A/N: Stahl's wife's name is Marta per canon.
Next morning, he is not that ungrateful. He thanks everyone but omits thanking her.
That afternoon at his apartment the preparations are brief and, soon, the monotony of the train feels welcome. However, the sun...right now it's too bright as it pushes itself in through the window. The wind outside is restlessly bending the trees. Both remind him of the first of too many times he went to see Harlee by the river. Back then, he didn't walk up to her right away but, instead, just stood there inhaling the scents of silt and sweet grass and stared at her, all the while feeling like stealing something that didn't belong to him.
Stahl's eyes refocus on Justin who is currently squirming in his seat, pointing and saying something in that intelligent voice of his. Finally paying attention, Stahl realizes it's witty and laughs to the point of hurting his cheeks.
Harlee sits at her desk back at the precinct and nervously taps the wood with her nails. Tap, tap, tap... The sound starts out pleasant but soon dislodges a slew of bad thoughts. Both days and nights are hard for her, she should be able to manage but apparently the way things were left is not going to work.
The cemetery is quiet save for the chirping of birds and raindrops hitting the leaves. The day is in luminous color, prismatic and bright, perfect for living. By the gravestone, he cuts a strong figure: hands in pockets, black suit, crisp white shirt. So him... She approaches slowly, heels sinking into moist earth. A few steps behind him, she freezes as he jerks his head to the side to give her a curt nod. She stays back to allow him the time that he needs.
As the day is shut out of the back of black Lincoln they sit far apart. The tension hangs heavy between them. What was she going to tell him? She stares out the window until a large brick estate begins rolling past. So that's where he comes from... She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, he wasn't kidding about surprises. Soon, the car rolls to a stop and he helps her out, his touch superficial, formal, far from the one he used to pat her down in front of her own house some time ago.
"I have to go see them, don't leave", he lets the words drop to the ground and walks on ahead.
"Why would I? I am already here", she counters inaudibly and rolls her eyes at his back.
She takes a step and her heel grates against something so hard that she has to look down. Cobblestones. First mud, now this-this is ridiculous. Well, at least next time she will know to bring sneaks...
When she finally reaches the entrance the noise and the sight hit her: the house is bursting with people, memorial service too loud. Flowers, huge heaps of flowers are everywhere making the place smell like a funeral parlor. That's only fitting. The crowd is big, she must 've been loved, but Harlee did not know her. A self-guided tour, then. What else can she do?
The hours go by and the house grows quiet. The last car, old and slow, with its equally old and slow owners finally disappears around the bend. Stahl sighs and pulls the curtains closed, done for today. Then he remembers, not quite...
He makes his way through the house looking for her. A dumb part of him wishes to find her in one of the bedrooms but he pushes the thought away. She is in the study. He hesitates at the door and watches her like a starved cat tracking a mouse. He knows she heard him come in but she continues her journey lightly trailing her fingers over everything. He shuts the door and locks it behind him.
"Not afraid to leave fingerprints, Harlee?"
She doesn't dignify that with a response but instead asks a question,
"The books, so many... Are they yours? " .
"Yes, and my mother's. Don't look so surprised".
"That you like books and had a mother?"
"Ouch, that almost hurts, you may want to try harder. But first things first. What do you want?"
She is leaning against the bookcase, silent. He wonders briefly how long he can fuck her against it before the thing shatters. Strong images show him not long, so, before he says anything idiotic, he goes with,
"Allright, I will wait".
He takes off his tie and his jacket and flings them away recklessly. Even so, they land on the desk in a nearly perfect pile. He grabs a newspaper from the couch and stretches himself out on the soft, well-worn leather. Outside, the wind begins to pick up and, again, rain is pelting the windows. He feels himself growing tired, so tired...
"Harlee, I'm falling asleep here".
No answer. Well, he has had it. He throws the newspaper aside and in one fluid motion is up and in front of her and she has to back up. He leans in slowly as if for a kiss but only reaches around her to pluck something off the shelf. Still, no words leave her mouth. Now he is determined and, in truth, not that tired. He leans in a second time, moves her jaw to the side with his mouth and scoots his lips from her chin up to her ear. He senses she likes it and goes on, twining fingers through her bouncy hair. She is so invitingly close. A whisper drops from his throat,
"Stop playing with me. What do you need?".
He very well knows what that is, but, still, she is silent and it infuriates him. He puts his fingers under her chin and smooths his palm down her throat. She exhales, hard, and that sound-it cuts him deep and now he wants her to whimper. So he pulls her in.
"Do it again," he breathes and licks a narrow stripe along her collarbone. If she is playing with him, he is skilled in the same and will make her feel what he wants her to feel. She finally shifts and drops her hand down his torso, undoes his buckle and dips her hand in. When she touches his hair he has to close his eyes for a moment-it's been so long since he felt her hands there. Her nail gently runs down the length of him and he is unexpectedly verbal, the escaping sound thick and poison-sweet.
She looks up at him and he is floating in warm honey. Harlee... She reaches her hand further down, cups his balls and massages them lightly. He can barely breathe. If you don't stop this and keep licking your lips I am two seconds away from fucking your mouth. But, right now, that would make him a bigger asshole than he already is. So when she tries to sink to her knees, he does the only thing possible- stops her.
"If you are here to apologize, don't bother", his voice is terse, cold and flat. He removes her hand from himself and presses a small prickly object into it. The second earring.
"Here, now you have two to remember me by".
"Pardon?" A look of confusion crosses her face and his next words hit her like hale.
"I have my family back. Do you still want to stay, um? Marta won't mind- she has learned to obey me. Perhaps you would like to do the same? ".
The look on her face says it all. He realizes he just went there and used her fear against her. Low, but that should make her leave now.
Humiliation clings to her everywhere like sticky fly paper and her skin uncontrollably crawls.
"You look unwell, can I help?" His voice is mocking as, disgusted, she walks away.
He has been trying to stop grinding his teeth for an hour by the time Marta walks in. Ah, he knows just the remedy for all of this nonsense...
"Come here", he whispers hoarsely, with want thick in his voice.
"Rob..."
He silences her with one hand on her mouth, the other under her skirt. She has missed him, she moans when he reaches her folds. He yanks both her sweater and bra off, the skirt is torn from her next and, just like that, she is naked and he is still fully clothed.
"I missed you", he lies as he pushes inside and all he can think of is how much he wants to fuck Her.
Two weeks go by filled with mindless fucking. The furniture, gardens, the cellar- nothing is off limits to him. He takes her so hard she wonders how she is not broken. Old uneasiness licks at the back of her knees as they rest on his shoulders. He is so good, why does he have to be rough?
Soon, the taste of his demons burns at the back of her throat and, just like before, she can barely deal. In the study, pinned over the couch, she fights and Let go of me! enters his thoughts. He feels like he was yanked out of slumber and suddenly something slides into place-these are not his thoughts, it's her voice. Jesus, what the hell is he doing? He lets go right away and she scrambles for her clothes. The last thing he hears is the click of the lock.