, IT WAS A GIGGLE, OKAY. This far from Fandom her narrative would admit it.

"Maybe I'll open mine first, then." Not being one of those people who has to go as carefully as possible so as to not tear the wrapping, she was already working on it, and none too silently.

"If it's food, you might want to..." Francine paused in her own unwrapping process, looking carefully over at Katchoo's. "Well, you might not want to, really. Never tell Merlin I said that."

"Said wh--"

And suddenly Katchoo was staring at the contents of the package and really, really hating how much of the starving-artist stereotype she lived up to sometimes. Sure, she'd done a damn good job drawing those patterns for Francine, but god.

"That dumbass," she said, with more affection than should be humanly possible to put into that word.

Francine peered over her shoulder, eyes widening and fingers going into gear on her own wrapping paper. "...So that'd be the credit card, then."

"You don't say," Katchoo replied, glancing over at Francine's unwrapping job -- not that kind. "Good thing I'm not the type who's completely allergic to jewelry."

Yes, she was already trying to put hers on.

"Here." Francine let her chain fall back into its box and reached for the clasp of Katchoo's, fingers resting gently on the back of her neck as she attached it.

Katchoo closed her eyes and leaned back into that touch, one hand reaching up and back to thread through Francine's hair. "Want me to do you afterward?"

. . . the chain. No, really, she meant the chain.

"Sure!" Sadly, Francine assumed she meant the chain.

Sadly? Or not so sadly, since at least this way Katchoo didn't have to try and stave off another session of flail.

"Thanks," she said, but not before turning to catch the corner of Francine's mouth for a kiss.

Sadly, since at this point she assumed it because she'd started to believe Katchoo couldn't possibly mean anything else.

Still, she wasn't turning down the kiss. At all. It made her smile as she ducked her head and handed over the box, lifting up her hair to get it out of Katchoo's way.

And maybe it was the smile, or maybe it was the thing with the hair, or maybe something Arthur had said had been bobbing about in Katchoo's mind for quite a few days now, but one way or another there was something a little more . . . intent, if you will, than usual about how Katchoo let her fingers trail down the back of Francine's neck once she'd gotten the clasp fastened. Which, for the record, was more difficult than it really ought to have been for a reason that had nothing to do with it being tiny, or Katchoo being out of practice.

There was nothing maybe about the way Francine tilted her head back into that and let the touch shiver across her shoulders. Nor, thank you, was there any flailing.

If there wasn't any flailing, Katchoo felt justified in moving one hand to rest on Francine's hip and dropping a kiss on the back of her neck where her fingers had just been. Call it an apology for pulling her hand away, or just something that seemed like it needed to be done.

Absolutely needed to be done. Just like Francine needed to roll a little to the side so she could turn her face up to meet that kiss, her hair falling back down across Katchoo's arm as she rapped sharply on the door and said "Room service!"

Oh wait, that last bit wasn't her.

So there was this gigantic bed and the feel of Francine's hair against her skin, and the scent of baby powder and holy god this might actually be happening because Francine sure seemed responsive tonight, and --

"Sonofa#$(*!@)_bitch!"

That part was definitely Katchoo, who hadn't ordered room service and wished she knew how to kill things with her brain. (Quite possibly she was the only one in any world ever who wished she could do that.)

Francine didn't say that, but she did say, "What?" and decide that it came free with the vacation and she didn't need to pay any princes for its use. "We didn't order any room service!"

The lightly accented male voice in the hall said, "Complimentary champagne, madame. It was ordered as part of your suite package?"

Yeah, well, at the moment the brain-killing ability Katchoo wished for would've been targeted at certain princes. One certain prince who was holding the now-empty but still-metaphorical bucket of cold water -- yes, this was a figure of speech and a bit of an unfair one, but metaphorical cold water was still cold water and Katchoo could still visualize it really frikkin' well.

The I am going to throttle you for knocking look on her face might've been adequate explanation for why she looked at Francine and gritted through her teeth, "I think you better get it."

Well. Somebody seemed likely to get it, if the look on Katchoo's face was any indication. Even a less-than-pleased Francine kind of hoped as she went to the door that the target wouldn't be the innocent hotel employee on the other side of it.

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A Hotel Room at the Renaissance Curacao Resort and Casino, Sunday

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