Tryst

Scotland

It's the pose that does it.

She's been so,  mon dieu she hates the moral judgment of the word. But it remains the right one here, in any language. Soo good, since she decided he couldn't give her what she needed, or maybe wasn't ready to, or didn't see her like that. Nothing more than a flying fuck when he got itchy on the road and she was available to scratch.

But here she was, with his encompassing form around her back and his arm causally slung across her collarbone and she could barely keep her lip from between her teeth to smile.

Smile for the camera, Helene. He'd whispered in her ear and she was thankful for their blustery setting the clothing covering her chill bumps.

All day, She'd been trying to keep dry and get some candid shots to go into the vault. Sometimes she wondered why they paid her to take so many images, most of them, a greater preportion than usual, just lived in her computer or Jeff's computer never to be used.

Would they ever release them? To the utter delight and meltdowns of this man's rabid fans.

She gets it, Helene does. What they see in him, she sees it herself often. And she sees more, his dick has made her soul smile on more than one occasion.
It didn't start with these libidinous thoughts, it wasn't one of those moments where he was a living lighthouse or hedonism personified. It's the first scene with the imaginary fish and he's having a bit or trouble. He's also cold and wet. Which are two sensations he doesn't love, but seems to include in every damn piece of art he makes. He's throwing the little bean bag onto the rock and it's not meant to be gentle exactly, but he seems irritated, not concerned as you would be for a suicidal fish when you yourself are suicidal. His character at least. Thank god. But his physical discomfort is intruding on his ability to act right now; he's barely holding on. He loses his balance while frustrated and falls into the water, cursing.

Helene will not laugh.

She hides her giggles while they change him. He got his Gucci denim outfit uncomfortably wet. Why would you chose that outfit to go to a watery death? She is overthinking. As always.

He's ready to go again, fresh Gucci down to his drawers, and by the 10th take, he's in the swing.

When Harry nails it, He gives the director and Helene the biggest grin and she's charmed. The lights have turned on and the fog has lifted. He shines.

He is finished with this set up and Helene has just put her gear away. Harry brushes past her to get around a rock and presses an affectionate kiss to the easily accessible top of her head.

"Thanks for coming, Tiny. Know it's cold."

Helene smiles at him, and somebody else with a camera, someone not her, clicks their picture.

It's always weird when she is the subject. She's pretty sure she has more photos with Harry, selfies at least than with any boyfriend she has had, in her life, which flashes before her eyes, with a highlight reel of her beneath Harry, while he turns her around towards the camera.

The arm that was across her scapula, turns her like a top and her stomach flutters with the motion. His motion. His arm has come across her clavicle, like it did in LA, and she comes together like the place in between those bones, a shallow place where her heartbeat is thumping visibly.

She's thrumming.

Not that there is a damn thing she can do about it. He can do about it. Anybody can, they have so much work to do.

The quiver in her chest and bones and betwixt her legs stays with her all day. Through lunch with all the people she's missed on their break, around the lunch Harry's had cooked for them, with all the little flourishes he likes. All the different food needs accommodated, hospitality on show. It's a wonderful midday after a bitter morning, the sun's even peaked through. The whole group brims with happinesss. Helene and her table included, she laughs and kisses Molly's cheek, she's so cute.