I wrap my arms around him tighter, determined to put a stop to that. "I don't want you shifting away from me. You stay right here."
But a good mate hunts for his female. I am not taking care of you. His arms move around me slowly, as if he's hesitant to give himself even this. I should be looking after your needs.
"You are," I reassure him. "That's why we're down here instead of up in the oil derrick."
Is that what our nest is?
"Yes." I share with him the mental images I have, of what an oil derrick is and how they work…at least vaguely. I don't know all the details myself. "It was a lookout tower in the park itself."
Is that what it is? A high place where you just look at things? It seems silly to him. What is this building we are in, then?
I glance at our surroundings. "An old-timey photo place. You dress up in old-fashioned clothing and they take photos of you. It's just to be silly." The counter is at the front, the photographs under the plastic covering faded. Along the wall are dozens and dozens of pictures of all kinds, though, less faded. In each one, there's smiling faces and costumes, and fat, healthy cheeks on the children. It's a symbol of a different time, and I both love and hate the sight of them.
Is that why they have this couch?
"I guess it's more of a chaise?" It's got a curved back and only one arm, the fabric dimpled into the padding to give the illusion of it being an antique. It's relatively clean, though, and a pale pink, and I kind of love it. I imagine all the photos of ladies in ridiculous Old West costumes, perched on this seat…that we just defiled.
It is ours now. We will take it up to the seeing-spot and add it to our nest.
I nod, squirming on his lap. He's still seated deep inside me, and even though he's no longer hard, the sensation of his body in mine is intense. "I don't think they'll have food here, unfortunately."
Will they have the costumes? He studies my face, running a thumb over my lower lip. He loves touching me, Mhal, and for a moment I'm distracted by the fascination on his face. Costumes…
Oh shit. Costumes?
I look around the room, and there's a plastic-covered rack of some kind in the back, and my heart leaps. The fabric-hoarder inside me wants to see if there are clothes that have been left behind. Surely this place has been picked over? Surely…
Mhal chuckles and nips at my shoulder affectionately. Go look.
I kiss him quickly, then extricate myself off his lap. I'm a little clumsy, my legs sore and the insides of my thighs damp. It feels a little strange—okay a lot strange—to race around an old building stark naked, but there's no one to see. Immediately, I head for the plastic-covered rack in the back and rip off the protective covering. Vibrant colors of every shade imaginable meet my eyes. The costumes are here all right, and they're utterly impractical. The fabrics are satin and sequined, with lace everywhere. I pick up a ridiculous pink hat with a wide brim and put it on my head, feeling silly and delighted all at once. Roaming around the apocalypse as a baby pink Southern belle strikes me as completely silly, but when I pick up one of the dresses, it has an open back with no zipper. Huh. I guess so anyone could wear them?
It doesn't matter. I'm not interested in the costumes as much as I am in the wealth of fabric. I can take all of these dresses apart and make blankets, or cloaks, or all kinds of clothing for the coming winter. I touch the beads of a flapper costume, covered in slinky fringe, and smile to myself. I'm going to be the most ridiculous, most garish nomad in the world, but I can make these work. Laughing to myself, I slip a flapper dress over my head and the back gapes open, so I hunt around the room looking for pins of some kind.
There's a cash register that's been emptied of everything, but paper money is useless anyhow. I run a finger around the tray, looking for paperclips, and when there's nothing, I open the drawers of every desk and in the break room, looking for anything useful. In a box, I find a stuffed tomato filled with dress pins, some thread and needles, and my heart trips with excitement. I clutch the box to my chest and race back out to show Mhal my finds.
I already know, he tells me, amused. He stands near the rack of clothing, touching the fabrics that I caressed so reverently, trying to see what made me so happy about them. He glances over at me, a hint of a fanged smile on his face. There is no need to show me. I saw it in your head.