Drifting
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None.
Pairing: CJ/Other, CJ and Toby
Feedback: Consider it an early birthday present. Or not.
Summary: She left when he was in the middle of a sentence, having heard it all before.
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He's a prick. It's so clear to her now, well, clearer than it had been. If hindsight is twenty-twenty, she must have a permanent astigmatism. How can she ever look back on her life, decisions she's made, and judge what she's done? How can anyone? Maybe she hasn't, sometimes, made the better choice, the one that makes everything up to that point make sense, should a causal observer pass judgment, but she's made the right choice for her. And if anyone wants to tell her she's wrong, she can tell them to go fuck themselves in four different languages, and throw in a hand gesture for fun; she loves watching people come undone by her hands, but still, there's something to be said for the spoken word.
She's having this conversation with herself at three thirty-two a.m. on a quiet, but unnoticeably busy, New York street. It's raining cats and dogs, perhaps some other animals, but she's never been one to mangle metaphors. Steve, the newly discovered prick, was the reason she was here, right now. Not "The Reason", capitalized article and all, but the reason she's standing underneath an awning, an ugly awning (green and purple, she's seen prettier vomit), in shitty weather early Saturday morning. She's constantly amazed that in this city, where everything is extremes, especially the politicians and the fashion, she can feel so bland and lonely on a street corner. Her shirt is clinging to her like a child, and the rain has made it transparent. She doesn't care because not everything should be a mystery.
Her and Steve had this good thing going. Not good, it was just okay. If someone was to ask her to pick a word to describe this thing, which her and Steve had going, the first word she'd think of is, "eh." What that says about her, she's not sure. She thinks it may offend some Canadians, that being a common interjection of theirs. What that says about Steve doesn't really matter to her.
A few weeks ago she'd met him at a crosswalk. That should've been a warning sign, honestly. But Steve: blonde, blue eyed, and eager. Looking back, the eagerness may have been naiveté, but he hid it well, men being natural actors. They had words, small talk, because that's what people do when they're waiting to cross the street. He is a banker; she can't get into specifics now, not having been listening well at the time. She told him she was 'between jobs' because that's what you say when you have a job and your heart just isn't in it. Having had some things in common, or just attracted to each other, they agreed upon dinner.
The food was pretty awful, Chinese, but by her third drink it didn't really bother her that much. Steve was making himself at home, a hand on her leg and his breath in her ear, and that bothered her a little bit. After a few more drinks it didn't bother her so much anymore, her having just found him hard and straining against the faint pinstripes of his sensible work pants. He was older than her, a few years, and that might mean something. He might've gleaned some valuable experience from those few years. Whether he retained it, or not, she's not sure. They took a taxi back to his place; the car gliding through the city like thread through the eye of a needle, and they slipped back and forth on the black anonymous seats. She didn't mind too much, it gave her a way to size him up without having to explain her hands all over him when they hadn't kissed yet. It was hot and humid that day, and she could feel the tires sticking to and peeling from the imperfect, stifling streets with every rotation.
His apartment was about fifteen minutes away; predictably Steve paid the driver, and included a reasonable tip so he could sleep better at night. Typical apartment, one bedroom, one bathroom, four walls, and everything in between that made a person human. His bedroom, an old frame and sturdy headboard, it looked almost antique. Out of place definitely, she might like this bed just yet. He has a few years on her, but women have had the upper hand for so long there's no way he can catch up to her. She'll spread her legs, in that one moment he'll realize there's no better than her, and that she had him all this time, strung along on a figurative leash, and she's shortening the give just for kicks.
The first time they have sex, it's awkward. It's mostly him. She knows her body in and out, and most men's bodies are the same if you're familiar enough with the equipment. Hands low on her hips, he had fucked her from behind, to impress her no doubt. They couldn't quite find their rhythm, save for his balls slapping the backs of her thighs, which was staccato, if she was to put a word to it. He's finished quickly, and while the out-of-place bed frame was still squeaking and squealing, he went into the adjoining bathroom. She's a little winded, but surmises she got a better fuck from the bumpy taxi ride on the way over there. With a hand roaming her sweaty breasts and a thumb on her clit, she finishes herself off; it's her own body she finds most attractive in these situations, after all. Suddenly craving ice cream, she quickly gets dressed and leaves the apartment in a hurry. She almost runs into him on her way out, but he doesn't stop her, or question her hasty departure.
Two dollars and an overpriced ice cream sandwich later, she walks up the two flights of steps back to his apartment. He's sitting on his leather couch, in his underwear, watching cartoons. She rolls her eyes as she steps through his doorway, assailed by childish sound effects. He addresses her, but doesn't turn away from the television.
"You left quickly."
"Yeah."
"Any specific reason?"
"Ice cream."
"You finished?"
Holding up the wrapper, "Just now."
Standing up, he tosses the remote on the couch, and walks over to her. Taking her hand, he guides her back to the bedroom. She wonders, while his mouth is on her neck, if she wants this. The first time wasn't exactly enjoyable, hell, she hardly remembers now; an encore might be a bad idea. Oh well, she's had her ice cream, so there's that. She shakes him off of her long enough to take off her clothes. Earlier that day, as she started talking to him, she knew this wouldn't last long. She was bored after five minutes, and bored in bed after three minutes. She shoves him onto the mattress, hard. Whether this lasts two months, or only tonight, she's going to make sure he doesn't forget her. Trailing her tongue through his happy trail (it tastes like ice cream), she's pretty sure he won't forget her, judging by the empty promises of forever and fidelity coming from his mouth. It's better the second time, or she doesn't care anymore, having faced disappointment earlier.
This went on for the better part of three weeks. It's always the same, first dinner, and then sex. There exist variables, and it's impossible for any circumstance to be without them. Science isn't biased; form and function exist even there. The meal isn't always the same, and they've fucked in every room in his apartment except the bathroom. He's gotten better, but she can still make him come with a flick of her tongue and a look in her eye. But he did this thing that annoyed her. Wherever they went out to eat, didn't matter where, he always ordered for her. At first she thought he was just being nice, but he was still doing it. If someone addressed her in public, and he was with her, he would answer for her. She was raised to speak up for herself, loudly if need be, and this pissed her off to no end. She'd said as much to him late on a Friday night, and they had argued. The argument didn't bother her, but he gave reasons he couldn't support, and couldn't look her in the eye. Even though she's nearly six feet tall, she's only got one backbone. He'll have to find his somewhere else. She left when he was in the middle of a sentence, having heard it all before.
Glancing at her watch under the dim glow of the streetlight, it's three fifty-seven a.m. Hell bent on walking the ten blocks to her own apartment, she refused to call a taxi, deciding instead to wait out the rain. She chuckles at the thought that she's up against nature, braving the urban elements. While she's toeing a cigarette butt, one of the many that litter the asphalt, a taxi abruptly pulls up to the sidewalk. A man, angry if she's ever seen it, gets out, slamming the door. He's barely got two feet on the ground when the vehicle starts driving away. The angry man throws what looks like a paperback book at the departing taxi. He misses his target, but it's hard to aim when you're mad. He follows the book assault by flipping off the taxi. It's so far gone now the gesture is pointless. Turning towards the left, he starts rubbing his forehead, the streetlight creating a rather sinister glow about him. She can't watch and stay quiet.
"Your book."
He turns, splashing water, faster than she thought he would, and she's a little scared.
"What?"
"Your book," gesturing towards the direction in which the taxi left, "is lying in the middle of the road."
"Huh." He starts walking up the street, in search of his tossed book.
She's surprised when he comes back a few minutes later, heading straight towards her. It's raining harder now, and he's almost in a jog when he gets under the ugly awning. She gets a good look at him while he's shaking the water from his hair and clothes. Dark curly hair, what would've been a five o'clock shadow three days ago, and it's hard to tell what clothes he's wearing since they're so wet. His hands, there is something about them. Centuries ago hands like that would've wielded swords, she imagines. She'd like to think he uses them for something equally as elegant, but she's met men before who've wasted more than their hands.
"Do you want something?"
Startled, she's been staring. "No, sorry."
"Don't be sorry, just know what you're doing."
"I didn't throw a book at a taxi."
He seems surprised that she replied. "Well, I'm sure that Mr. Kafka," he holds up the soaking wet book, "won't be offended. People use his name as an adjective, so he'll live to see another day."
He's made her forget about Steve two flights up from her, so that's a start. She doesn't see an ending in him.
Wiping a hand on his pants, which is pointless since he's soaked, he offers it to her, "I'm Toby."
Taking his hand, "I'm CJ." His grip is strong and reassuring, undeniably elegant.
Testing her name, "CJ."
She starts to speak, but he cuts her off, and it won't be the last time.
"I would've thought something different," gesturing with his hand, "something-"
"Bigger?"
He looks her up and down. The thought of his eyes on her body makes her shiver.
"Not necessarily … there's a lot in those two letters."
She can't tell if he's joking, but if he is he's got a killer deadpan.
"Thanks," starts playing with the hem of her shirt, "it's short for Claudia Jean. Which isn't bad, you know, compared to what I could've been named. My mother must've-"
"It's fine."
"Is Toby short for something?"
"Yes," but he doesn't tell her what it's short for. "What are you doing out here?"
"It's a bit of a story. It'd bore you."
"You don't know what bores me."
"True," thinks for a moment, "we should get a drink."
"It's," glancing at his watch, "quarter to five."
Holding up her wrist, "Women have watches, too. What's your point?"
He shrugs. "I just thought it should be said."
"Anything else you think needs to be said?"
She almost makes him smile, a disturbing thought. "Yeah. I can see through your shirt."
Tugging on the offending, apparently only to her, garment. "It'll guarantee us free drinks wherever we go."
"How can I turn down such a ladylike offer?"
Taking his wrist, she drags him to the street to hail a taxi. "You can't."
During the ride to a no-name bar, she keeps her fingers wrapped around his wrist, sensing poetry underneath their tips.