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Seven Nights Down Under	By : SilverSpider Category: +G through L > Gargoyles Views: 1718 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Gargoyles, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
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Author's Note: Again, Day chapter so PG-13 rating applies. There's talk of sex but nothing actually going on. Thanks to all my readers. Enjoy and please review! Feedback is love.

Day 2
Discord

Two things greeted Dingo as he awoke the next morning. First, it was not nearly as hot as it had been for the last two days. With the fan on and window open ajar, the room was not too uncomfortable, even counting the sheets damp from sex and sweat tangled all about him. The second was that the digital clock on the nightstand to his right was pulsed 11:47. When was the last time he had slept till nearly midday? What day of the week was it? Sunday? He let his head fall back on the pillow, blissfully careless of the answers to either of those questions.

The bed was empty beside him, but the sound of the running shower told him that his companion had not gone far. So she had decided to take him up on the offer to spend the rest of her vacation with him. It pleased Dingo immensely. Not just because the sex was great – that would be an understatement – but mainly because he had been more than slightly concerned that between his time as a solo mercenary and as a member of the Pack, he had lost the ability to communicate with normal human beings on humane terms for any prolonged periods of time. He wondered if maybe that was unfair to her but quickly decided he was over thinking things.

Nothin' wrong with havin' a good time, he thought as he swung both legs over the side of the bed. She's only here for a few days, anyway.

He went on a search for his boxers, likely to be found discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed. When he did not find them there, he began rummaging through the other discarded garments in the room, going as far as to check under the bed. Rising from the awkward position, his elbow caught something on the nightstand that went tumbling down. When he looked, he saw her bag on the floor, its contents spilled.

Dingo bent back to hastily pick up and replace them. He hoped it would not look like he'd been snooping on purpose. It was not like there was anything interesting there anyway. Her cell phone, small notepad, wallet, lipstick... lipstick? The silvery cylindrical object certainly looked like a tube of lipstick, complete with a removable top and crimson colored stick beneath it, but he was fairly certain lipsticks were not supposed to be vibrating like that.

He stared at the object in his hand, wondering what the hell it was and how did he get it to stop. Dingo was still fielding with it when she emerged from the bathroom, white towel wrapped around her body. Water streamed in small river onto it from her long blond hair, slightly darker from being wet. One glance from from her still-messy bad to the object in his hand, and her brows drew together in a hard look that demanded an explanation.

“I wasn't going through your things,” he blurted. “The bag fell over. I was just picking things up. What on earth is this?”

Without bothering to dress first, Robyn stalked across the room and snatched the object in question from his hand. She twisted something to turn it off, holding it up for him to see as if teaching a young child how to unscrew a bottle cap.

“You act like you've never seen a vibrator before,” she commented, more amusement than anger in her voice as she replaced it in her bag and zipped the whole thing up.

“That's a...” he did his best to reign in his surprise. “Well, not one like that. What does a woman like you want with one of those, anyway?”

“Should I be flattered by that comment?” she laughed then shrugged. “I'm not always so... fortunate on these little vacations. If I'm to spend the entire week alone, I prefer to be prepared and self-sufficient.”

“Oh, you're definitely self-sufficient.”

His gaze followed her as she moved around the room with the proficient accuracy of a well-trained soldier. That, too, told him a great deal about her character.

“You like to be in control,” he finally said, watching her intently.

Robyn gave him a side long glance as she picked up her clothes and straightened them out. “You get all that from my vibrator?”

“And the last two nights. You like to be in control and you don't think someone else can do as good a job as you.”

She scowled. “You're not one of those men who thinks they always have to be on top.”

“Who am I t' bicker 'bout positions?” he grinned. “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

Robyn continued to look at him hard until a moment later she realized what he was referring to. Pressing her lips together tightly, she tried hard not to laugh. As it was, she settled for smiling coyly at his reflection in the mirror.

“And here I always thought it was every boy's wet dream to watch a woman touch herself.”

“Absolutely,” Dingo affirmed, “Watchin' a beautiful woman get herself off: hottest thing in the world. Watchin' her do it when it's s'pposed t' be my job to do it for her: not nearly as hot.”

The door to the hotel room rattled a little before she had a chance to reply. All traces of humor and teasing vanished from both their features as they exchanged a confused look, but quickly realized the cause.

“Did we put a 'do not disturb' sign on the door?”

Dingo strongly suspected the answer was a big 'no'. He made a lunge for his boxers under the bed, while Robyn retreated to the bathroom with the heap of fresh clothing in hand. There was just enough time for him to pull on a pair of pants and make it to the door before it was pushed open. Dingo brassed against it, not allowing the no doubt surprised cleaning person to open it more than an inch.

“Mind comin' back later, mate?” he asked. “Folks here not yet descent.”

Unlike the kid from the pharmacy last night, this person was much quicker on the uptake. After all, it was common knowledge what rooms like these were used for more often than not. The cleaner made an affirmative noise and moved on. Dingo locked the door once again and turned in time to see Robyn emerge from the bathroom again, fully dressed in a pair of form-fitting jeans and black t-shirt, her hair already dried and tied back.

“Is the Museum of Contemporary Art open today?” she asked.

“Think so. Why? Yesterday's tour not to your taste?” he wiped.

She shrugged her elegant shoulder and picked up her bag. “You were the one who called me a control freak. I've decided that's were we're going.”

“I see,” he followed her out the door. “This is punishment, isn't it?”

* * * * * * * * * *

In a modern metropolis like Sydney, public transportation was well developed, but even it was not immune to overcrowding. Still, the metro in the early afternoon was not nearly as crowded as it had been for the last two days. Aside from Robyn and her companion, there were at most five other people in the cart; a mother showing her young son something out the window, a business man in a classic three-piece suit reading a newspaper, and a coupe who were clearly not interested in anything beyond the scope of each other's lips.

Robyn, as a rule, did not enjoy the sight of public displays of affection and liked to think that she did not suddenly develop weird voyeuristic tendencies, but she kept glancing in their direction. Young, early twenties at the most, and definitely in love or at least they looked like they thought they were. She felt a twinge of jealousy at the normality of it all, then, in true the-Nile-is-not-just-a-river-in-Egypt fashion, quickly brushed it off. Won't last, she thought cynically. The things some people do on the metro...

A sudden flash of memory reminded her that maybe she was being a little hypocritical. Robyn chuckled softly, causing Dingo who sat beside her to tilt his head in question. She leaned in slightly.

“Funny story,” she said in a low voice. “My elder brother and I were in London a while back and we stopped by Waterstone's, one of their major bookstore chains. I was sixteen at the time, and my tastes ran to... well, shall we say things that are not< found in the romance section. A bit stronger than bodice rippers.”

“You were reading porn,” he supplied, loud enough for the mother a few seats away to glare at them both. Robyn paid the woman no mind, but kept her own voice down.

“They prefer to call it erotic literature, but yes. Anyway, my brother, at eighteen, liked to think of himself as oh, so grown up and beneath such 'trash'. He wanted to leave the store and was angry that he had to even come and retrieve me from there let alone that I refused to go for a long time. Eventually I left just because I was tired of arguing with him, but not before I picked up a little something.

“You know those large format 'Joy of Sex' or 'Kama Sutra' books they sell in the bargain section with graphically detailed photos that promise to show you how it's done as if you're a complete imbecilic? I bought one and, when we were heading back during rush hour in the underground, sat with the thing opened in my lap so that everyone around could see the pictures and pretended to read it with great interest. My brother was mortified.”

The story got a good chuckle out of Dingo, too. He could picture the whole thing very clearly and was suddenly happy he did not have sisters. He may not know Robyn's elder brother but at the moment felt for the man.

“Can't exactly say I'm surprised,” he put in.

“By what?”

“The whole thing. You like to have things your way, and when you don't, you get even.”

The look she gave him could have caused hell to freeze over and the devil to move to the arctic for warmer climates.

“You've known me for less than two days,” she reminded him. “Don't presume to psychoanalyze me.”

The tension floated in the air between them for a heartbeat, then Dingo simply shrugged, crossed his arms and leaned back into the stiff metro cart seat, eyes closed as if he had not a care in the world.

“Whatever you say.”

That only served to make her angrier, though she had nothing to lash out at. That frustrated her even more, and Robyn settled back trying not to sulk. Both remained silent for the rest of the ride and exited the cart.

Neither noticed that the man in the three-piece suit rolled up his newspaper and stepped out of the train after them.

* * * * * * * * * *

The museum was close to Circular Quay station, only few blocks away from the Rocks, which was why Robyn had remembered it. She thought it would be a nice change from the previous day; something modern after something historic. She generally had lukewarm feelings towards modern art, nothing special beyond a basic curiosity. Judging by his reaction, Harry fell into the category of people who thought that modern art was equivalent to the scribe of a four-year-old.

She had meant to wander around for only an hour and give him a break, but the comments earlier had annoyingly gotten under her skin, and Robyn was now determined to remain till the museum's early Sunday closing. She would turn this into exactly what he called it: revenge. It was not as if she was forcing him to stay, which eventually he did not, muttering something about wishing to see a different hall and wandering away.

Alone for the first time since she walked into the bar on Friday evening, Robyn sat down on the bench across from some odd sculpture of a jet plane hanging nose down from the ceiling. It reminded her of one of the many plastic toys Jonny had as a boy that transformed into other plastic toys indistinguishable from the original except to the trained eye. She vividly remembered that she had once picked the largest and taken it apart to figure out how it worked. Her little brother threw a tantrum and was not pacified until she'd put it back together and even fixed the robot's squeaky wing/arm/canon.

Jason, she purposefully agitated.

Jonny, she pacified.

Either way, Robyn had long ago learned exactly how to deal with each of her brothers.

She paused, considering.

Alright, so maybe there was some truth to Harry's words. She prefered to have no one but herself responsible for her. Robyn had complete ownership of both her accomplishments and her mistakes. This made her not the easiest person in the world to work with. Her brothers would have been the first people to accuse her of being a control freak, but that was different; Jason and Jonny were family who had known her all her life. The fact that a man she had known for less than two days picked up on it – from sex, no less! – disturbed her.

Tired of trying to figure out the deeper meaning behind the airplane, she got up. Might as well find the man and make peace. It was not his fault that she was so screwed up, her control freak tendencies manifested themselves in bed. It did not take her long to find him in the museum's small food court, flipping through one of the guides with minimal interest. She approached with two cups in her hand, setting the one with coffee in front of him before she sat down on the opposite side of the table with her own filled with ice tea.

“Peace offering,” she said, indicating the cup when he raised a brow at it. “Truce?”

For a moment he just looked at the cup, then Dingo sat up, tossing the pamphlet on the table, and took the coffee.

“Truce,” he agreed, and the cold tension that had saturated the air between them since the late morning lifted.

The silence while they sipped their respective drinks was a comfortable one this time, and Dingo was glad for it. It was not like he minded seeing her riled up; any passion looked great on her. But he was not at all a fan of the silent treatment, and damn, the woman could be a bitch when she put her mind to it. He was not about to point that out and screw up things again, though.

“I take it you didn't find anything fascinating,” Robyn finally broke the silence after her tea was half empty.

“Yeah, can't say this place does anythin' for me,” Dingo admitted. “I'm not from the kinds of social circles that's expected t' get this stuff.”

Robyn held her tongue from commenting that she was was from those circles and she rarely got it either. It was all well and good to tell humorous anecdotes that could have happened to anyone, but comments like that were exactly the kinds of things she avoided mentioning. They tended to lead to too many well-placed questions. She doubted the Canmore name meant anything down here, but there was no need to advertise.

“I think I'm done, too,” she said finally. “Any desire to walk back up to the Rocks?”

His face brightened at that. “Sure.”
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Seven Nights Down Under