The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

[faulty heaters]

i.

o c t o b e r

Nat doesn't like winter.

It's dirty snow on the side of highways and slush tracking into the house and babies with pouty lips and red cheeks, breath freezing as it dispels from their little pink mouths. It's turning blue when she steps out of the shower in the morning, and the need to drag the duvet from her mattress just to muster up the courage to face the cold of her room.

Nat doesn't like winter and winter doesn't like Nat either, apparently.

Because it's just starting now, a week from Halloween, and just last night the heater made a loud creaking noise before groaning and stopping with a shudder, shocking her and the Littles' bones with the now home-circulating New York chill. In the absence of machine-brought warmth, Nat finds herself saying things like "Duck, mind that third pair of socks I sat on your desk" and "where did I put all those blankets, again?"

It's quite sad, really, because Nat doesn't like winter and it's hitting her hard already, before the real thing's even started.

It's not like she hates everything about it. Snow is nice when you're looking at it from the standpoint of being warm inside, or maybe bundled up so tight you can hardly move your limbs. And the babies look really adorable in the scarves and hats and things Harry's designer friends send them. So it's not like she hates everything about it, but she hates it enough to confidently say it is, by far, her most despised season.

"Fucking cold" The Artist mutters, rubbing her hands up and down her (two-clothing-layered) biceps, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. The kitchen is always the worst in the frigid months, with it's pretty farmstyle windows stretching from one wall to the other, providing virtually no protection from the frost seeping in underneath their sills. "S' like warmth's ugly step-sister."

The sound of the french doors opening jerks her from her (winter-hating, ice-sickle infested) thoughts. "Nat?" Harry's voice is still tired, so Nat turns her head to take in the bright green block letters displayed on the microwave's screen : 9:20. She blinks because she's a bit disoriented, a bit confused - shouldn't the Littles be up by now? Usually at 9:20 in the morning she's flipping (burning) pancakes and bouncing a baby on her hip and handing a tiny Spiderman printed rucksack to a little boy who tends to forget his socks.

So why are they alone at 9:20 in the morning?

She distractedly slides on socked feet towards the eating area, where frosty air is drifting into her home from the open doors. "Just come in," she gripes, tugging at his bicep but smiling a bit as his booted feet get caught on the step, lanky limbs flailing until balance is restored. "You're making me freeze, you goof."

His front teeth dig into his bottom lip as he grins at her. He tries not to notice the reddened state of her lips, or the little bruise sucked into the dip of her collarbone because his trackies don't do well at hiding excitement and the indentation of his teeth and tongue on her body is enough to make his heart rate skyrocket. "S' not even that cold out there. A bit chilly, yeah, but not anything that calls for three pairs of socks" he teases, gripping her hip and squeezing before moving further into the house. Harry's outerwear sheds on the ground and Nat almost explains how positively disorganized that is, how cluttered and messy, but she's too busy being surprised at the abundance of physical affection so early in the morning. "If you're cold at night, love, you can take that old duvet from the London house-"

"-I'm plenty warm at night. Thanks, though."

Harry turns to face her with a raise in his brows, lips pushed together until they're white at the edges. "Right. I knew that."