#af;ldkjafd anyway i know i'm posting this at a terrible time but w/e

[direwombat]

And in case you’re taking these for other ocs: The scene that will give you, personally, the most joy. + Paola & Charlie

fa;lfkjadf so i reached a quitting point with this so i'm sorry for any mistakes but here's a very self indulgent paola/charlie fic~ also paging @confidentandgood and @sstewyhosseini because y'all might also be interested in this lil fic

wine drunk | 2.2k

Paola doesn’t know quite how long she’s been staring at Charlie Cutter’s name and number in her contacts list, but she knows it’s longer than she cares to admit. Long enough for the time to change to another day. Her thumb hovers over the call button, but she can’t summon the courage to press down. Teeth sink harshly into her plush lower lip, scraping off what remains of that day’s lipstick. 

What the hell is wrong with her? She feels so foolish, acting like a teenager with her flushing cheeks and butterflies tickling the inside of her stomach at the thought of an Englishman. Her grandmother would be rolling in her grave if she knew. 

Yet, here she is, four glasses deep into a bottle of wine, on a goddamned Tuesday -- now Wednesday -- and pining like a puppy. She might as well lay herself on the ground by her front door in case he comes crashing through it while running from the polizia. The chances of that happening entirely unprompted are probably as likely as him actually answering if she called. Just because she never got around to deleting his number doesn’t mean he still has hers. He’s a criminal, for Christ’s sake. The phone this number belonged to was probably trashed weeks ago, after that job with him, Nadine, and Chloe wrapped up. 

Besides, it’s not like she has anything in particular she wishes to discuss. That job was over.  There’s nothing left of that for them to talk about.

“Porca puttana,” she swears, and she downs the last of that fourth glass. This is absurd. She’s being absurd. She just needs to put the phone down, put the wine away, and go to bed. The lecture she has to give isn’t until the afternoon, but she’s going to need the morning to recover from tonight’s poor decision. 

She shifts where she sits on her couch to place her glass upon the coaster on her coffee table. The phone slips ever so slightly in her grip and her thumb glides against something cold and smooth. It isn’t until warbling dial tone fills her ears that her brain catches up with her body. 

No.

No, no, no!

With graceless, flailing limbs, she scrambles to hang up, but before she has the chance, Charlie’s voice, yawning and even rougher with sleep, comes through. “Miss Orsini?” he asks, confused and almost worried that she’s called him, “Is everything alright?”

I -- um…ah, I’m sor-- uh… Ciao, Charlie … I’m sorry -- you sound like I woke you up, I did not mean -- I, ah…Uh, I, that is -- it sounds late, did I --” her face flushes, the heat in her cheeks threatening to set her head alight. Finally, her mouth manages to form around a full sentence in English, which she spits out like a rotten fig, trying to force an end to her stammering. “Where are you?”

“Mali,” he answers, and she almost doesn’t catch it the way it scratches pleasingly out alongside a small, sleepy growl. It sends a pleasant shiver through her. “Why? -- Miss Orsini, you’re not in any sort of trouble are you?”

“What? Trouble? No,” she says, and she can’t help but cringe at just how high her voice pitches. “Everything is fine, I’m just…” she trails off, racking her brain for any excuse before landing inelegantly on, “wine drunk.” Her hand presses to her face and she closes her eyes. God, just smite her now. 

There’s a short, rough sound on his end, and if she didn’t know any better she might have thought it was a laugh. “Oh, thank God,” he sighs, and the relief in his voice is unmistakable. He was actually worried that she’d called him because she was in trouble. Were she more sober, she might have wondered if she ought to be insulted by that, but in her wine-warm state, it only makes those butterflies in her stomach flutter. “Well, uh…what’s going on, then?”

Oh no. He’s actually engaging her in conversation. Small talk. Mundanities. Things she normally hates, but maybe doesn’t actually mind if he’s the one asking her the questions. But it doesn’t change the fact that she really doesn’t have an answer for him. Sure, she could tell him about the developing office drama in her department or the absurdly false things her students have written in their essays, but all of that must be so boring to a man who lives such an exciting life. So instead of answering his question, she asks one of her own: “Where in Mali are you?”

“Timbuktu,” he answers, and oh, thank God. She actually knows a few things about Timbuktu and its cultural heritage. Maybe she can actually have a conversation with him. “Miss Orsini are you sure everything is –”

“Did you know that Timbuktu has ah -- an intellectually rich history? Hundreds of thousands of manuscripts that date back to oh…I believe the 8th Century Common Era? Anyway, part of these collections are housed in institutions you would expect, but many are in the homes of the families who have been caring for them for hundreds of years!”

“Is that so?” Charlie asks, and he genuinely sounds impressed.

“Mm-hmm,” Paola affirms. “And during the 80s all of these manuscripts were smuggled out of the city to prevent them from being destroyed by Al-Qaeda. It’s a fascinating story.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

“I read it in a book, where else?” The roll of her eyes is more out of reflex than anything else, and she’s immediately grateful that he isn’t actually here with her. It’s not that dumb of a question. “It, um…it wasn’t from a monograph, it was ah, pop history. The Badass Librarians of Timbuktu. It’s an exciting read. I think you may like it.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, and there’s the sound of rustling as he mumbles the title slowly to himself. “I’ll keep an eye out next time I’m at a bookstore.”

She’s given enough book recommendations to know when someone isn’t going to bother. But it sounds like Charlie is. She draws her lower lip between her teeth and smiles. Then, she looks at the clock ticking away on the wall and her eyes go wide. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It must be late for you. I…I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, it’s alright. I think I’m actually an hour behind you. B’sides, truth be told, if, uh,” he hesitates. “If it were anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have picked up.”

Her cheeks are already flushed from the alcohol, but something about such a candid admission makes her face even warmer. “Oh.”

“And, uh, you don’t exactly strike me as one to call without reason, so… what’s on your mind, love?”

She knows it’s because he’s an Englishman -- obviously he doesn’t mean anything by it; it’s a thing Englishmen say -- but her stomach flips at the pet-name and she’s struck with the urge to bury her face into one of her throw pillows and scream. Her whole life she thought there was something wrong with her because she never seemed to experience emotions the way her peers did, but now she finally understands what the girls in high school were talking about. 

“It is…” she starts, but then she hesitates and pulls one of her throw pillows into her lap. Her fingers play absently with the tassels at its corners. Surely he’s not that interested in hearing about her day. Surely he’s just being polite. “Nothing,” she settles on. “Trivial, I’m sure, compared to what you are doing. I’m sure you were recently shot at…or nearly blown up.” The lighthearted tone she’d been aiming for falls flat when she realizes just how lucky Charlie is to be alive. The idea that one day the life he lives will catch up with him and she’ll be none the wiser makes her heart race and palms go sweaty. 

She might call him one day -- and she’s to frightened by the thought to examine why she thinks she’ll have reason to call him again -- and he’ll never pick up. 

Thankfully, he isn’t there to witness her self-inflicted anxiety spiral, but there is a part of her that wishes he was here to wrap her in those massive arms of his. 

“Well, I’ll have you know it’s been at least two weeks since I’ve been shot at, Miss Orsini,” he says gently. Almost reassuringly? 

She hums. “You’re overdue then.” She means it as a joke. Her sense of humor always strayed towards the gallows in a way that makes most people uncomfortable. But apparently not Charlie, because the short barking noise on the other end of the line is definitely a laugh. She cracks a smile herself. “What are you doing in Mali, anyways?” 

“Oh,” he sighs, “That’s a long story, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve got time,” she says, steadfastly ignoring the creeping hour hand on her wall clock. “My lecture isn’t until the afternoon.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, before delving into one of the most convoluted wild goose chases she’s ever heard in her life. A supposed treasure only mentioned in a handful of medieval manuscripts, first pointing to somewhere in India, then Ethiopia, before eventually sending him and his current employer to the city of Timbuktu. All in all, the amount of globetrotting aligns with what she experienced working under Mr. Adler. Treasure hunting must just be like that. 

They speak for nearly an hour and a half, discussing treasure hunting, travel, and eventually Charlie coaxes the details of her most recent bad day. He offers her kind and sympathetic words, and even goes so far as to call her supervisor names she would never even dream of saying aloud. He makes her smile. He makes her laugh. She likes talking to him and she never wants to stop. But, as always, there comes a point where the conversational well runs dry, and they reach a lull. One that sounds like it’s maybe time to say goodbye.

“I don’t want to hang up,” Paola confesses.

“I don’t either,” Charlie says. There’s a beat of silence, and then he says, “So…what’re you wearing?”

Her brows furrow and she pulls the phone from her ear to stare at it, as if that would present her with the reason why he’s asking such a silly question. “My pajamas?” she says slowly. “What else would I be wearing? Why? What are you wearing?”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m in naught but me skivvies, Miss Orsini,” he laughs.

Her face flushes an embarrassing color and her eyes and mouth go wide. The image of him, bare chested and in nothing but his undergarments burns itself into her brain, and her fingers twitch with the desire to touch.  “I…Why -- Why would you tell me that?” she sputters. 

“Because you asked.” 

She’d slap that cheeky grin off his face if she could. She knows it’s there, she can hear it. Or, actually, no. She’d much rather kiss it. “Scoundrel,” she hisses, but there’s no real venom to it.

“And don’t you forget,” he laughs. There’s another beat of silence, and then he says, “I’m glad you called. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she says quietly, and for once, she’s grateful for the wine loosening her tongue. She wouldn’t have said it, otherwise. She chews on her lower lip. “When will you be done in Mali?”

“Best case scenario? Not til the end of the week,” he sighs, and for the first time in their entire conversation, he sounds tired. Exhausted even. “But tell you what? How about I book a ticket to Rome when I’m done. Take you to dinner, proper. Let you get dressed up real nice for something that isn’t a heist.”

She scoffs, because he must be joking. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mister Cutter?”

“Only if you’re amenable to it, Miss Orsini.” 

There’s such a warmth to his tone and she can’t help but smile. “I…I think I would like that, Charlie,” she says. The taste of his name on her tongue is far sweeter than the wine she’s been drinking.

She can hear his sigh of relief. “Alright,” he says breathlessly, as if he can’t believe she actually said yes. “As soon as I’m done here, I’ll let you know, and I’ll get you flight details as soon as I can.”

“That sounds like a plan.” The butterflies tickle her stomach once more at the prospect of seeing him again. 

“And don’t be a stranger, right?” he says. “I’m always here if you want to talk.”

“I do not wish to bother you --”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” he interrupts. Normally such blatant disregard for her words would upset her, but instead she just squirms where she sits. “You’re not a bother. I mean it. Day or night, yeah? Doesn’t matter. You ever want to talk, I’m just a phone call away.”

“I…Thank you,” she says, because what else can she say? Her heart swells and aches in her chest. “Goodnight, Charlie.”

“Goodnight, Paola,” he returns. “Sleep well.” 

And as she presses the button to end the call, all she can think about is how the sound of his voice saying her name was like music to her ears. She never wants to get tired of hearing him say it.