.
.
nice try,
you cannot turn away
but nice try
.
.
i. (there's something wretched about this)
On the night of her engagement party she lies spread out on the desk in her study, her boss's head between her thighs.
Seconds tick by on the ancient grandfather clock behind her, reminding her that in less than twenty minutes she should be downstairs, next to her fiancé, greeting the guests. Caitlin digs her nails into the desk, bites her tongue.
She's quiet when she comes.
"This is the last time," she says, pushing herself further back on the desk, purple dress up around her waist. Her breath comes in short gasps. He rises from his knees, his gaze steady in its intensity as it rakes over her, and it still sends shivers down her spine, even though she's in love with someone else, even though she shouldn't even be thinking about it (or maybe – because of that).
He unbuckles his belt, pushes her legs farther apart. "Definitely."
They had this conversation before – her words desperate and hopeless, his answer always the same (always letting her go) – and she'd leave promising herself she would never come back, knowing full well that's not what would happen. (She always came back.)
It's different this time. She feels it in the way he grips her hips (it hurts, it will leave bruises, but it's the best kind of pain), the way he whispers her name, feels it when he comes with his lips pressed to her neck.
They don't kiss. She can't ruin her make up.
(There are 39 days until the launch of the particle accelerator. 53 days until her wedding with Ronnie.)
(It is the last time.)
.
.
.
The thing is: she should have known better.
She's 23 when she starts working at STAR Labs; full of enthusiasm and energy, dazzled by the brilliant minds she gets to work with. She's a quick study; learns to fit in with the other scientists, even though she's one of the youngest there (the youngest, actually, save for Cisco). She learns the workplace routine, makes friends. Her youthful naivety doesn't hurt her yet, because she's smart and careful, friendly enough to be liked, yet still focused completely on the work she's doing. The goal is clear: show them that they weren't mistaken to give her this opportunity. Show them that Caitlin Snow was a risk worth taking. (She doesn't forget the long talks she had with the head of her faculty, about her lack of experience or a Ph.D, while Dr. Harrison Wells sat next to her, his charming smile never leaving his face, saying over and over that he trusts her and that he's willing to take this chance, carefully ignoring the way her hands shook in her lap.)
He's a bit like a hurricane, Doctor Wells – she decides early on. He's always moving from lab to lab – checking up on progress, offering praise, discussing new ideas. It's an obvious effort to boost morale, you don't have to be a psychologist to know that, but Caitlin finds out first hand how well it works. He can drop by in the late afternoon – when she's craving caffeine and her very brain hurts from arguing a certain problem with her lab partner Louise – and even a few of his questions, astute and on point, can bring her back on track, working on another solution with new-found energy until Louise taps her shoulder to let her know it's time to go home. Caitlin knows she's not the only one motivated by her boss's approval and passion; the whole lab works like clockwork, the results each week more astounding than before. It's more than an honor to be a part of this team.
The mistake she makes? It's hard to tell. Maybe she starts feeling too much at home. Maybe she trusts herself too much, maybe she feels too lonely, maybe all she really needs at this point is to be close to somebody.
She starts talking to Louise more. They spend most of the time together, and she's easy to like – with her sarcasm, sharp wit and kind, intelligent eyes. She goes to lunch with Cisco and laughs at his ridiculous jokes until her eyes well with tears and her eyeliner gets smudged. She finally accepts the weekly invitation and goes with the whole team for a Friday drink.
She lets her guard down.
.
.
.
They're listening to Larry Ishmael's wild theory about Superman. It's a late Friday night and Caitlin feels warm and lazy, buzzed by the two vodka tonics she's just drank. She smiles too wide, her lipstick smudged on the edge of her glass. She can't remember the last time she felt this good.
Larry stops talking, looks forlornly at the empty beer bottle standing in front of him. There's laughter and shuffling of chairs, and someone calls 'Damn it, he's not even at the good part yet'.
"I'll get you another, Larry," Dr. Wells says, getting up. He looks like he's holding back laughter himself, lips curved upwards and slightly trembling. He turns to Caitlin, gazes at her own empty glass. "Would you like one too, Caitlin?"
She nods her head, for a thousandth time marveling at how wonderful he is, how completely unlike anyone she's ever met before. He takes her empty glass and her eyes follow him as he turns around and walks to the kitchenette. He's so tall, and lean, and it's somehow even more pronounced now that he's taken off his jacket. Her eyes slip lower, and she unconsciously licks her lips at the sight of his ass in those tight-fitting slacks.
It takes her approximately three seconds to avert her gaze and go completely red, all thanks to Louise who calls her name from across the table. She starts going on about something Caitlin can't really focus on because a) she can't shake off the image of her boss's shapely ass and b) she's panicking about noticing said ass in the first place.
She tries to take a deep, calming breath.
It's all because she's drunk, right?
.
.
.
She's completely sober when it happens again. She's sketching at her desk, nearly finished with her project, when she looks up through the glass wall of her lab. He's talking to Dr. Stone, with their backs turned to her and she can't help her gaze dropping lower. It takes only a moment for her to catch herself and she goes back to drawing, feeling hot and foolish and out of control.
And it's hardly the only thing that worries her.
She starts noticing things about him; they're random and seemingly inconsequential, but it's like she's suddenly attuned to everything he does, the way her body reacts to his nearness.
She finds out that:
he smells like mint and some sort of delicious, rich cologne;
he plays with his glasses, a lot;
his fingers are long and thin, and she wonders if he can play the piano (this train of thought is dangerous because playing the piano is not the only thing one could do with fingers like these);
when he smiles the corners of his eyes crinkle and dimples appear in his cheeks, and it makes him the most beautiful man she's ever seen.
The harsh truth is: she has developed a completely unprofessional, pathetic, schoolgirl crush.
On her boss.
And well. It's fucking inconvenient.
.
.
.
It's more than inconvenient when it starts interfering with her work.
He still pops into her lab, still leans above her shoulder, still smiles and offers praise – but it has exactly the opposite effect to the one intended. Caitlin focuses too much on her deafeningly loud heartbeat, the very brush of his sleeve against hers sets her nerves on fire, and has this place always been so damn warm?
He looks at her with curiosity, the intensity of his gaze piercing her through; it's like he can reach into her mind and see all her ridiculously inappropriate thoughts. He keeps looking – even when she turns around she can feel his gaze on her, like a warm touch on her body.
"You are overworking yourself, Snow," Louise says, her face pitying, when Caitlin jumps after the other woman has touched her shoulder. "When was the last time you went out?"
(It's a rhetorical question – they go out that night for drinks and dance too much; Caitlin goes home with a handsome art student whose name she won't remember the next day. But that's okay. That's how stress-relief works.)
.
.
.
Nothing changes. (Or everything does, depending on the perspective.)
She continues looking at her boss. Her mind continues supplying her with images of Wells's pianist fingers running up her thighs, of his lips pressed to her neck.
She continues to hate herself for it.
(The difference she refuses to acknowledge is that – sometime along the way – he started looking at her too.)
.
.
.
They have a Thanksgiving party, to appease their sponsors.
It's dull, but they have to stay until eleven, have to play nice for the Central City wealth. Caitlin finds herself with a bottle of wine at one of the side tables, pretending to listen to an art collector of sorts – fat and sweating and leaning too close; but she's getting drunk and it feels good; numb and pleasantly warm, her smile coming more easily with every minute.
She wonders briefly if enduring this man's presence is worth the check he'll give them, decides that yes, of course, they'll need all the money they can get now that they're talking about this brilliant new project; she has so many ideas, so many ways to make this work –
"There you are, Doctor Snow."
The art collector sits back in his chair and suddenly Caitlin is able to breathe again. Wells is standing by her side glaring at the other man, strangely grave, almost threatening. Her heart beats faster. Her bottle of wine is almost empty.
She looks up at Wells, her chest contracting – is that concern in his eyes? – and tries to smile reassuringly, because hey, she's doing fine, there's no need to worry.
But it doesn't work very well.
He apologizes to the man – his voice hard, frigidly polite – then leans down and holds out his hand to her.
"Come on, let's get you home," he says, his breath brushing her hair. He wraps his arm around her waist to steady her. It's a blessing really (not counting the shivers his touch sends through her body), she's not entirely sure she could make it on her own.
She must have fallen asleep in the cab, because when she opens her eyes they're walking up to her house. Her head is not spinning anymore, but her legs still feel shaky, so she's happy to keep herself pressed into Wells's side.
When they reach her door she turns around; his hand is still on her hip, anchoring, keeping her upright. Caitlin dips her head back. Looks into his eyes. They seem dark in the dim light of the street lamp, and there's heat behind his gaze. She doesn't pretend it surprises her.
There is no notion of romance – there wouldn't have been even if she weren't pissed drunk – but still, something ignites inside her, and all of her stone-cold logic deserts her mind under the intensity of his gaze.
She leans in, her knees wobbly, curls her fingers into the lapels of his jacket. His scent is intoxicating, blinding, and he's so close, and so warm, and for once Caitlin is tired of running away.
So she kisses him.
He tastes like champagne and mint, his tongue hot against hers. She means to be tentative at first, give him a chance to withdraw, but it's all useless because he's kissing her back, open mouthed and urgent. His arm tightens around her waist, pulling her closer until she's pressed against his chest, struggling to breathe but never wanting to let go. His hand cups her cheek and tilts her head back, kisses her hard, fierce, nips at her bottom lip. She moans into his mouth.
When he pulls back, his eyes look dazed. His hand is still cradling her cheek. Caitlin's breath comes in ragged gasps.
"Come inside," she says, but it sounds like a question, unsure, and she flushes against her will.
Wells's thumb brushes gently across her cheekbone, cool against her feverish skin. She wants to close her eyes and lean into his touch like a cat, wants to turn her head so that he's touching her lips again.
"No," he says, and good God, she actually pouts, mortification setting in. He presses his lips to her forehead, hot and lingering. "Another time," and he takes a step back, his arms falling from her body, leaving her terribly hot and aching.
She thinks she hears him say goodnight, and then he's turning around and walking away. She leans boneless against her front door, her keys biting into the skin of her palm.
.
.
.
Caitlin considers quitting her job.
She screwed up bad, really bad, and quitting would allow her to preserve at least some dignity, as opposed to being publicly laid off by the boss she assaulted (which is probably going to happen anyway). But then – it would be a betrayal of everything Caitlin stands for. Giving up on science – giving up on the particle accelerator she knows she can help create – for some stupid, personal reason? That, she could never forgive herself.
So she takes two aspirins and wallows in self-pity for the whole weekend. And on Monday, she goes to work.
It's horrible.
Absolutely nothing happens.
Wells spends the whole day locked in his office – Louise laughs that he probably has the worst hangover of them all, that the sponsors must have bored him out of his mind and broken his brain – but Caitlin thinks it's even worse than a direct confrontation. His absence sets her on edge, and she can't handle the uncertainty – her hands shake, and she keeps looking at his door, unable to focus on her work.
When she sees him the next day she feels herself shrink – both in fear of losing her job, and from the memory of jumping into his arms like some sort of –
But he doesn't say a word, instead goes to Louise's desk to talk about something she's been working on, and Caitlin doesn't even dare to look at him, her eyes glued to her monitor the entire time he's in the lab.
.
.
.
They don't talk for an entire week.
It drives her crazy.
It's ridiculous, because it's quite clear at this point that he's not going to sack her – yet she's paralyzed with shame, furiously blushing every time she looks at him. Wells seems to be content with keeping his distance and doesn't initiate any sort of contact between them, unless they're in a group and politeness requires it.
It drives her crazy, because she misses him.
She's good at what she does, she knows she is, but work is not the same without his input. She always goes for the difficult path – and she misses Wells's fresh point of view, the way he can remind her that sometimes an easy solution is not necessarily a bad one, the way he can completely redirect her train of thought and inspire her to find even better ideas.
She misses his jokes, and his crinkling eyes and the touch of his hand on her shoulder. She shouldn't be thinking about it anymore, but apparently she's just too far gone.
She's never felt more miserable in her life.
.
.
.
He's leaning on the edge of his desk, sweeping his fingertips over the screen of his tablet, his coat already on. She shivers at the thought of missing him – she stayed late after all the other employees had left, preparing a lengthy speech, hoping that if he were to shout at her at least no one would be here to witness her humiliation. (She almost wishes he'd left. Almost thinks she's not strong enough to do this.)
"Caitlin," he greets her, and she really needs to stop acting like a sixteen year old blushing idiot, for God's sakes. She's made a decision and she's going to follow through.
She swallows drily. "Sir, I wanted to apologize."
Wells puts his tablet down, then crosses his arms over his chest. She almost forgets the entirety of her speech under his inquisitive gaze.
"I – what I did the other night, it was terribly disrespectful and unprofessional, and I'm so sorry, sir." Her voice wavers. She feels so damn young, so silly.
Wells stands up.
"I was drunk and I didn't know what I was doing. It was a horrible mistake."
He steps forward and her breathing quickens; there's something swirling in her stomach, dread and anticipation, both at once. She wants to step back (wants to step forward).
"I agree" he says, "that it was a mistake. Because you were drunk, and you didn't know what you were doing."
She wonders if she's gone mad. If her hearing is still working. If she's going to faint.
Wells looks at her, a hint of sadness in his blue eyes. He's close, if she extended her hand she'd be able to take a hold of his coat, but he makes no move to step any further. "What kind of man would it make me, if I took advantage of you like that?"
Caitlin feels a sudden urge to laugh, and another to kiss him.
His eyes flick down to her lips.
She goes with the latter.
.
.
.
This is not real, she thinks, the edge of the desk digging into her ass, her legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth trails down her jaw, over her neck, and she moans – undignified and ablaze, digging her nails into the wool of his coat. The door is unlocked. The cleaning staff may come any second now, and she knows she should care, but –
"Is that alright?" he asks, his voice strained, his fingers on the zipper of her dress. Caitlin nods mutely and he drags it all the way down. She tugs it off her shoulders, suddenly aware that he's still fully clothed while she's left in her underwear, but it only makes her wetter. She grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him down to her lips.
(Later – after the explosion, after a miraculous recovery, after horrific accusations – she'll remember that evening and wonder: how could he know exactly where to kiss her to make her scream, how could he know how to curl his fingers in her cunt in just the right way to make her come so hard and fast she'd seen stars, how could he know – but that'll be later.)
.
.
.
They're in the conference room, the main staff gathered around the table and everyone is clapping and cheering, because the first draft is finished, because they're one huge step closer to success.
She finds Wells in the crowd and he smiles at her – that brilliant smile, her smile – blue eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples appearing in his cheeks.
Something explodes in Caitlin's chest.
She smiles back.
(They start working on the particle accelerator. The clock starts ticking.)