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Never Was
Part of The Deconstruction Project.
By Cappuccino Girl
Rating: Hard R.
Disclaimer: Never were. Never will be.
Her nails leave red streaks as they scrape down the walls, rough plaster
skinning her fingertips. Coarse hands rip the shirt from her shoulders
to reveal the whitish pink of her skin and the straps of her bra, black
and silk. He is still fully clothed, his erection pressing against her
thigh. Grasping her wrists, he spins her around and shoves her against
the wall, kisses her, pushes her hard in all the wrong places. She gasps,
and he releases her hands. They run down the ripples of his back, rapidly
memorizing, sensing his tension before reaching his fly.
He could tell her she's a bad girl, could tell her where to touch him,
how to fuck him. He doesn't, merely pins her in place with his eyes, grasps
her breasts with his hands, teases her, nears her center. She comes hard
and fast, cries loudly. Ed's forehead is slick with sweat and lipstick,
brow furrowing as he regains his breath. They don't kiss, merely form
a mass of skin on the floor, and once she's sure she's still whole, she
stumbles into the shower to scrub the smell of sweat and sex from her
body.
Hot water streams down her face and mixes with mascara, leaving black
veins on her face and chest. She remembers Sunday school classes, the
fall of nineteen seventy. "The Lord has blessed each of you with
unique gifts." The cheap rubber hair tie had pinched her scalp. There
was grit under her bitten nails. There was innocence and idealism and
infinite possibility.
She turns the water off and steps out of the shower. Gingerly, her hand
wipes the fog from the mirror to reveal tired blue eyes and dripping strawberry
blonde hair. It smells faintly of peroxide and nicotine. Taking a seat
on the toilet, she fiddles with the cap of her face cream because her
eyes are more hollow than she remembers and she's supposed to be the pretty
girl.
~* *~
Gil's breath is uneven and he's having difficulty speaking. "Oh Jesus,
Catherine."
Her body moves in a snakelike fashion, agile and quick, tongue flicking
out to touch his salty skin. She doesn't think at this moment. It's all
about action and reaction. Touch here. Words there. Fuck me.
Between them, there is no relationship. He is the man who explains how
to analyze crime scene data in light of the more human information she
has gathered. He could explain the world to her in complex phrases, and
she'd write it all down in a spiral-bound book where it would stay until
her next promotion. He is her supervisor.
But one evening when she'd been showing more cleavage than usual, and
the faintly musk scent of her perfume had floated towards him while he'd
held the front door open for her, she'd noticed the arousal in his eye.
She acted as she always did because she wasn't aware any other alternatives.
Her lips touched his, her breasts on his chest, and while she wondered
whether this man even carried a condom in his wallet, he thought how impossibly
beautiful she was.
She is now. Blonde hair covers her eyes and the sharp angles of her jaw,
and shoulders are accentuated by the orange hue of the street lights outside.
He holds her shoulders while they come almost together, in jagged waves
that encompass them both.
"God," he sighs, pulling her sideways onto the sheets beside
him. Her hair is still in her face, so he reaches out and brushes it away.
Beneath it, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes as wide as he's ever seen
them. Wrapping a leg around his torso, she pulls him closer again and
kisses his shoulder.
This tenderness should feel wrong and awkward, she tells herself. Sex
would be acceptable if it weren't for her growing dependence upon his
cautious touch that might as well be from a nervous school boy.
Catherine moves away from him and sits bolt upright on the edge of the
bed. She can feel his fingers trail down the slope of her back, causing
her to shiver.
"Don't do that," she whispers over her shoulder.
His fingers slide from her spine and around her waist, gently teasing
her towards him.
"Don't." And he can feel her ribcage fall after she has spoken.
She lights a cigarette and stares out the window.
~* *~
The doorbell rings, rapid and shrill, and in his marginally dazed state
he can make out the shadow of two feet in the crack under the front door
before he swings it open.
She's wearing this medium length gray skirt that barely clips the top
of her knee-high leather boots, black coat billowing slightly in the breeze.
Her head rests on the doorframe, lending her an almost innocent quality.
Her hand reaches up to her shoulder so that she stretches her head up
with a sigh before stumbling inside.
"Are you okay?" Gil asks her.
She contemplates saying that her life has been a stuck record of wrong
decisions and maybe now she could run away from it all. She believes,
for a moment, that this graying man might understand her if she were to
confess and bat her eyelashes in an appropriate manner. Her eyes remain
downcast, staring at the sand on her boots. The bookshelf is solid so
she grasps hold of it to steady herself.
"He was there," she says, because it's easier, because it's
also true. "In our bed. Fucking another woman."
"Excuse me?"
"Ed. I came home and he was there with this kid," she explains,
shaking her head emphatically. Her actions are so wild that they cause
a book to slide from its place on the shelf. She swears but leaves it
laying there.
Grissom's eyes dart around the room, unable to focus on the distraught
figure before him. Eventually he says, "I'm so sorry, Catherine."
She thinks that maybe she wants an argument, although she isn't sure.
She's fought for everything in the past and she doesn't know whether she
could be silent and let events fold out in front of her without contesting
their purpose. Her eyebrows shoot upwards. "You're sorry. What the
hell? My marriage is over and all you can say is you're sorry?"
He swallows heavily. "I'm sorry. I assumed that you knew."
She'd like to scream now, scream and curse and throw breakable objects
but she doesn't. She lets go of the bookshelf and slumps down onto the
hardwood floor, the coat crinkling around her, accenting her worn edges.
From where he stands, she appears childlike, her head in her hands, feet
tucked up under her. She remains there, her face covered, and he can't
decide whether to talk or to offer her a tissue or to just stand there
and watch the remainder of the spectacle unravel.
He leans against the back of the couch, taking care not to push too hard
against it, for fear of it hitting the table and knocking down a glass
of water which is precariously balanced on a stack of New Scientist magazines.
The room has grown darker since she first arrived and is now dipped in
a pink glow from the sun. He checks his pager, hoping for a potential
reason to leave. On the floor in front of him, Catherine doesn't move.
If his social skills were more refined, he would ask her where her daughter
is or where she plans to spend the night. He could offer her some coffee
or a half empty bottle of Bacardi from the liquor cabinet. He's sure she'd
prefer the second, and maybe a long thin cigarette.
"Would you-" He pauses as she removes her hands from her face.
She gazes up at him and says, "This is all so fucking pathetic."
Balancing himself on the armrest, he kneels down beside her, the blue
flannel of his robe covering the corners of her jacket. The color of her
shirt is the same as his robe, and this makes her laugh and cry at once.
"Would you just look at me," she sighs. "I'm yet another
older woman who's been left behind."
He leans in closer, runs his hand through her messy hair. She attempts
a smile. "Clever girl," he says, "who are you trying to
fool."
He wraps his arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead.
Quietly, she stays there beside him, mourning the loss of bruised wrists
and tenderness. One was never without the other.
~* the end *~
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Author's notes: Thanks to TS for the most excellent beta, and to Amber for
all the patience and encouragement.
Made it this far? Why not send a review to cappuccinogirlie@hotmail.com
She loves feedback.
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