Since meeting her, Cosima has never felt grateful for Rachel Duncan's aloof presence. Their every exchange thus far seems to have been marked by the manager's flagrant condescension. However, as the woman breezes into the room, nose turning up subtly at Delphine and Mark, the guitarist is unexpectedly thrilled to see her.
"Mr. Rollins," Rachel begins, poised between Mark and Madison. He turns from Delphine's embrace, keeping one arm securely around her waist. Despite the forthright manner with which he'd greeted the drummer, he regards Rachel with a polite sort of timidity. In an odd way, it seems to suit him. Delphine, on the other hand, blushing profusely, has yet to wipe the look of surprise from her face. Nevertheless, she glances at Mark's arm, the way it holds her, and manages to close her mouth. "I wasn't aware you'd be visiting us. Is this business or—" Rachel offers the pair a near-imperceptible smirk. "—pleasure?"
"A bit of both?" He glances warmly at Delphine and smiles. "Madison told me the magazine was printing another article on In Vitro—wanted to know if I'd be up for a freelance job." Cosima has to turn away as Mark's arm squeezes tighter around Delphine's middle. As she does so, she catches Sarah's eye across the room. Her drummer is leant against the wall next to Beth, hands stuffed into the pockets of her leather jacket, her gaze unbearably sympathetic – even a touch angry. Cosima finds she can't look at her either, and instead stares down at her feet. "My schedule was conveniently open this weekend. Couldn't pass up the chance to shoot a couple of great concerts. Especially considering I get to hang out with my girlfriend in the process."
Girlfriend. With the warmth of that greeting kiss, the tenderness of his embrace, the way his arm wraps around her waist in proud possession—their relationship should have been undeniable from the start. Then again, so should have the strictly platonic nature of her relationship with Delphine. Nonetheless, Cosima had somehow allowed herself to imagine—to believe—that she wasn't alone in her affections.
Of all the poor choices, all the misjudgments she's made in her life, she can't easily recall one producing a feeling of foolishness quite as deep as this.
"Well, very sweet," Rachel replies tersely. "I trust you'll take wonderful photographs—you always do. I also trust you'll allow Madison the appropriate time to interview the band."
"I work very efficiently, Ms. Duncan," Madison interjects playfully, glancing over at the rest of the band to roll her eyes. "I'm sure we can allow these two a bit of time together. I know it's been a while since they've seen each other—I had to hear about it for hours on the plane ride over."
"Sorry," Mark chuckles, before turning bashfully to Delphine. She misses a beat before smiling reassuringly at him. Out of the corner of her eye, Cosima watches the blonde hesitate in leaning closer to him, whispering some vague sentiment into his ear.
"I'm sure Maddie can get a few good pull quotes out of the rest of us while they get reacquainted," Beth says, winking in their direction. Cosima chances another glance at the couple, and catches Delphine looking shyly at the floor. Her own cheeks burn with some combination of shame and self-deprecating anger, understanding perfectly well what kind of reacquainting will be in order—Don't think about it. Don't be any more of a fool.
"Fine," Rachel acquiesces. "We're on a tight schedule." She turns her gaze to Cosima. "You're on in an hour and a half. I suggest you meet with Cal soon for a proper sound-check." Cosima can only nod, throat too tight to form a reply. "Ms. Hill, would you mind speaking with me in the hallway? I've prepared a list of talking points I'd like you to cover with the band." Without waiting for the reporter's agreement, Rachel turns on her heel and strides from the room, not sparing a backwards glance.
"Talking points," Madison exclaims in a poor imitation of Rachel's posh accent. "Great…" She rolls her eyes before rising, following the manager at a leisurely pace, and pats Mark on the shoulder as she passes. Haughtily, she tells Delphine, "You can thank me later."
As soon as the journalist has left, Cosima sucks in a deep breath, lightly clearing her throat. "Well, should we sound-check?" Felix and Sarah don't need to be asked – they're ready to follow the moment she gives them word, sensing her total discomfort. Art, however—possibly the most neutral person in the room—stops her.
"She said 'soon'. You can hang with us for a bit if you want."
"Yeah," Paul agrees good-naturedly. Cosima has to will herself not to grind her teeth. She's exerting so much energy in simply averting Delphine and Mark's gazes that she feels unsteady. "C'mon. You guys should get to know Mark—one of the best photographers in the business." He shoots the photographer a grin, causing the man to chuckle modestly.
As terrible as she feels in this moment—and truly, the feeling is more potent than she would have imagined—Cosima is still a professional. Mark, despite his relationship with Delphine, is a professional, too. Their circumstances may not be ideal, but they call for a sense of propriety that Cosima is intelligent enough to oblige.
She's not sure if it's her dignity or her compassion that she's swallowing as she walks forward, throat constricting and lips curling dutifully upward as she extends her hand towards the photographer.
"Yeah, s-sorry. Where are my manners," she laughs falsely, barely stumbling over her words. "I tend to get a bit frazzled before shows."
"Nerves like cotton, this one," Sarah laughs. Cosima can tell she's being disingenuous—trying to help her cover. If she weren't so distracted by the weight of Mark's hand, the strange delicateness of it in her own, she might feel more grateful.
"Cosima Niehaus—Nautilus."
"Mark Rollins," he replies, smiling affably. His entire demeanor is welcoming, beckoning them forth with ease. Cosima can't deny the charm in his smile, in the light flutter of his eyes. It pains her, makes her feel somehow betrayed – by whom, she is unsure. "I've heard plenty about you."
"Oh?"
"Yes," he chuckles, releasing her hand. "I think Delphine is your biggest fan." She can't help herself then. She looks at the blonde, feels unable to resist—it's all part of the act, she supposes. But Delphine is suddenly as unreadable to her as she was on the day they met, smiling thinly, though with the faintest tremor in the corner of her mouth.
"Thanks," Cosima says to her, voice quieter, more sincere than she'd meant it to be.
"Of course," Delphine replies, her smile strained. Cosima has to turn away, simply to avoid furrowing her brow, gushing the string of questions that suddenly burbles in her chest.
Felix and Sarah rescue her once again, stealing Mark's attention for a moment with their own introductions, attempted jokes. And while Felix usually has more of a filter in these situations, he is the one who, with Mark's hand in his, innocently remarks, "I didn't know Delphine was seeing anybody."
"Oh, yeah." Mark rubs the back of his neck, pulling his girlfriend closer to him. "Delphine—" He seems to catch himself on this, glancing momentarily at the blonde before correcting himself. "We're pretty private."
"We had a few incidents with the paparazzi after the first album released. We all agreed we ought to tamp down on security after that," Paul explains.
"Except for Childs," Art drawls, earning him a cuff on the arm.
"Some things you just…" Delphine struggles for the right word—Cosima can tell. When her eyes fall expectantly, slightly incredulously on the blonde, the struggle only worsens. Finally, she settles on, "… would rather keep to yourself." It seems a reasonable explanation, Cosima thinks. Personally, she's never been in a relationship where she wanted to keep the other person a secret, but maybe that's just her. Like Sarah said earlier, she's not famous.
"Some things," Mark agrees, nodding at her. Abruptly, he turns to face Cosima and her bandmates again, expression changing quickly. "But, hey—I'm here to photograph In Vitro, of course, but I'd love get some shots of your set, too."
"That'd be great," Sarah says, a bit hurriedly. Cosima can feel her friend's hand on her arm, nudging her towards the door.
"I admit I'm not the most familiar with your music—"
"No worries," Cosima interjects, before adding, with a laugh, "Most of the people in the audience aren't either."
"You get them on their feet though," Beth says.
"Of course we do. We're pretty," Felix smirks.
Mark chuckles. "You'll photograph well, I'm sure."
"Hope so, Mark," Cosima smiles gently, eyes darting to the door.
"I don't want to be the wet blanket," Sarah says, "but maybe we should sound-check? I felt like my drums were off last night. Cal might need to do some experimenting."
"That's a good idea—we should," Felix agrees. Cosima could kiss them both.
"Ever the consummate professionals," Beth says sarcastically. "You choose the most inopportune times to adopt a sense of responsibility, Manning. I've got a fresh bottle of whiskey waiting for us."
"We'll be hitting it later, don't you doubt it."
"Oh, well, I'm sure we'll have time to talk more after your set," Mark tells them. "I'll definitely be in the press pit with my camera though. I'm gonna get some great shots for you guys."
"Thanks," Cosima says. She smiles at both him and Delphine as she walks out, but doesn't meet the blonde's eyes. Once they're out in the hall, striding quickly past Rachel and Madison, who smirks impishly at Cosima as they pass, the guitarist finally feels that she can breathe.
After they've rounded a corner, Felix finally breaks their silence. "Okay, that's… weird, right?"
"Which part," Sarah asks. They're both trailing behind Cosima, walking at a jittery pace.
"Well, the boyfriend, in general? I can understand wanting privacy, but there is a huge difference between a private relationship and a secret one."
"Yeah. Fuckin' weird, that. I may have heard his name tossed around by the band once or twice, but it was never implied that they were dating."
Even though Cosima isn't exactly a part of their conversation, it's obvious that it is entirely for her benefit. "I mean… Cos—"
"Not gonna comment."
"Really—" Felix rushes forward, as if to take her hand, but she quickens her stride.
"What's the point?" When they reach the doors leading up to the stage, Sarah, with more adamant swiftness than Felix, grabs Cosima by the arm and tugs her to a halt.
"You find Cal, yeah," the drummer tells him. He nods, sending his sister a warning glance before leaving them.
Cosima can't meet Sarah's eyes once they're alone. Their earlier conversation plays over in her mind, her friend's caution, her wariness making her feel more like an asshole than a fool. Sarah had seen this coming – maybe not Mark, exactly – but Cosima's dejection, yes.
"Cos," Sarah begins, placing an hand on her shoulder. She tugs slightly on her shirt sleeve in an attempt at getting Cosima to meet her gaze, but the guitarist won't budge. She doesn't push. "About that shit I said earlier…" She doesn't think Sarah is brazen enough to give her an "I told you so," but she knows she deserves it.
"It's not like you knew, Sarah. Not really."
"No," she sighs, her voice coming quieter. "I just had a feeling that you'd end up getting screwed over somehow. I didn't want to be right about that. I mean—hell, I don't think she meant to… lead you on—"
"She didn't," Cosima says, her voice obstinate. "She didn't lead me on." Finally, she meets Sarah's eyes, her gaze hard, fiery. "She never told me she liked me. She never touched me. She just… enjoyed my company? I don't know—maybe it's been a while since had a friend who wasn't… all caught up in the In Vitro madness. I don't know." Her brow crumples, and she purses her lips tightly. "I read it wrong, Sar—got overenthusiastic. I should've known better. Everyone else did." After a pause, a deep breath, she resolves, "It is what it is."
Sarah watches her for a moment, really studies her, her own brow furrowed. Her grip on Cosima's shoulder tightens.
"I'm sorry, Cos. For the record though—" She hesitates for a moment before conceding. "I do think she likes you."
After a pause, Cosima smiles, though it doesn't touch her eyes. "Fat lot of good that does, huh?"
Something is off. There are incredible nights for Cosima, when she'll walk out on to the stage, before the lights come up, or the fog starts rolling, when all she has to do is gaze out at the crowd and everything is set aflame.
When it's on, it's like communion – between Nautilus and the audience. Religion might not be in her blood, but spirituality has always been. Her great aunt Gert used to swear their family had descended from a clan of revered mystics. Gert used to drink cactus tea with her breakfast muffins though, too—her reliability questionable.
Now, Cosima at least understands the ideology of speaking with a higher power. When the instrument is in her hands, bright lights on her face and shadows at the backs of a hungry crowd, the discourse unfurls like the tea leaves at the bottom of Gert's cup. Together, they eat the bread, drink the wine. And though she's not one for biblical faith, for the man-upstairs representation, she believes in walking on a divergent plane, remitting otherworldly energies. These are the unseen sciences.
Tonight, they're not on. She feels a disconnect from the crowd, the niggling distraction of Mark and Madison standing in the press pit erecting some sort of barrier between her and the audience. In truth, they don't even seem to notice. The crowd responds to her wildly, but she feels like she's on the mute end of a one-way conversation.
It's frustrating. The tempo of their entire set picks up in her exasperation. Between songs she declines bantering with the crowd, throwing in Sarah and Felix's customary introductions without panache, offering rote thanks to In Vitro for the "awesome opportunity" they've been given. She's scoffing at herself internally for the messes she makes. At least you didn't quite step on anyone else's toes, she tells herself. You only shot yourself in the foot.
They finish their set too quickly. A part of her wants to walk off stage, pack it in with a quick thank you. The audience wouldn't know any better. Tonight though, they gaze at her with eagerness, an entreaty. Tonight, of all nights, they're not ready for her to go. It infuriates her, in a way. "I'm not feeling it," she wants to yell at them, resentful of their willing obliviousness. Resenting herself for giving in to an audience that can't even tell the difference. But she can't exactly help herself.
"Oi! Cos," Felix shouts over the din of the crowd. She whips around to squint at him, pulled from her spiteful musings. "Are we done?"
"No," she tells him, voice hard.
Felix kicks the completed set list with the toe of his boot. "So, what's next?" Cosima considers this for a moment. There are newer compositions they could play, but with this strange disconnect, the undeserved fervor of the crowd, it doesn't feel right. Some part of her – some very petulant part – is insisting, They're not worth it.
Suddenly, she turns between her bandmates and asks, "Old one?"
Sarah perks up immediately. "Which?"
Her choice is immediate. "Anoxia"—the first single Cosima had ever released under the Nautilus moniker, recorded in the basement of her parents' house when she'd been home for winter break during her first year in college. This was back when she'd first gotten into the garage rock scene in San Fran, a time when the constraints of higher education had left her disaffected with her own abilities. She convinced herself, for a brief period, that she could make a name for herself as some greasy, new-age punk playing bad music—ignoring the fact that she was far too sentimental to make a living off of apathy.
"Anoxia," Felix asks, while Sarah, grinning, twirls her sticks. It's more her type of music than anybody else's. "If you say so..."
Cosima turns to face the crowd without comment, switching on her fuzz pedals. "One more," she inquires. They cheer, something that normally makes her heart thump, but today makes her jaw clench. "We're gonna play an old one. Doubt you know it." Readjusting her guitar strap and plucking a fresh pick from the mic stand, she laughs dryly. "Then again, most of you probably didn't know the new stuff either. So… why the fuck not?"
She gives Sarah and Felix a quick signal over her shoulder before stepping over to the nearest amp stack, waving masochistically at Madison as she passes. Without preamble, she thrusts the guitar's pickups into the speaker, smacking her open palm onto the pickguard until the entire stadium erupts with the roar of her feedback. Strumming down hard on a power chord, she jumps back from the amp, feedback washing out gradually. Precisely on her sixteenth down-stroke, Sarah kicks the bass drum, hammering down on the crash cymbals with enough force to make Cosima's entire body shiver.
The album version of "Anoxia" had been a riotous fuzz-fest that dangled perilously between ordered chaos and complete unintelligibility. On the record, it had been about four minutes long; but at the tempo she is playing now, she'll probably be able to compress it into a dizzying three minutes.
She's thrown off kilter by how voraciously the crowd eats it up. "Anoxia" is her song, of course, but it's not her, not Nautilus – or at least it hasn't been in a long time. She feels cheap for feeding it to them; however, as quickly as the negativity hits, it is swept away in the enthusiasm of the crowd, the ascending decibels of her instrument ringing her eardrums in a near painful buzz.
She mounts the chorus and bridge with total self-possession, a cloying fervency that tears violently into the solo. At the same moment her left ring finger is bending the strings up on the fifteenth fret, her right hand strokes forcefully downward. Distantly, she can register the pick slipping from between her fingers, a sudden jolt of heat running through the tendons in her hand, but pays neither of them heed. She closes her eyes tightly, body bowing over the guitar as Cal's instincts kick in and he flips the switch on the strobe lights, her surroundings dissolving.
Moments such as this are the oddest Cosima will ever know. She's always had trouble dialing down the volume in her own mind, smothering the constant chatter of her thoughts. Every once in a while though, if she can play loud enough, hard enough, her hands will move autonomously, the world melting away—the white noise snuffed like a candle's flame. Her hands remember the motions of "Anoxia," but with her eyes closed, the silence swallows her whole. For a moment, it is peaceful.
Until her fingers slide back up the neck of the guitar into the final refrain, head thrown back. When her eyes snap open, she can almost convince herself her ears pop, the music returning with such breathlessness that she feels nauseated.
Cosima's hand is throbbing when she returns to the microphone, a sudden sheen of sweat dappling her neck and cheek, and howls the final chorus with enough force to surprise herself. Even after she and Felix have struck the last notes, Sarah's crash tapering off into the attention of the crowd, the final words of the song carry from her mouth, drifting off into the rafters. For a couple seconds, there is silence, save for the constant, dull hum of the stadium as the lights fade. Then, with sudden excitement, the audience is roaring once again.
Cosima's head rolls back on her neck as she breathes deeply, exhaling through barely parted lips. A tiny bead of sweat trickles down the side of her face, where one of her dreads is pasted to her cheek. When she reaches up to wipe it away, she is met with an even warmer wetness that instantly catches her attention.
There are spots of blood all over her right hand, most of her of her index fingernail torn roughly off. She thinks back to the uncomfortable jolt in her hand after the pick had slipped from her fingers during the solo. The nail must've caught on one of the strings during a hard strum and been ripped from her skin. Cosima laughs, trying to wave the sting out of her finger. She'd been too overwhelmed by the music to even notice.
She removes her guitar – the scuffed '69 Bobkat she's been playing since she was nineteen – and studies the white pickguard, now smudged and dotted with crimson. With a strange sort of reverence, she sets the guitar in its stand, running her bloodied finger across its body.
"Cos—what the hell?" Sarah places a hand on her shoulder, startling her.
"Got a little messy," she replies nonchalantly, waving her bloody hand to the crowd.
"Obviously," Felix says, coming to stand beside them. "You all right?"
"Fine." She smiles for the audience, leaning over to the nearest microphone to thank them for their attentiveness, before they make a hasty exit offstage.
"Nice surprise there, Amadeus," Sarah says, clapping her affectionately on the shoulder. "I've never seen you play it like that before."
Cosima shrugs as Felix takes her right hand in his, cautiously avoiding the blood. "Can't take you anywhere, Darling… we should probably get this cleaned up."
"Probably," she says remotely. Sarah and Felix steer her towards the rec. room. There's a sink in there, a first aid kit. And, as long as Childs hasn't gotten too overzealous over the duration of their set, a fresh bottle of whiskey, too.
"Liquor first, cleanup second, yeah?"
"Yeah," Cosima agrees, perhaps with more conviction than she's been able to muster this entire evening.
When they walk into the rec. room, Delphine is sitting on the couch with Beth, drinking a glass of red wine and speaking quietly, their heads bowed towards each other. They look up immediately as they enter, Delphine's cheeks pink. Even Beth appears a bit disconcerted.
Cosima must look more of a mess than she had imagined, because Delphine is instantly on her feet, brow furrowed, asking what happened. The fact that Sarah and Felix each have a hand on the guitarist, guiding her with unnecessary protectiveness and (despite earlier comments from Sarah), a fair amount of cossetting, only dramatizes the situation.
"It's not how it looks," Cosima mutters offhandedly, glancing down at her own hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Delphine walking nearer before waving her off, presenting her bloodied finger. "Nail tore off during a guitar solo." She hurries quickly out of her bandmates' grasps, hopping up onto the counter next to the sink as Felix goes for the first aid kit and Sarah searches for their drink.
"Seriously," Beth asks, a bit incredulously, inviting herself to walk over and inspect Cosima's hand herself. Delphine hovers behind, a bit closer at Beth's forwardness. "That's like… raw as fuck, Cos," she laughs. "And pretty gross."
"I know."
"Childs—you said there was whiskey," Sarah asks, gathering a stack of Styrofoam coffee cups.
"Oh, yeah, let me grab that quick" Beth replies, grinning, and pats Cosima on the shoulder. "I think you deserve a glass, Rock Star."
For a brief moment, after Beth bolts from the room to grab the whiskey, Delphine steps timidly forward. "May I," she asks, glancing down at Cosima's hand.
The brunette squirms slightly. "It's not a big deal. Like, at all," she mutters, but lifts her hand for Delphine's inspection regardless.
After a moment she concedes, "No… it is not so bad. It just looks painful."
"Why haven't you washed it yet," Felix asks, his tone mildly reproachful as he sets down a bandage and a tube of Neosporin beside Cosima.
"They had to see it first," she shrugs, Felix shooting Delphine an accusatory glance as she does so.
"I'm sorry," Delphine tells her, blushing. "You really should clean it."
"A bit of Old Granddad will do the trick," Beth exclaims, tearing at the plastic on the bottle's neck as she strolls back in. Cosima smirks, running her hand under the warm tap, wincing slightly as the water hits her throbbing finger.
"Son of a bitch," she mutters. "It really does sting."
"Poor baby," Felix teases, leaning on the countertop beside Cosima.
"Nothing half a bottle of whiskey can't fix." Sarah hands her the first generously filled cup.
"Half a bottle? Maybe if she'd broken an arm," Beth scoffs, taking the next drink.
"Come now, Elizabeth. You don't want us telling that cute little reporter that In Vitro don't know how to share, do you," Felix asks, accepting his own drink.
"Delphine," Sarah asks, prepping the next cup. As far as she can tell, the blonde had been trying not to watch Cosima drying her hands.
"Oh, no, thank you. I have wine."
"Suit yourself." Sarah keeps the last cup for herself, holding it up to the others. "Cheers. Drink up," she commands, eyeing Cosima. She waits until her friend downs her drink before throwing back her own. As she's promptly filling the next round, Mark and Madison walk in.
The effect of their presence is immediate. Delphine flinches, separating from Cosima's proximity with a suddenness that would almost suggest guilt. Cosima, on the other hand, turns towards Sarah, keeping her eyes on the counter as she busies herself with applying the Neosporin.
Mark throws an arm around Delphine's shoulder, kissing her cheek. "Man, you guys were great," he tells them enthusiastically. "I'm know I got some incredible shots of you. Especially during that lost song. You were just… wild, Cosima. And the blood—looked awesome."
"Mark—"
Delphine's rebuke is cut off as Madison brushes carelessly past her, exclaiming, "Let me see!" Without hesitation, she takes Cosima's hand in hers. Delphine watches her rub her thumb over the brunette's hand, and stiffens against Mark. "You were incredible. So uninhibited." Picking up the band aid, she smiles affably. "Want some help?"
"Sure."
"Thirsty," Sarah asks the journalist, refilling their cups.
"Not yet… maybe after an interview?"
"If there's any left," the drummer snorts.
"I have so many questions I want to ask you right now," the reporter tells her, a little bit quieter, her voice still impish.
"Uh—sure." Cosima speaks into her cup, feeling some strange mixture of exhaustion and anxious energy. It makes her limbs burn, ache. She raises her eyes to meet Madison's, but instead catches Delphine's, watching her nervously as Mark's arm hangs lazily over her shoulder. Cosima downs her drink instantly, forcing herself to smile back at the journalist. "After another drink, okay?"
Standing in the hallway, her head resting against the concrete wall, Cosima can feel the reverberations of In Vitro's encore pulsing through the infrastructure. The hum of the crowd laps distantly, eerily at her bare feet. She looks down, flexing her toes—can't remember when she lost her shoes. She raises the cup to her lips, too, tipping it back, surprised when barely a drop rolls onto her dry lips—can't remember when she finished the whiskey either.
With a sudden panic, she raises a hand to her ear, relieved to feel the joint she'd tucked there earlier. At least she still has that.
Even the wall feels as if it is pushing her away. Everything spins for a brief moment as she rights herself. Some far away part of her brain is aware that she's had too much to drink, that she should have a glass of water, that sickness is probably imminent. But the nearer part, the louder part, reminds her of the weight of a zippo lighter held in her pants pocket, and sets the joint between her lips.
She'd been mostly sober for the interview with Madison. The reporter had originally promised she'd only take twenty minutes of their time. She only needed a few quotes about life on the road with In Vitro—Sarah hadn't been far off the mark there, much to Cosima's displeasure. But then twenty minutes had quickly passed, and the guitarist was aware that the questions were becoming increasingly personal, asking about her aspirations, inspirations, the method to her madness.
"When you played that last song—"
"Anoxia," Cosima had supplied for her.
"Anoxia—yes. When you were playing, you had the strangest look on your face. Utterly possessed. It was like Poltergeist or something," the journalist laughed. "Certainly entrancing for an audience member. But what was going through your mind?"
"Nothing," she answered without hesitation, a reply that seemed to surprise Madison.
"So, there was no… deeply philosophical rumination," the reporter chuckled sarcastically.
"Nope. Just the quiet—the only time it ever is."
This had piqued her interest. "Would you like to elaborate?"
Cosima smiled sweetly. "No."
She takes a long hit off her joint, holding the smoke in her lungs long after they start to burn. Sarah and Felix had done a bit of talking, but most of the questions were directed at her. In truth, she'd been more difficult, more terse than usual, though she tried not to be rude. Madison must have viewed it as a challenge. The way she'd smirk at Cosima, eyes narrowed, mouth on the constant verge of a pursing had said as much.
"You don't have much a sense of discretion, do you?" She's too drunk to be startled by that teasing voice. Turning slowly, she raises the joint languidly to her lips, regarding Madison's perpetual grin, the notepad she'd been carrying earlier now replaced by a Styrofoam cup.
"I do. When I care to," Cosima replies before inhaling.
"Hmm." Madison slows, leaning against the wall just a couple feet from Cosima. Her features are clouded now, eyes heavy-lidded from what Cosima can only assume is the remnants of their Old Granddad. Her voice pitches a little lower when she admits, a tilt to her head, "You're broodier than I'd expected."
"That so?"
"Yeah. Not at all what I'd heard." Cosima shrugs. "I'm not complaining though." The reporter licks her lips, glancing down at her cup. "Well, not about your sunny disposition, at least. All the liquor's gone. I'll complain about that."
"Want a hit," Cosima asks, pulling on the joint a third time.
"Yeah." The guitarist holds up the joint, nodding for her to take it. Madison hesitates before tilting her head back and tapping her lips, a brazen smile on her face. Cosima's stomach does not twist – not in the way it so often has recently – but she feels a quick thrum of heat, nonetheless. "Give me yours?"
She has barely had a chance to nod before Madison is grabbing her by the back of the neck, pulling her boldly to her. She blows her smoke into the reporter's open mouth, feeling a thrill as the woman's lips linger, the overly sweet perfume of liquor pervading. Cosima is too dizzy to pull away, aware that it is mostly a trick of the whiskey, the pot; but also, partially, the heady spin of being come on to unabashedly, standing in the proximity of someone who wants her without qualm.
And Madison does. Cosima may have been foolish enough to misread the signals Delphine has been sending her, but she's had her own pesky feelings in the way, muddling her judgment. Here, there is no affection – merely the primal hum of her body, dulled as it might be by the melancholy Mark Rollins had visited upon her. Here, there is no misinterpretation – not in the undeniable smolder of Madison's fluttering eyes, the heat of her hand still holding Cosima by the back of the neck.
This isn't good for her, she's sure. None of it is, but she can't pull away—might even fall over if she tried. The alcohol and her own thoughtless lust immobilize her. She thinks she might regret it later. Right now, she welcomes it.
"I thought you were a professional," she says lowly, her mouth still hovering before Madison's.
The reporter chuckles. "On the record, yes."
Cosima frowns, unable to stop her every thought from verbalizing. "You don't even know me."
"And you don't know me either. We're even." The reporter closes the distance between them suddenly, caressing away Cosima's next protest with the flat of her tongue. With the flames of the drink, the drug, all things unrequited coursing through her, the guitarist doesn't resist. "I saw a picture of you," Madison whispers, pulling away suddenly, a licentious glint in her eyes. "That's all it took to want you. Imagine what watching you perform did to me."
"I just… don't really do this sort of thing often," Cosima sputters dumbly, her tongue feeling heavy, cumbersome around her words.
"Like that matters?" Madison chuckles, pushing her back against the wall. The joint falls from between her fingers. "There's no shame in fucking. We're not kids."
Maybe they're not, but that's exactly what it feels like as they stumble clumsily into the nearest bathroom, just barely remembering to kick the door closed behind them. It's sloppy. There's saliva around Cosima's mouth, her neck – sticky and warm. They paw at each other gruffly, fumbling with shirt buttons, barely pushing bra straps off of shoulders. It's all a blur – a thrill –just distant enough that Cosima feels like a voyeur in her own lay. Somehow, her belt comes undone, pants pushed halfway down her thighs. Before she even has time to think, Madison is buried to the knuckle in her, swallowing her moans in a messy kiss.
It's completely tactless. Sweaty, groping, indelicate. She feels like she's fifteen again, hiding in the closet at some silly makeout party, jacked up on Smirnoff and cheap beer, hoping not to be caught. She probably hasn't had sex this bad since she was fifteen—wonders why it is even getting her off.
That is, until Beth Childs' voice is exclaiming laughingly from the doorway—"Dude!"—a soft gasp following closely behind it.
Cosima is too startled to properly cover herself as she turns to face them – Beth and Delphine. Madison, still inside of her, merely buries her face in her neck, laughing in embarrassment.
"Fuck—"
"Sorry—we'll piss elsewhere," Beth sniggers, grabbing Delphine by the arm and pulling her along with her.
Delphine, who's eyes, wide as saucers, don't leave Cosima's until Beth has pushed her into the hallway, the door slamming behind them.
For a moment after they leave, the only sound Cosima can hear is of her own heart pounding thickly in her ears. Her hands tremble, falling from Madison's body. All the reporter can do is laugh, her embarrassment fading into excitement as Cosima's head thumps dully against the wall behind her.
"Fuck," she hisses again.
Shaking off her chuckles, Madison looks up at her, placing her slick fingers soothingly on Cosima's waist. "C'mon—it's… a little embarrassing. No big deal though, right?"
Cosima's eyes clench painfully shut.
AN: Well, that escalated quickly. Once again, this is also being posted on tumblr at soundreason-truereligion. I hope you're enjoying!
