A/N: Hi, yes I've been MIA for a while now. I've been very busy.. and very distracted. :P Oh well. Anyways, I LOVE "Cat On a Hot Tin Roof" (1958, starring Paul Newman and Liz Taylor) and so I wanted to just try my hand writing for it. Please R&R! Especially if you're familiar with this category. PS: I am unsure if I got the travel/distance bit accurate (between New Orleans and Mississippi) but that's ok. Also, let me know what you think of the ending, because I, myself, wasn't too thrilled, but maybe I'm just lacking sleep. ;)

Disclaimer: I do NOT own "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof", the movie or the play, or any of it's characters. This is for non-profit entertainment. :)

"This Sticky Heat"

Thus far, it had been a silent drive. They were making the trip from New Orleans to Mississippi for Big Daddy's birthday party. Birthday party... right, thought Brick. It'd probably turn out to be a farewell as far as that "big" man was concerned. But Brick would keep his mouth shut about that. Driving had been hot when they started out, being the middle of July, but it was even worse now that it was late afternoon. Rain would be nice. Brick wished it would rain.

Next to him, lounging like a cat in the passenger seat, was a beautiful woman. She reached her sun-browned arm up behind her head and leaned back, breathing a soft sigh as she did so. The vehicle's top was down and the wind assaulted her face, causing her short, raven hair to whip about chaotically. After stopping for lunch she had tried, earnestly, to sleep while her husband drove. And she had slept... for a while.

Wearing her big black, round sunglasses, she had tilted her head back onto the head rest, aimed at the sun, and closed her blue eyes. Every now and then, Brick stole a furtive glance. Discreet as possible, lest he be caught. He watched her as she doze. In the sun, her skin looked darker and more golden than usual, and her jet-black hair gleamed lustrously in the light. She had started out with a wide-brimmed sunhat, but it had been tossed into the back seat hours ago, forgotten.

Instead, she'd taken out a travel-sized bottle and begun to massage white sunscreen lotion all over her face. Slender fingers ran along her forehead, cheekbones, chin, nose, and neck, even reaching below the edge of her white blouse and then some. Light cotton and sleeveless, it was ideal for the hot summer weather. For bottoms, as well, she had chosen white cotton shorts paired with beige sandals. Whenever they stopped in the shade she was good and cool. Under the sun, she was in perfect form to tan on the drive. She was glad the cadillac's vinyl seats were white, not black. This way, her bare legs wouldn't get burned.

Now she was stretched out on the seat. Her lean, toned legs occupied every inch of leg room she had. She was arched, laying her head comfortably against the rest, and there was a small gap between her waist and the seat back. Her arms were tangled behind her, one under her head as an extra pillow and the other wound protectively around her stomach. Each time she made a move, her gold bangles jingled and glinted harshly, reflecting the glaring sunlight.

The scorching heat was hard to bear, yet she was somehow able to sleep. Brick shrugged. The sun made everyone sleepy, including his wife, even if it did roast her. Her chest beaded sweat, and Brick could see the moisture glitter in the light. A few drops rolled down, and Brick's grip on the steering wheel tightened. Quickly, he turned away.

She was asleep. He couldn't be too sure because of those sunglasses, but she was probably asleep. Brick nodded and swallowed. Yes, she was asleep. But just to be safe, Brick kept his eyes fixed on the road for a time.

Relapse was inevitable, though. After a mere few minutes of silent, focused driving, Brick again turned to look at the gorgeous creature beside him. She was too close, he thought. Closer than he would have liked. So easily he could just take his hand off the wheel and gently graze her face instead. But he wouldn't dare. Couldn't. He'd decided not to a long time ago, in fact. And if he did do that – that seemingly harmless gesture – one thing might lead to another – probably would, actually – and he could not let that happen. No, he had to stay aloof.

But, damn, it was hard. She smelled good, too. It was the same perfume she'd always worn – the one he preferred. He hated that he liked it, that he craved her scent. He hated that her thick, velvety black hair had felt so lush between his fingers. He hated that her blue eyes were so piercingly clear, and the way they used to widen and dilate when she would shudder from such lucid pleasure in his arms, and the softness of her skin and the way she had tasted...

She mumbled quietly in her sleep, and Brick was brought back from the lecherous past. Shifting to her left, she faced him. He watched as she unconsciously licked her lips. She reminded him so much of a lanky, black feline. Her striking blue, almond-shaped eyes, midnight locks, and skin that was smooth as cream all held a certain cat-like resemblance. That was partly how her nickname came about, after all.

Brick kept his hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. He didn't want to risk another onslaught of hot, vivid memories triggered by the body laying, breathing next to him. He felt her moving again, in the seat. Maybe she would wake up and stop torturing him. Hopeful, he turned his head.

Yawning, she stretched slim arms over her head, lengthening her lithe torso, her bangles flashing and making music as she brought her hands down again. Blinking, she adjusted her pupils to the light before slipping the glasses off. Sitting up, she turned towards Brick. Immediately, her husband's gaze reverted back to the road ahead.

She pretended not to notice and – unable to suppress it – yawned a second time, more loudly. "Ooh," she breathed. Taking in their current surroundings – just some grassy, green fields and evergreens – she looked around. "Where are we, Brick?" she asked, sweetly, in her southern inflection.

Without looking at her, he answered flatly: "Just outside Mississippi."

Surprised, his wife's bubble gum-colored lips formed an 'o.' "Already! What time is it?" Glancing at her wristwatch, she found out for herself. "Why, it's just four o'clock now! How long we been drivin', Brick?"

"Eight hours." He still did not look.

"That long?" she wondered outloud, always surprised by the distances between the two places, between New Orleans and Mississippi.

Brick clenched his jaw. "Yes, that long."

Recognizing the irritated tone, she didn't say anymore. Instead, she faced forward, folding her hands in her lap. Brick kept his eyes glued to the highway, his hands bolted to the wheel. At least she was awake now, even if it asked for conversation and called for participation. It was better than when she was asleep in the seat, stretching and sighing and tantalizingly tangled. Now he couldn't even steal one glance in her direction, let alone several, as he did while she was napping. Now she would catch him, undoubtedly, and Brick wasn't sure if he'd be able to come up with the right excuse. Exactly what excuse existed for ogling your wife? It was better, he told himself.

But her scent remained; that unusual and mystic blend of gardenia with vanilla that he couldn't shake. It was there whether she was awake or not. And the very woman herself – his wife in all her glory – was still there, in his presence. Her soft, languid, cinnamon body. The body he hated. Voluminous raven hair, gleaming baby-blue irises, pink, plump lips. The hair he hated, and the eyes and lips and skin and hands and even that sweet nose he hated. Hated them all. Hated her. Hated her for being his wife.

Before there was hate, however, there was love. Such intense love and giddiness and curiosity. Brick had been smitten by this wonderful, radiant female. And she was so in love with him. She still was, Brick knew this. But it didn't matter anymore – not after... Skipper. These days, resentment alone was left over, replacing his affection. He was devoid of all and every passion. It had been over eighteen months since Brick had last laid a suggestive hand on her smooth skin, squeezed her shoulder, kissed her deeply, ran his fingers through her hair. Instead he kept his distance, both physically and emotionally. It was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, but he was desperate in his resolve and, so far, it was working.

Now, Brick Pollitt was not only an injured ex-football hero and ex-sports announcer, but – now added to the list – a turned drunk. And a self-proclaimed drunk, at that. She tried reasoning, pleading with him. Once, she even tried locking up all the liquor in the house. But that did only happen once, and Brick's miraculous supply never ran dry. Friends of the couple were distant aquaintances now. He didn't speak to Big Daddy, even when Big Momma called the house, hoping to catch some of her favorite son's waning attention. He didn't care about them, or what they thought of him or what they thought of his bourbon. The hell with them, he thought bitterly, them and their lies and lying. Oh, he didn't give a damn.

He'd nearly-perfected his impassive veneer. It protected him from caring too much about anything. Including her. She was good, though, going out of her way to protect her drunkard husband from just those people. There were rumors about Brick Pollitt's alcoholic indulgence floating around the town where they lived. There were even rumors circulating about their bed. Eventually, they'd floated their way over to Mississippi, where his parents lived. She did her absolute best to discourage their belief in those rumors and make excuses for her husband. It seemed it was all she could do. Brick wouldn't listen to her petitions. He wouldn't even look her in the eye. Just down the bottle. That's where his bright blue eyes and soft mouth were stationed now – permanent, it seemed.

She didn't understand, it was so perplexing, so frustrating! But Brick had his reasons for keeping his distance, and among them was one that stood out above the others. One that even he wasn't sure had it's own reason for being. It was that Brick Pollitt loved his wife. But he hated it. Brick hated to love Maggie. He wasn't completely sure why, but – right now – he did. What he held for her was almost an unshakeable animosity.

However, after all of her pathetically incessant begging and pleading for attention, he may not have been moved, but her presence left a taste in his mouth and a film over his skin. He felt stuck, hot, and it was making him sweat. Just like this sticky heat. Brick shifted his collar a little. This damn sticky heat...