papa-pietro

[papa-pietro]

A hundred days since he'd met this girl, or at least, that's what it felt like. Anthony was having a hard time remembering a moment before she existed, but he knew there must have been one.

It was Saturday night, and he was certain she'd show - she always had, after all, and there was no reason tonight would be any different.  He straightened his tie, even though it didn't need it. He pushed a hand over his head, even though he'd had it shaved recently. And he brushed his fingers hard against the place in the back of his neck that might or might not have grown tense with anticipation of the evening.

He knew her name, somehow or another, and when he came downstairs, or lurked upstairs, or pushed through doors, or pulled open ropes, he always looked for her in the front. She was nearly always up front, and he said her name in his head rhythmically, like a mantra. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. The girl with the pretty eyes, with the smile that lit up the room. Damn, he was smitten.

Not that he'd tell anyone that.

Anthony wasn't shy, and that was kind of his thing. But the truth was, he had a little bit of a hard time being forward when it came to matters like this. He thought too much about the way his hands would feel on her waist, the small of her back, climbing the stair steps of her spine, the ladder rungs of her ribs and, fuck, it was just. A lot. And as he pushed open the door to the downstairs of NBC and spotted her (he always spotted her right away), he felt his stomach flip. He'd taken to calling her "my girl" in his head. He thought, 'There's my girl.'

It had been something of a wild lead-up, too. Every week felt closer and closer to something it was obvious neither of them were either willing or able to name, but there was always this tension in the air that made the hairs on his arms stand up. He was delighted to see her, in that outfit she'd chosen (did she choose them specifically for him?), but it wasn't until they'd gone upstairs and, after a half hour of waiting, they were in a line formed by roped off barricades against the wall. This was the place where he was able to chatter with the standby line folks, get in a little bit of smalltalk with the folks on the ground, and it wasn't like he grinned or anything (it was against his Brand), but he played with them, joked with them, his wit dry and sarcastic.

The difference was that this time when he found her in the line, when he paused and tried to start up a convo, he felt emboldened by her laugh. It was unique, something melodic, and for a moment, Anthony was stricken cold, frozen, unable to move the way he wanted. But after a beat, he did so, and it was just to turn away from her.

A second later, he realized that maybe she'd thought he was brushing her off, but he couldn't take that moment back now. Was Y/N disappointed? He glanced over his shoulder to look, regretting that he hoped she felt let down.

But in the meantime, he was jotting something on a scrap of paper at the desk, indicating nothing to anyone around him. Anthony was stoic by nature, his face hardly giving away anything, and as he scrawled his phone number on the paper the pages and interns around him might have thought he was merely writing down a reminder to buy milk on the way him. But then, he folded it up and tucked it into his palm before he approached the line again, and when he saw her, he raised both eyebrows. He still refused to grin, but his face took on the air of amusement when he asked, "You're never going to smile, are you?"

And then he prompted her, reaching forward as if to high five her, but in his hand he held the paper, the one that he transferred to her palm with that simple touch. ("Simple." To Anthony it felt electric. To him, it felt telling.) Knowing she was about to disappear into the studio and he had kinda put his shit on the line, he halfway grimaced once he turned away from her and told the guard up front to start letting the line through, but he had his hopes held high for this girl, even if it was going to bite him in the ass.

Two hours later, four hours later, hours and hours later, when both shows were done for the night, he checked his phone. Anthony was disappointed he didn't have a message as he started to collect his things in order to take the train back home. But then, as if she knew what was going on in his head, the phone in his hand clanged happily. He looked. Unknown number. Message opened, and. Y/N. Holy shit.

Anthony took a beat, two beats, three whole deep breaths before he was able to read the whole thing, not grinning outwardly, but thrilled to his core inwardly. He read the name of the bar where Y/N was located and checked, double checked, made sure the GPS lined up with the location he already anticipated, and with an uncharacteristic spring in his step, he set off.  Anthony moved past the barricades outside 49th St with an eas unfamiliar to him, crossed the street without a care in the world, and entered the bar moments later with a thrill that made his fingertips tingle in ways he'd missed for far, far too long.

Like the line, he spotted her easily, immediately, those eyes, that hair, and this time, he smiled. A real one, as he crossed toward her from the door to her stool at the bar. "There it is," he said, a call-back what he'd remarked on in the line. "You look so good when you're happy."

A decent start to the night, anyway, and Anthony bought them each a drink. Her, another round, and him, his first of the night. He didn't know what to talk about at first, but she was loosened up enough to chatter, and he felt enthralled. He asked her about work, about classes, and she asked him about his work. He learned about her hobbies, and she showed interest in is. And maybe it was too soon, or maybe it was inappropriate, but when the clock had struck somewhere after half past two, Anthony asked, "This place is clearing out. You want to come to mine and have one more drink?"

Y/N accepted in a way that made Anthony's stomach flip, and he guided her out of the bar and into the car with his hand on the small of her back. The ride was spent relatively quiet, the two of them checking their phones briefly until Anthony started the conversation back up. As they pulled up in front of his place well outside of Manhattan, Anthony helped Y/N out of the car with a hand outstretched, but instead of letting go, he guided her to the door with her fingers pressed into the spaces between hers. He wanted to hold on, to be touching her, to know her like this without any unnecessary requirements, and he felt the same way once inside.

Drinks, right, he remembered! He led her to the kitchen where he uncapped something brown, maybe whiskey, who knows, and he poured them each a small glass. But, to be honest, it didn't matter to Anthony what they were drinking. Before it was half done, we can blame it on the a-a-a-alcohol if we must, he stepped forward, a strong hand on Y/N's back, pulling her forward.  He wanted to tell her that he'd been thinking about kissing her for months, but instead, he said nothing. Anthony kissed her, and he did it hard, the urge behind it obvious, his fingertips pressing firmly into her back while the other hand pushed up and into her hair. He craved her, and his mouth watered when he caught the hint of hers.  "You should stay," he said a beat later, his mouth close enough to hers that he knew she could taste the alcohol on his tongue.  He pulled her close again, her hips against his, and then stepped forward until he could press her back against a wall and line himself up against her.  "I want you to be mine tonight."