Title: Linens and Things
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Rating: PG-13
Thanks: Matthew, for working through this tiny block with me.
Duvet covers. Pillowcases. Comforters. They all matched. It was coordination and she pulled back to survey what she thought was rather good work.
It made her sad. No one would be likely to be under the sheets but herself.
It was why there was a lone watermark on her living room coffee table, caused by a single wine glass. And why bother with coasters? She was the only one who would ever see the little ring and remember when it had taken shape there, what drink had been being nursed that evening.
She pulled away from her bedroom and the fresh sheets and walked to her kitchen, locating a half-empty bottle of gin in a cupboard. Liberal was the word of the day and she saw no fault in pouring herself a healthy serving of gin into ironically enough, a White House mug.
Her couch was too inviting, and when she sat on it, she cursed it. She was too welcome in her own apartment. She needed something else. Needed someone else.
It was too easy now, to fall into a pit of despair. In her forties, what did she have to show for it? Sure, she worked at the White House but that had lost it's luster years ago when she realized the no matter how much good you set out to do the bad in the world always overcame it.
It was damn hopeless. She was damn hopeless. Strong, sure. Smart, absolutely. But utterly and completely hopeless, set in a perpetual motion of some sort. Some sort, didn't matter which, it was Saturday night, she shouldn't have to think of sorts. Or types of sorts or... whatever.
The gin wrapped around her tongue and she fought not to squint her eyes. It was a trademark of hers: take your alcohol fast and strong, it made an impression.
It was like how he took his scotch, on the rocks. But the alcohol wasn't in the glass long enough to be chilled, he'd down it and toy with the remnant ice. It was fascinating; it turned her on. He'd stave off the bitter aftertaste with a long pull on a cigar. He didn't particularly like them, but they suited his character: dark and smoky.
She remembered, from the depths of her drink, what his beard felt like pulling over the skin of her thighs, what he tasted like when she kissed him deep and thoroughly. He was everything that she wouldn't admit that she wanted.
It had been nothing but sex when it had happened. It had been slow and meticulous and she's woken sore and alone: the way she liked it back then.
Back then she's wanted him just because. She didn't know why she wanted him now.
It was a twisted metaphor, her mind. Not that it mattered at that point. It mattered the the gin was blazing a path of oblivion down her throat and she was all too happy to acquiese to it. It was easier that way anyhow.
Oh god, it was all slipping away, one sip at a time. She's left her tolerance for straight liquor back and Berkley but she's never admit to that. She thought for a moment about the small but insane crew of unstable coworkers for whom good ole CJ was the first call. She dared not leave the phone unanswered.
Cruel irony, truly cruel. His voice was rich with pain and understanding. "It was bad today, wasn't it?" His voice left no room for interpretation, and that was why she loved it. She didn't have to think when she listened to him.
It was difficult to speak with a gin-laden tongue but she managed. "I suppose, isn't it always?"
"Why am I calling you?"
It was a point of argument, there. Why was he calling her? "That's your ball Tobster, not mine. You tell me."
A silence hung on the line somewhere in between her apartment and the White House it hung, torn between attacking through his earpiece or hers. He took the bait, "I don't... I don't really know actually, is that alright?"
Her swallow was audible as she finished off the dregs of her drink and he knew what she was doing, because it was what he was doing. In the silence of his office he acknowledged Jim Beam, got to know him a little better.
They were marinated, both of them. "We should get some alcohol to soak up this food." Toby suggested, opening his bottom drawer and clunking the bottle of alcohol inside.
It had taken him several shots to work up the will to ask her that question. He was proud of himself, just a little.
"You mean the other way round?" Her words were slightly slurred. No, they were fully slurred.
Toby nearly laughed. "Yeah, sorry. I've been drinking."
CJ did laugh, throaty and long. "Me too. Maybe we should get some alcohol to soak up this food." She reiterated his earlier words, much to his amusement.
"This seems familiar..." A hand over his beard and he'd made his decision. "I'm thinking Italian."
CJ accepted his offer and wondered, for a brief moment if tonight she would fall asleep with someone else's scent on her pillow.