A/N:
[1] This chapter has a lot of lovely things. One of them is pretty explicit consensual sex. It's rated M, consider yourselves warned.
v.
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We sit at a table, face to face; queen takes pawn, check on, check mate. I feel your foot brush against my leg. I'm not that easily led.
Get Your Way – Jamie Cullum
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In retrospect, Clive always looked like he knew what he was doing. He seemed to have that ten-year plan stuck in his head, thought of things like career progression and advancement, took cases because if he won them, he knew that they would steer him in the right direction. Martha never knew how to do that. The future always shaped as a succession of people in her head, conversations, cases, one after the other, in a never-ending loop. Alarm, get up, breakfast, teeth, chambers, con, court, drinks, files, bed and repeat. She never had time to make projections, wonder where this was all going.
The past, she doesn't like to dwell on, either. It will all go away with the wind when her hair turns grey and the memories she stores away, safe, like precious, shiny diamonds, will slip between her fingers and everything that will matter will only consist of the here and now.
She likes the here and now, the present, the ground under her feet and the air in her lungs.
When they were kids, she used to sit on Sean's bedroom floor, hugging her knees in the dark and: 'Breathe,' he used to say. 'Just breathe.'
Today, her here and now is Robin's case in court. Before visiting Billy and Sean last week, they were waiting on a verdict, and when Monday comes, Martha's sitting at the bench, back straight against the wood, wig and gown on, like Superman coming out of the phone box. There's talking, and talking, and talking, and a recollection of the teachers in school, the way they spoke, and spoke, and spoke before handing out the grades. Just like back then, Martha waits.
"Not guilty."
A breath. A smile against her lips. Outside, Muriel hugs her with sunshine in her eyes and a cigarette is smoked at the edge of the window of the robbing room, the daylight warm against Martha's features. The last client walks – a tangible, comforting walk – and the barrister grins, ash at the tip of her fingers. It's the start of something new, Martha feels, even if she doesn't know what of, yet.
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Sometimes, Martha Costello can be a bit shallow. Likes to tell people when she gets a win but out on the street, she takes her time before calling Clive. It's not that she doesn't want to – the shy touch of his lips still lingers against hers from a few nights ago – it's just that she wants to relish the feeling of grace that the verdict has awarded a tiny bit longer. She'll be brought back to reality gradually, like a trickle of tap water filling a glass.
When she does tell him, though, for someone on the white ribbons, Clive is oddly happy about the news. "I told you," he says, but in a good way, a friendly way; Martha hears his words and beams into the telephone. She's walking down the streets of central London with her link to him pressed against her ear; it's the first time in years that she's not rushing to be anywhere, just watching people push past, her handbag tight against her side. She thinks that she might go get a snack at Pret in a bit, maybe try to fix her phone screen, look at shops on the way.
Martha skirts around an agglutinated mass of tourists, with audio guides in their ears and a man in a bright shirt speaking into a microphone, leading the group with a yellow umbrella. The air is damp, the sky grey, people tired and irritated with the heat of the past few days; they all hope for a summer storm.
"So, what are you up to, tonight?" Clive asks, in her ear.
She thinks for a bit. "Sleep? Haven't had much of that in –" Martha jokes, reflects, counts the weeks since the beginning of Sean's trial, since – "Well, in fifteen years, really, so -"
Clive speaks into the phone but the sound on her end gets interrupted by an ambulance rushing by, blaring its siren straight into her ears. Martha apologises, once it's gone, smiles. "Say that again?"
"I was saying," Clive starts as she almost bumps into a couple who abruptly stop in front of her to look at a map. She steps aside, rolls her eyes. "What if I offered to take you out tonight?"
Martha's amused, smiling teasingly into the receiver, can't help but think about their kiss, the other night. "What, like a date?" she quips, mocking the idea, wondering what the both of them would look like in the awkwardness of a pompous restaurant, her standing and waiting for him to pull a chair for her to sit on.
She quits laughing, though, when she hears some sort of short silence on the other end, raises the volume of her speaker. "Yes," Clive finally says. "I'm asking you out on a date, actually."
Martha stops in her tracks, reflexively gripping at the phone; some idiot pushes past her, cursing. Clive's voice sounds a lot like a dare but she's not quite sure whether he's daring her to say yes, or to say no. She bites her lip, smile nervous, tense, for a second. You're leaving town tomorrow, the voice in her head argues. It's her plan: visit her mum in Bolton, stay a few days, and then go. So: this is a bad idea, her brain points out. Don't. Yet, she smiles when she speaks, hears herself try to alleviate the tension. To be honest, the voice in her head is very used to being ignored. "Is this another attempt at luring me away from Bali?"
Clive laughs, seems to ponder for a second. "Well, it's certainly an attempt at luring you into another kiss," he admits, joking but also not, and she shakes her head, laughing, and well, recklessness has always known how to get the better of her, every once in a while. He knows she's leaving anyway, she tells herself, maybe they can play pretend for one more night, like they used to. "Come on, Marth. A friend from Oxford will be playing with his band," Clive adds, probably trying to cover the silence he hears on her side of the conversation. Martha doesn't realise it, but she's holding her breath. "There'll be booze, dancing –"
For goodness' sake, she laughs to herself. "Okay, fine, Clive Reader," she finally sighs, real smile and fake annoyance in her voice. "I'll go on a date with you."
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What she tells herself is: it's just a night out with Clive. No expectations. Yet, for some reason, it's also: a bath, nails, make-up and a new dress. Nothing fancy, just a nice dress, a light shade of blue with white lining over the seams. It's flattering, close to her waist; when he picks her up at seven – sharp – and she opens her front door to meet him, Clive stands awkwardly with his mouth slightly open for a second; she catches him tracing the curves of her body, his look lingering on her cleavage a bit too long to be appropriate.
"I don't do sex on a first date," she jokes, lies, pushing past him to close the door.
He laughs, of course, and she bites her lip to keep herself from joining in.
Martha knows what it looks like, at this point in time. They've been so broken, the past few years, that it seems like all they ever did was to seek each other for comfort before tearing everything apart, repeating the process time and time again, like they couldn't be together without hurting each other. The truth is, though, in the past, they had fun, too. So much fun. She remembers one time when she distracted him with a kiss while she rummaged through the top drawer of her bedside table (he probably thought she was looking for a condom, come to think of it) and quickly clasped cuffs around his wrists. The look on his face when he felt them – 'Where in hell did you get those?'
She smiled, enigmatic. 'You're not the only one with copper friends.'
Clive puffed out a laugh, looked like he couldn't even begin to believe her. 'You're joking.' When she didn't answer, he raised an eyebrow. 'Do you even have the keys?'
Martha bit her lip, grinned. 'I don't know, Clive, what do you think?'
He looked at her and she felt him harden against her, thought to herself that this was already working way better than she had anticipated. He tried to kiss her but she pulled away slightly, out of reach, looked at him laying there under her with his wrists tied up above his head, locked her stare with his. 'Fuck,' he said, unable to keep his eyes off her. 'You're wild.'
She laughed, started dropping kisses down his chest, nodded. 'Yeah,' she smiled. 'Maybe. We'll see.'
She looks at him now and blushes at the memory, would never tell him about the things she remembers, the times her belly hurt from laughing or when butterflies coursed through her stomach, the way she sometimes looks at him and crosses her legs, trying to chase off very risqué thoughts from her brain. It's mad to think that this is actually their first date. He raises an eyebrow at her when she claims not to do sex on a first date and smiles. "That's very unfortunate," he says, shaking his head.
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The band is surprisingly decent.
Sure, they're no Joy Division, by any standard, but Martha has fun dancing and drinking with Clive, making silly faces and letting her hips rock to the music. They walk out of the bar at around half past nine, after the band breaks and before another one comes in. She has yet to finish her Corona, a half-slice of lemon floating around the middle of the bottle and they stand on the pavement, the air even hotter out here than it was inside. Clive's beaming at her, looks a bit like he did when she first met him.
"Why, hello, hello, there!" A shout resonates, coming behind them. Martha turns around and sees a guy rushing out of the venue in their direction - dark hair falling across his face, some sort of tribal-y shaped tattoo under the hem of the short sleeve of his t-shirt, she recognizes him as the guitarist. He pats Clive on the shoulder, causes him to turn around. "You guys look like you had fun!"
They both go in for a full hug, almost shaking each other up like you shake a tree for fruits to fall out, like men, for some reason, always do. A bit of healthy praise ensues ("Yeah, it was great! You really did well back there!"), followed by a friendly catch up; Martha politely takes a step back, listening. Yeah, you still live out here, don't you? and, me, no, Marjorie couldn't stand London with the kids anymore, had to move out to Essex, much quieter.
It might be funny and a bit ignorant on Martha's part but she'd never really considered Clive having friends before, or even having a life outside of Chambers and girls, for that matter. It may be a bit telling, considering the desert of her own personal life but it's also nice, to see this side of him. The guitarist lights himself a cigarette and she watches the both of them as the smoke fills the air, debates putting her beer down and getting her own pack and lighter out but decides against it, steals a sip from her drink instead.
"So, Clive," his friend says, finally, glancing at Martha. "You going to introduce us?"
She smiles against the rim of the bottle, raises an eyebrow at Clive. He grins back at her. "Yeah, right," he says, stepping aside. "Pete, this is Martha," he says. "Martha Costello, she's a, –" She's not sure Pete hears the millisecond break that Clive takes to think of a correct qualifier, but she definitely does. "She's a friend. Marth, this is Pete Barlow."
She extends her palm to shake his but he pulls it gently towards him instead, his fingers brushing over hers, taking it to his mouth. He places a kiss on the back of her hand and bows, a little, before letting go. She eyes Clive by her side, notices him step a bit closer to her, smiles to herself, shaking her head.
Men, she thinks.
"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Martha Costello," Pete says, smiling, insisting on the last syllable of her name. He nods at Clive, jokes. "You know, if you keep bringing pretty ladies to my gigs like that, I might even let you in for free!"
Martha laughs, loud and genuine, and the three of them end up chatting amicably as they finish their beers – Pete works for HSBC, she learns, his wife sells clothes for cats, dogs and ferrets (it sounds very specific, she hardly refrains from asking who the fuck buys such things).
When Pete heads back inside to pack up with his band, Clive offers to get proper dinner, and Martha can't help but chuckle, the mental image she'd had earlier of the both of them awkwardly looking into each other's eyes in some high-end Italian restaurant popping back into her brain. She declines, opts for fish and chips instead, her fingers end up smelling like vinegar when she pours about half a bottle's worth onto her plate to keep him from stealing more of her food, laughing loudly as their legs brush under the cheap Formica table. It feels more like them, she thinks.
They're walking down an empty street feeling like they've eaten enough for a lifetime when the way Clive spoke (she's a – friend) pops back into Martha's brain. If she were brave, she would ask him whether it was just a handy shortcut for him to describe what they are, or if he really thinks it, can still look at her the way he used to. There's a world, though, between being people who tell each other everything and being people who ask each other everything so she doesn't – ask, that is – chooses a safer a topic, instead. Martha doesn't know if she's not brave enough to ask, or not brave enough to know, really.
"So, what did Pete mean, exactly? By you keeping bringing pretty ladies to his gigs?"
An uncomfortable laugh leaves Clive's mouth, a sharp contrast with her playful tone; she's teasing, he knows, and yet he bites his lip and looks away, a bit red in the cheeks. The awkwardness makes her want to laugh, Martha loosely wonders if this is one of his regular first date hang outs, wonders if he has that kind of place in his address book. In truth, she kind of likes the idea of him trying to woo her like one of the girls he wants to impress.
When he doesn't answer right away, though, she grabs his hand, makes sure he stops so that she can step in front of him, look straight into his eyes. They're in a small, deserted spot at the end of a street that goes downhill, facing each other, no one around.
"You're going to tell me what happened?" she asks, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing."
Martha puffs out a laugh, steps closer to him. "Yeah, sure."
"Okay, fine," he pouts, almost smiling, against his will, it seems. "Once, alright? We were in Oxford together. There was this girl I brought to his concert, –"
"Let me guess," Martha cuts him off, shifting. She's standing about fifteen centimetres from him now, can feel his breath against her face. "She chose his mad music skills over your admin law books?"
Clive laughs a bit, smiling; she sees it in his eyes. "Something like that, yeah."
Instinctively it seems, his hands find her hips, keeping her close. Her lips are inches away from his mouth; she considers simply crossing the distance between them, letting herself kiss him gently, her body pushing against his. She's keeping that for later, though, and even if it sort of feels strange saying that when they almost had a child together, a little chase never hurt nobody. So, instead, Martha starts humming, moving her hips to the rhythm of her voice, against his. They covered She's Lost Control at the gig, so it's stuck in her head now and, "ta-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da, ta-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da," she goes, her eyes locked on his. She does it long enough - just humming, dancing, close - that she feels her stomach tense a bit, something akin to want bubbling under her skin, doesn't think she'll be able to hold on much longer before touching her lips to his. She thinks she feels him tense in his jeans, too, bites her lip. She's not going to lie: it's a bit flattering.
Finally, she stops humming, leans in, turns her mouth to the side of his neck and speaks into his ear. "Come on," she says, trying to sound way sexier than she actually feels. "Let's get another drink."
When Martha moves away and leads the way down to the corner of the street, she thinks she hears Clive curse under his breath, quickly collecting himself before he finally catches up with her.
.
They stop at another bar a couple of streets down, an unlikely mix between an Irish pub (wood everywhere, a mile's worth of beers on tap) and a trendy hipster hub (soft acoustic music on the speakers, light bulbs flaunting golden filaments). They settle in a booth, his thigh touching hers; he gets another beer, she orders a glass of red wine.
Martha watches his fingers type the pin to his debit card, somewhat mesmerised. "You know," he starts, putting his card back into his wallet. "You're supposed to at least pretend you're willing to pay your share."
She smiles at him, cocks her head, chin resting against her palm. "On a first date?"
"Yeah," he nods. He's looking at her again, feels like he hasn't looked anywhere but her all night. "That's what girls do now. It's called feminism."
She puffs out a laugh, steals a sip of her wine. She reapplied lipstick in the bathroom, it leaves a kiss on her glass.
(He took note of that, earlier, on the way to the gig, glancing at her. 'The red's back?' he asked, smiling.
'The red's back.')
"And you men are all too happy to oblige, I'm sure," she teases, now, toying with her drink, the stem rolling between her middle and ring fingers. Clive chuckles, nods, drinks. "Well, I won't be that much of a great date, then," Martha adds, smiles. "Cause, I don't have a job anymore, so I'll let you pay for everything, let me tell you."
"Ah then, I don't know," he laughs, moves and only barely pretends to leave. "Maybe I might head home."
In truth, she's grateful that he doesn't ask her what the hell she's doing with her life, now. That he just lets it go, assumes that she'll figure it out, because it's probably the one thing people are talking about behind her back, the one question that systematically gets whispered at the mention of her name. If not the bar, then what? As if she held the keys to something they didn't.
She didn't tell her mum she'd quit, on the phone, earlier, couldn't bring herself to voice it out. 'I'm just taking a holiday,' Martha told her, pulling things out of her wardrobe, trying to find comfortable shoes that matched the dress.
'You never take time off, I'm just a bit surprised -'
Martha rolled her eyes, decided on the shorter black heels. (As if, really, her mum had ever paid any attention to her career, anyway. She didn't even show up when she got sworn in.) 'Look, Mum, do you want me to come over tomorrow or not?'
'Of course, darling, that's not what I'm –'
Looking at Clive, now, Martha feels like he's the only person with whom she doesn't need to explain herself, or justify her life decisions along the way. He was there for Sean and Jody Farr, and Brendon Kay, and frankly feels like the only one who would understand, right now.
When she looks up at him, Clive seems lost in thought, too; Martha decides to make an effort at conversation, for once. "So, tell me," she asks him, taking another couple of swigs of wine. "Since you're so experienced, what do people talk about on first dates?"
He turns a bit to face her, smiles and pretends to hum, reflecting. "Let me see... The weather." She chuckles. "Is a big one. Also, upbringing – where do you come from? Parents, pets, and the like. What do you do for a living? Weird hobbies? Women lying when they're asked about their age… That kind of thing."
Martha laughs, drinks, and stumbles over her words a bit. The alcohol is definitely starting to flow through her veins; it's a nice, cosy feeling. "Okay, so let me try this. Nice to meet you," she starts, loosely shaking his hand under the table. His fingers are warm against hers. "My name's Martha. I'm, er, thirty-two years old -"
Clive bursts out laughing, lets go of her hand to grab his drink, shaking his head in disbelief. "Don't you usually say thirty-five?" he counters, teasing.
Martha's eyebrows rise, it's hard to keep a straight face. "Well, of course, but that's when I'm not supposed to be lying," she admits, eyes set on his, like there is genuine, unfaultable logic in this.
Clive chuckles, gestures with his hand. "Okay, then, go on."
She takes a deep breath, pretends that she's about to reveal some sort of big secret about herself, one that she's never told him before. Martha doesn't know what, exactly, but there's something kind of hot about the whole role-playing thing. "Okay, so. Martha. Thirty-two. From Bolton, up North." He smirks and she playfully hits his shoulder with her free hand. "I had a cat, growing up, but it died."
"So, see, that's a red flag. What happened? Did she kill it?" Clive asks, pretending to tick a box on an imaginary paper. "Is she a psychopath?"
"Oh, shut up," she scolds. "Anyway. I'm currently unemployed, used to be a barrister."
"Oh, so you're a lawyer, then?" he asks, leaning forward, hands on the table. "So, I've got this problem with my landlord –" he jokes and she bursts out laughing again, can't even bring herself to chastise him for interrupting her.
Anyone who's ever done law has been there, she knows. Guests at dinner parties, estranged family members at Christmas gatherings harassing you for legal advice, refusing to understand that no one knows all the law by heart. Also, that you don't work for free. 'I don't practice in that area,' she'll say and: 'But you must have at least an idea,' they'll counter, as if an idea from her on a bit of law she's never looked at since her second year of university is somehow more valid than that of the guy who owns the pub down the street.
"I mostly do criminal law," she tells Clive, her date, as he looks up at her.
"Ew, criminals," he says. Again, the ticking motion with his hand. "Definitely a psychopath, then."
She pretends to roll her eyes at him, good sport. Maybe it's the wine that's getting to her head, but this is fun, Martha thinks. "Er, what else? Oh yeah, the weather. Hot. Scorching hot, actually, when is the bloody rain going to come, d'you reckon?" Clive laughs, shaking his head. "Parents? Father deceased. Mum works shifts at the local Tesco. And hobbies? What are hobbies? When does one find time for them?"
They're both grinning at each other like mad idiots by the time the last call rolls around and because it's a Monday night, they're almost the last patrons in the bar. When Clive heads for the toilet, Martha steps out for a smoke. As soon as the door to the exit is opened, though, she's at least got the answer to one of the questions that have been on everybody's minds all day.
Suddenly, it's an assault on her senses. She hears it before she sees it, feels it on her arm as soon as she ventures too far away from the slim protection afforded by the ledge of the building. Mostly, she smells it, though.
She's always associated the scent of rainstorms with childhood. A lot of people do, to tell the truth, the smell of hot, burnt ground being hit by heavy drops feeling kind of like the smell of freshly cut grass, triggering different bittersweet memories in everyone. Hers? They centre on summer holidays spent in her grandparents' backyard, picking blackberries from the bushes, her fingers wet and sticky, washed away by the rain. Martha stays motionless, standing in awe for a good minute before lighting her cigarette, protecting it with her palm, eyes shut, listening to the drumming of the rain on the pavement.
Eventually, she feels the door next to her open again, shoves her arm in front of Clive to prevent him from stepping into the showers. There's a moment of confusion where he looks at her and at the ground before him and still tries to move before it sinks in. Slowly, carefully, he steps out of the pub and joins her under the ledge of the roof. They're standing very close, now, the entire left side of her body touching his. "Holy hell," he swears, staring at the pouring rain.
The pavement is so dry it doesn't really absorb any of the water that falls, puddles and puddles scattering over the roads and side streets. She watches as cars rush by on the main road a few meters to her left, splashing waves of rain around them. "Yeah," Martha just says, taking another drag from her cigarette, puffing out smoke. Clive coughs.
She rolls her eyes, gives a slight shove to his shoulder. "Oh, come on," he says, his tone indignant. "I'm not going to pretend I like it," he groans, turning his head towards hers. She breathes out again.
"No, but you also don't have to pretend to cough every time I light one up."
They're reaching the very end of their evening, she realises, and suddenly she can't look at his face anymore, quickly turning around, focusing on the rain instead. Her heart is hammering in her chest, setting a different beat from that of the drops that hit the floor; she feels like every one of her nerve endings that touch his side are causing a shiver to run down her spine. She's very careful not to train her eyes on him, trying to regulate her breathing.
"I'm not pretending to cough, I cough," he insists, a smile in his voice. Butterflies dance in her stomach. "Your smoking makes me cough. I mean, I even had asthma, as a kid, so –"
"Clive," she says, looking up.
Martha turns her body on a one-eighty to face him, sees his mouth remaining slightly open, the wheels turning inside his head. She's slightly outside of the safety net that the ledge of the building has provided them so far, feels heavy raindrops hit her back and presses against him.
"Shut up," she breathes, her cigarette falling to the floor.
Martha kisses him.
It's hard to put into words, really, because as far as kisses go: it's probably the best one she's ever had. And she's not saying that because it's him, or because it's them, right here and now, but because she doesn't think she's ever felt that way with him before, or anyone else, for that matter. Not in Nottingham, not in that empty courtroom at the Bailey, just –
His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her close, her mouth opening under his. She steps between his legs, her own hands roaming everywhere they can reach, over the back of his head and his chest, and his hips; she can feel his heart beat even faster than hers under her fingertips. It's like they're the only people in the world, like this is all she ever wants to do for the rest of her life.
The door to the pub opens from the inside next to them. Martha jumps at the noise, abruptly pulls away from Clive's mouth. He seems confused as she quickly looks to her right where, unaware, one of the waiters walks out of the place, barely glancing at them, locking the doors behind him. "Crazy weather, eh?" he says as he steps away into the rain, not waiting for a response.
Once he's gone, Martha looks up at Clive. Clive looks down at her. One, two, three, she counts in her head before they both burst out laughing at one, so hard her stomach starts to hurt. She can't stop thinking about how ridiculous they fucking are, snogging each other outside a pub like two drunk teenagers.
A bit dazed by the kiss and by the speed at which a single, uncaring individual was able to bring them back to reality, they take a few half seconds to calm down, giggling like mad, shaking their heads at each other. Martha feels young, tonight, a bit silly.
They do recover, though, eventually, and when she looks at Clive (really looks at him), he seems to have been struck by lightning with a big, stupid grin on his face. Not knowing what to say, she opts for an apology, filling the silence between them. "Sorry, I just –"
His fingers wrap around her wrist, he grins. "God, don't you ever apologise for doing that," he smiles, thumb tracing circles over her skin.
Martha laughs, loud and clear in the night, leans into him. "Yeah," she teases, her mouth inches away from his. "You think?"
This time, it's his turn to close the gap between them, his hands resting on her hips, tugging her towards him. When he pulls away, Martha's heart seems to have settled a bit, her breathing oddly more even. She doesn't really want to move, though, doesn't want to leave him.
"So," she starts, stares straight into his eyes. She can see there's bit of worry, in there: he's not sure what she's going to say. She kind of likes that, likes that he doesn't know everything about her, either. "You know that thing I said when you picked me up earlier?"
Clive chuckles softly, nodding, his right hand resting comfortably on her hip.
"Well, I could be persuaded to, er, disregard that policy," she adds, biting her lip.
Clive laughs, then, teases her with his hand on her skin. It's strange how everything that happened between them, a couple weeks back, and their fight, and the bloody, messy aftermath on her part, it almost seems like a very distant, foggy memory. "Yeah?" he smiles. "Persuaded how?"
Slowly, she leans in, whispers in his ear. "Lots of hard work and dedication, I'd say."
He laughs again, lightly this time, but she does feel him tense again, like earlier in the street, through his jeans and the fabric of her dress. They stay like this for a moment, silent, looking straight into each other's eyes, waiting. From the intensity of his stare when he eyes her back, Martha briefly wonders he's not going to force the door of the bar back open and take her there instead, on the booth they just sat on. She shakes her head at the image, finally feels his hand grabbing hers. "Okay," he says. "Let's run and try to get a cab, shall we?"
.
By the time they get past Martha's front door, they are drenched to the bone. She already suspected that finding a cab in this weather was going to be difficult, but at one a.m. on a Tuesday morning, it turned out to be nearly impossible. By the time they found one, after spending a good twenty minutes running from doorstep to doorstep, laughing, trying to shield themselves from the rain, there wasn't really any point left in running, anymore.
She doesn't think it matters. Her messy, wet, blond curls cascade down her face – all that work she'd put into straightening her hair gone to waste – he gently pushes her against the wall of her hallway, his damp shirt clinging to his skin. She doesn't care. Doesn't care about the pools of water they're leaving behind them like guilty footsteps on the floor, doesn't care to turn on the light, or to make him take his wet shoes off before they ruin her carpet. She never wants to take her hands off him, never wants her mouth to leave his. They've done this before – of course - but the strangest thing is: she can't keep her eyes off him.
She's quick undoing the buttons of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers, her hands streaming up and down his chest. Okay, she considers, feeling his skin under her palms, so this:
Sure, she's not shallow, and typical, and weak, and doesn't think a man must automatically be strong and broad-shouldered, and square-jawed to be attractive. She's had enough people in her life before him to know that. So, sure, she's above that. But sure, also, it just so happens that Clive is strong and broad-shouldered, and square-jawed, and as she runs her fingers over his stomach and feels his abs contract as he bends down to kiss her, she's got to admit that, okay, it sort of is somewhat of a turn on. "Bloody hell," he swears when his shirt finally hits the floor after three unsuccessful attempts at pulling it off him, water sticking to his every pore. Frankly, she can't suppress a laugh from exiting her mouth.
She thanks the Gods up there that the dress she's picked is flowy enough that it doesn't cling that hard to her skin.
.
He teases her as they stand against the wall of her hallway, mouth on her neck dropping kisses along the way as it travels to suck on a very particular spot below her ear, hard; it makes her toes curl – she can't believe he remembers that, for fuck's sake. One of his hands is balancing them, still, on the side of her shoulder, while the other reaches low below her knee, slowly moving along her calf to the inside of her thigh. She feels him playing with the hem of her pants, the lace soft against his fingers, and with that and whatever he thinks he's doing to her neck she can't suppress a loud moan that escapes her mouth unannounced, so loud she feels him chuckling against her. When two of his fingers snake past her underwear, though, she –
"Wait," she whispers.
She doesn't know what makes her say it, or how the word even leaves her mouth without her biting it down but it does, intruding, like the monster under her bed.
Clive quickly steps away from her, hand dropping to his side. He remains close, though, close enough that she can still feel droplets falling from his hair onto her skin. Martha looks up at him, stares. His fingers brush a curl behind her ears. "What's wrong?" he asks, muttering against her skin. "You alright?"
The truth is: the monster under her bed has nothing childish about it anymore. It's everything, from the memories of a dark and dirty pub last week to the shouts and breaking dishes that echoed from Sean's apartment at home when she was a kid, his mother's face beaten and swollen as she sat against the wall, crying while the two of them rushed in. They were fifteen.
Martha has to remind herself that she's not there, anymore. That she's not bleeding or shaking, barefoot in the street, that she's here, now, in her flat, with Clive. We're here, she thinks, tries to hammer it into her brain, looking at him, and suddenly, she catches herself smiling, smiling so large it hurts, so large it could split her cheeks open, eyes sparkling and blinking away the tears of relief she didn't know had flooded her eyes just moments before. Clive smiles, too, a bit confused and blissfully unaware, simply waiting for her to say something, or give him the go-ahead if she wants to. Martha's pretty sure he doesn't understand what he just did by stepping back, really, and that's the best thing about it.
Quietly, she reaches for the back of his neck and pulls him to her, kisses him wide, open mouthed, with everything she doesn't think she'll ever be able to put in words. His right hand is soft against her bare shoulder, tracing circles on her skin, at the junction of the hem of her dress. She likes it there, she smiles to herself, it's comforting, soothing but right now, she thinks she liked it better where it was before. She's feeling bold, tonight – or she's pretending to be, at least, because well, we all want to be better people than we are, don't we? - so she laces her fingers with his and takes them back down against the inside of her thigh, tracing a wet line to the lace of her underwear. She feels him take control of their movements, just then, hands teasing her over the fabric. He must feel the wetness between her legs when he speaks, she thinks, because she feels it too.
"Shit, Marth," he says against her ear, a cheeky smile on his lips.
She smirks, mouth dancing over his collarbone "Don't pride yourself too much, that's mostly the rain."
He bursts out laughing, then, into her hair. "Ouch, way to boost a man's ego."
The funny thing is: she's never really been into banter, during sex. In that department, she's more of a show than a tell kind of person, if you'd like, preferring action to millions of instructions and compliments thrown up in the air. Yet, tonight, anything that he says in that low, husky tone of his, it both makes her want to roll her eyes at him and want to get him inside her, right now, like there's no middle ground. She smiles against him, trying to think of anything but him, attempting to regain some self-control. "I'm just stating the facts, here," she manages to say, breath caught in her throat.
Martha feels Clive chuckling, his body moving against hers in waves, mouth back on her neck. "Hmhm," he hums, against her skin; she shivers all the way down her spine.
"Just fuck me, will you?"
It's out of her mouth before it really makes its way to the back of her brain - it's her body speaking, really - and Clive laughs, bursts out laughing against her; she can't bring herself to even be a little bit mad. He shakes his head at her, staring into her eyes, and: "Impatient, are we?" he says but is quick to follow her when she proceeds to gently push him off and drags his sorry arse down the hall to her bedroom, unzipping her dress and pulling it over her shoulders. She smirks when she sees him as he watches it fall to the floor, dazed.
The rest, she thinks, is probably not worth getting into. It's acquired taste, really, and memory, so to speak, discovering new things, trying out old ones and hoping they have the desired effect. It's better than it ever was, objectively, because they know each other better, she thinks, through the last few years, and because they do, amazingly, remember a thing or two about each other's bodies. Clive, of course, doesn't fail to notice the differences.
His mouth is working on her nipple, a couple of fingers slid inside her, his thumb on her clit; she's breathing heavily when he suddenly stops all movement, his fingers slipping out of her. She groans in frustration, opening her eyes to see him sort of hunched over to her side, inspecting a patch of skin below her armpit at the top of her ribs, by the side of her breast. "When did you get that?" he wonders out loud, his thumb stroking the Q.C. tattoo she got a couple years ago. She decides now is definitely not the time to have this conversation.
"Clive, I swear, if you do that again, I'll kill you with my bare hands," she tells him, pulling him back up on top of her.
He does make it up to her, a bit later, she's got to admit.
.
There's a moment, though, that night. She doesn't like to call it that (a 'moment'), because moments can lead to important things (scary things) but on the other hand, Martha Costello doesn't know what else to call it. A moment during which she feels him push into her for first time in years and there's nothing she can do but close her eyes, will her brain to make a memory of it – all of it - try to record the details she couldn't always remember in the past, like his weight, his presence, the feeling of his skin against her own. She's always hated roaring demonstrations of lust so she bites down on her bottom lip, hard, to suppress a moan, her legs wrapped tight around him. Quickly, she expects Clive to move again but he doesn't, though, just stays there buried deep inside her, the slightest shift of his hips enough for him to brush against her G-spot. Martha tries to urge him on but one of his fingers delicately caresses her cheek instead, the moment locked in time; he nudges a loose strand of hair to the side. "Look at me," Clive whispers, so she does, lids low and heavy with want, and need.
He waits until their gazes meet to pull away and push into her again, hard, and this time, Martha moans, loud, unable to silence it. She doesn't know what it is, if it's the angle he's going for or the look in his eyes, but her legs feel like jelly, around him. She feels her orgasm build with every inch of him, every move, every breath that they draw in unison. Clive smirks, his mouth hovering close to her ear.
"That's new," he whispers and she almost rolls her eyes as he does it again, and Martha hears herself moan again, the feeling of him involuntarily pushing the sounds out of her mouth. "That's the hottest thing I've ever heard," he confesses and kisses her lips like he means it.
She pushes him over the edge, in the end, a while later, panting, his climax following hers. By then, Martha couldn't care less about suppressing her moans or about her neighbours overhearing them.
.
She's drowsing to the feeling of his breaths against her back, eyes shut, early morning, the sun already peeking past the blinds. They haven't slept much, really, but there were other things to do, last night, and wasted opportunities to make up for. Clive's touch is gentle on her body, barely even there, the tips of his fingers hitting spots on her skin like the soft touch of a pianist to white and black keys, a low hum escaping his lips.
"Morning," he whispers as she opens her eyes. He bends down to kiss her, then moving to the side of her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses down to her shoulder. Martha shivers a bit, arms folded under her pillow and hands joined under her head. In her sleep, she threw the sheet off her legs – the air is still hot, even after the storm – and she would be lying if she didn't admit to feeling kind of exposed, right now, naked in front of him. Clive's look dances over her body, down the line of her spine.
She's seen the women he fucks. She's not generally all that insecure, but, well, there are lines on her face and stretch marks on her thighs, so to speak.
His touch feels nice, though, so she can't bring herself to stop him looking. His thumb brushes an inch of skin on her side, at the top of her ribs, the same as yesterday. She smiles to herself, waits for him to ask.
"So, when d'you get that?" he mumbles, against her skin, stretching it a bit with his fingers. The tattoo's black, small, she remembers going back and forth a couple of times before deciding on the font, something cursive but not unreadable, or too artsy, either.
Martha smirks, glances down to look at him. Clive meets her gaze but doesn't move, something playful in his eyes. "A while back," she answers, evasive.
"You know that's permanent, right?" he jokes, his fingers playing something she can't quite identify against her skin. "What if she dies and Charles takes over? Q.C. becomes K.C. and what happens then?"
Martha shakes her head and rolls her eyes at him, but can't keep the corners of her mouth from curving up a bit. She shifts closer to him and with a touch of her hand, tries to pull him back up towards her, but he doesn't budge. "Well, she's not going to die tomorrow, is she?" she says, fake annoyance tinting her voice.
"Oh, you never know, a bit of flu this winter, at that age, and poof," he pauses for effect, his hands mimicking an explosion. "K.C."
She's not even really awake, she thinks, but a lazy smile already forms across her lips. "Clive," she says, forcing him up this time. He lies on his side next to her, his mouth inches away. "Leave the Queen alone."
He grins, sniggers, catches her lips. "Did it hurt?" he asks.
She turns around to lie on her side, too, her thigh hooking over his hip. This is nice, she thinks, almost domestic. His breath catches in his throat, though, and she's not sure how domestic that is. "A bit," she says.
He nods, quiet, like he's loosely considering it, then crosses the distance between them again. When he breaks the kiss and moves to her collarbone, she feels his morning stubble tickling her skin. "Well, I like it," he declares, and it's not like Martha needed his approval over her two-year-old decision, but flattery is always nice to hear.
"Me too," she mutters, pulling him back up to catch his lips. A playful battle of tongues and limbs ensues as they push each other's buttons, she laughs when she finally wins and shoves him back down on the bed, settling on top of him. Her hand travels down between them, stopping right above his hips. "You know what else I like?" she whispers, teasing.
There's a twinkle in his eyes when he speaks, a breath that's coming out a bit short. "I might have an idea, yeah," he smirks, hands settling on her hips, letting her take the lead.
.
A few minutes later, her mouth is wide open above his, his fingers teasing the inside of her thigh, erection strong against her when his phone rings, blaring shrills echoing around her bedroom. "Ignore it," she tells him and hears a chuckle escaping his lips, his chest moving against hers. To his credit, though, he does let it go to voicemail and rolls them over to gain better access.
She feels him slip a couple of fingers inside her and moans, loudly, before she can bite her bottom lip to suppress it. There's that cocky smile of his again, tugging at the corner of his lips again, teasing against her ear. "Again, someone's impatient," he says.
She doesn't mean to, but her hips begin to rock against his hand off their own accord.
"Oh, shut up," she says. It frankly feels too good for him to stop.
Martha hears Clive laugh, again, nodding strongly against her. "Yes, Miss," he grins, his breath hitting her collarbone. The phone stops ringing – finally - and his mouth suddenly leaves her neck, lips dropping a trail of wet kisses down her sternum.
To tell the truth, she sort of expects him to climb back up, eventually, but to her surprise, his mouth doesn't stop its journey down, not until she feels his tongue over her. A gasp catches in her throat, a thought briefly hitting the back of her mind about how silly she must look, right now, on her back, naked in front of him, completely at his mercy, but she can't really bring herself to care. Okay, she thinks, she can definitely go along with this. His hold is strong on her hips, keeping her in place.
A few minutes later, his phone goes off, again. He ignores it, again. She thanks the Gods for that, again, her nails careful not to really dig into his scalp, a strangled gasp escaping her throat as he sucks, hard, on her clit, a mix of pain and pleasure flooding her brain, and oh God, she's almost there, if he could just –
Bloody. Fucking. Phone. Martha thinks, as the shrills start again. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, her brain begs, high on endorphins, just a couple more minutes, please. But of course, the third time's the charm, for him, and he doesn't. "Oh, for fuck's sake," still, she hears him swear and can't help but groan audibly, his lips leaving her as he rolls off to the side of her bed. On the fourth ring, he finally locates his mobile in the pocket of his discarded jeans, picks it up, sliding his thumb across the screen. "Harriet, what?!" he barks into the receiver, sitting up a bit, lying on his back.
That. Fucking. Woman. Martha's brain barely manages to articulate, rolling her eyes almost all the way to the back of her skull. It takes her breathing a few seconds to ease up, enough to hear Harriet go on a full rant at the other end of Clive's phone.
"Jesus, Harriet, I was busy," he snaps back. Martha has to admit that she does smile a bit at that, in spite of herself, and yes, 'busy' is exactly what they were.
Well, now, she thinks, looking around the room, lying naked and frustrated on tangled sheets. As she listens to Clive bicker over something regarding Chambers – it's hard to bring herself to care, really, when all she can think about is where exactly his mouth was, moments ago - she considers her options. Finishing things off herself in the shower seems like an attractive one - after all, he didn't have to pick up: his fault, not hers - but as she looks at him, half sat up against the headrest, she suddenly has a better idea.
In a few, swift, revengeful motions, she moves from her side of the bed to go kneel between his legs, looking for the right angle to go about this. Suddenly, she feels his eyes on her as he tenses, knows him well enough to know that's he's completely understood her game. She feels him lay a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't," he mouths, his hand covering the receiver, a warning glance in his eyes.
Martha smirks, staring back up. "Oh, I think I will," she mouths, too. It's the price to pay for leaving her high and, well, wet, so to speak.
She takes him in her hand, first, teasing a bit; his breath quickens above her.
"Yes, Harriet," Clive stresses, speaking somewhat louder into his phone. "Look, can I call you b-" he starts, visibly trying to get himself out of this situation. Martha smirks – is almost glad – when she hears the other woman ignore him, continuing to speak at the other end of the line.
Martha ignores another warning look from Clive as she lowers herself closer to him, finds a comfortable enough position so that she won't have to move again, and brings her mouth down to drop him a kiss. Then, she sets out to work.
She hasn't done this in a while, to be fully honest, but she used to be quite good at it, once upon a time, so it comes back to her pretty fast. She decides to tease him first, mostly because she figures it's fun to watch as he twitches and struggles to keep a straight face while speaking to Harriet, running her tongue from the base to the tip of his cock, drawing circles as she starts taking him into her mouth. She sets a nice rhythm, a smart combination of tongue, lips and hands getting him deeper and deeper every time she pulls out, taking him in until he rests just shy of her gag reflex. She glances up, her mouth still busy: his eyes are closed, breathing laboured, he's trying very hard to ignore her but also doesn't seem to be able to pay much attention to what Harriet is saying on the phone.
Martha stops in her movements, suddenly, catches his look, and sucks. Judging by his reaction, if this is a game, she's winning it by a very large margin.
A loud groan escapes his lips and a curse under his breath, his free hand balled up in a fist, gripping at the sheets. Martha hears Harriet calling loudly into the receiver: "Clive?" the other woman says, and Martha has to let him out of her mouth for a second, unable to suppress a laugh.
Clive, apparently, is not really able to think straight, right now. "What, er, yeah, sorry, what were you saying?"
Martha knows as he eyes her that this is turning into some sort of a game, now, of whether or not he'll give in and be the first to hang up. As such, she isn't surprised when, as she takes him back into her mouth, Clive's fingers thread into her hair, not to egg her on as one might think, but actually actively trying to pull her back up. Instead, though, Martha manages to cover his hand with hers and keep it there, nails digging into her scalp. She looks up at him, lips wrapped around him, and has the gall to suck, again; it drives him wild.
"Listen, Harriet, I'm going to fucking call you back, alright?" he mumbles into the receiver, quickly giving up as the other woman continues to shout at him, visibly undisturbed, and Clive does not even bother waiting for a response, just sort of throws the phone across the room as his way of hanging up; it narrowly misses Martha's wall. In truth, Martha has to fight her own instincts hard to try and hold back a laugh while her mouth is still working on him but at least, she guesses, Clive's attention is definitely focused where she wants it to be, now. She sucks, and teases and adds her hand to the mix again. "Jesus, Marth, if you don't stop now, I'm not going to –"
Truth be told, when she started this, she sort of thought of it as payback for leaving her the way he did – to answer bloody Harriet, no less, - as something that she'd stop whenever either side of the conversation hung up, leaving them free to continue where they left off. The thing is: now, she's kind of enjoying herself, too, watching him breathe, and groan and writhe under her. There's something that turns her on about it, thinking that he's like this because of her. So, Martha interrupts him, mid-sentence, lets him know just that. "Clive, I'm not going to stop now."
She sees his eyes open wide, mouth gaping at her before she leans back down.
She's starting to remember him, now, which makes it easier to figure out what works, what elicits a response and what doesn't, as she works towards getting him off. Armed with that knowledge and her hands, and her lips, and her tongue, and his attention that's certainly not leaving her, now, it really doesn't take long. She's got him exactly where she wants him to be when he suddenly mumbles, "Marth, I'mma –" and doesn't have enough time to finish that thought.
He loses all control in her mouth, thrusting forward with a groan; she has a small celebration inside her head when she doesn't gag, lets him ride out his orgasm, licks and sucks, and swallows until he's done, lying as dead on her bed. She can't help but laugh softly to herself seeing him like this, as she gives him one last kiss and climbs back up next to him, wiping whatever's left of spit and cum on her mouth against the sheets.
She lays her head on his shoulder, draping an arm around him when he finally opens his eyes. "Jesus, Marth, was that real?" he mumbles suddenly and she laughs, out loud, from the bottom of her heart, it makes her whole body shake.
"Yeah, I think it was," she says just before his lips catch hers, pulling her into a lazy, sloppy kiss. Sure, she's still wet as fuck and still hopes to get her end of the bargain, eventually, but that can wait a bit, she decides.
As his breathing gradually goes back to normal, she notices him looking around her bedroom, at the pictures on her nightstand, her half-packed bags for Bolton in the corner, their clothes scattered on the floor. She wonders what he sees, in that mess of hers, that she doesn't. His arm drapes around her and pulls her on her side, closer to him, settling on her hip. She hums against his chest. "I'm sorry for, er, you know –" he starts and trails off, glancing down at her. As soon as she sees the awkward, shy look on his face, though, Martha bursts out laughing.
Of course, she knows what he's apologising for. She chuckles at him against his chest, raises an eyebrow and dares him to finish his sentence, smiling. But then, yeah, actually, it occurs to her, racking her brain for memories of their times together, that no, he's never lost control like that, before, not in her mouth, and not without giving her any real advance notice. It's nothing to apologise for, as far as she's concerned (she doesn't love it, frankly, but she gets it), yet it's fun playing with his words a bit, and if anything, it makes her more daring, emboldened. Martha swallows heavily before she speaks, obviously teasing, playful stare fixed upon his. "Now, why would you apologise for that, Clive?" she baits and it's his turn to laugh, then, eyeing her until he folds, smirks, stealing a kiss from her lips.
"Fuck, Martha Costello," he whispers, against her mouth. It reminds her of that afternoon, many moons ago, of the cuffs around his wrists. "You're wild."
They laugh for a little while more, poking at each other's buttons ("What you should apologise for, though," she jokes, raising an eyebrow at him. "Is leaving me to answer your bloody phone!") and it feels good, oddly familiar, to be here, with him. It's been a long time since she's felt this comfortable in his presence – now that she thinks about it, it's probably the first time he's ever been naked in her bed since she moved into this apartment.
To tell the truth, it's been a while since they last were like this, the both of them.
"I had fun last night," she admits, after a beat of silence; she's always been softer in the mornings, Martha Costello, her voice somewhat gentler, quieter. She doesn't only mean the sex. She thinks he knows that.
The smile on Clive's lips slowly fades, though, and so does the flirty look in his eyes. It's replaced by something else, something more intense, something she knows and recognises from his silk party, from when he said – "And yet, you've still packed your bags," he points out, matter-of-fact, watching her reaction as he speaks: the clench in her jaw, the short sigh that escapes from her lips.
She's lying against him, her head on her arms, folded over his chest, staring straight into his eyes, can't escape the hurt tone in his voice. Sometimes, she remembers, many times, actually, she doesn't know what to say to him. "I told you, I'm going to Bolton for a few days," she counters, looking back at him.
Clive smiles, bittersweet, dropping a kiss to her forehead. "That's not what I mean, Marth."
And yeah, she knows it's not. She's packed her bags, her life, and has decided to leave. 'I'm not coming back,' she told him, and stood by it, did what she knows best, planned. Bolton, first (she would have regretted that, had she left that night when she made it to the airport and back to the front of his apartment building, would have regretted not having said goodbye to her mum), and maybe Bali, next, or Australia, Cape Town, Argentina; they're all the same, to him, in the end: she's chosen to run, given up the fight. That morning, when the time comes for him to break the bubble around them and point out the obvious (point out that maybe, she should have listened to that voice in her head, yesterday, the one who said going on a date with him on the eve of her departure wasn't that much of a great idea), Martha expects his tone to be angry, accusatory, but it's anything but that. Clive sounds sad, next to her, his fingers tracing loose patterns over her skin.
"You're going to have to make a decision, there, Marth," he tells her, quiet, and what gets her is that he's right, she knows. The decision she made that night, as the bus came in front of her and she chose to disappear, hasn't stood a chance since she came back for Billy, for her case, for him. Martha's jaw clenches, uneasy, and her look attempts to focus on something else until his thumb soothes the skin of her face again, gently draws her back to him. "Promise me you'll tell me," Clive asks, then, his eyes locked on hers. "If you make it to Heathrow, promise me you'll tell me."
Martha opens her mouth to argue, say it's not that simple, say it was kind of a spur of the moment thing, justify –
"I might try and stop you," he tells her, honest, covering anything else that she might have wanted to say. "But ultimately you'll be free to go. You've always done whatever the fuck you wanted, anyway," he adds, a sad smile grazing his lips. "I just need to know. Want to know. I'd miss you, you know that, right?" Clive pauses, brushes a strand of hair off her face. "I'm a friend, remember?"
And just like she did when she broke up with Sean, Martha closes her eyes, then, for a long moment, can't bring herself to look up. She buries her face in Clive's neck, feels his blood pulsing against her ear. "Yeah," she just says, likes the sound of it, she decides. "I promise."
Her head lies on his shoulder for a long time, that morning, and she's quiet, Clive's chest rising and falling against her cheek; Martha doesn't move, just thinks. She's been thinking a lot, lately - about Sean, about Jerôme, Clive, Billy, her life, – but she didn't think much last night. It felt wild and unlike her and while she doesn't regret it, not exactly, she's also always liked the cosiness of living in her own head – her own organized mess. It's safe and comfortable, up there, and it allows her to stand outside overlooking the precipice without ever getting hurt. Or so she used to think.
Clive's not stupid, and Martha knows that he knows that she's thinking about him, right now - about them – but he also knows better than to ask. A fast learner, really, and isn't that one of the first things they teach you in bar school: don't ask questions that you don't already know the answer to? Eventually, she catches herself beginning to doze off again, his touch light in her hair. She forces her eyes to open, just barely; it's almost nine, she reads, on the clock by her desk. If she wants to be in Bolton when her mum clocks off work, regretfully, they need to get moving. Turning towards Clive, looking up, Martha sighs against his skin. "I need a shower," she mumbles, sleepily.
"Hmhm," he vaguely acknowledges, the movement of his chest steady under her ear. His fingers leave her hair and slowly trail down her upper arm then fall onto her waist, carrying on, down to her hipbone.
She smiles. "We need a shower," she amends and feels him chuckle against her, hum again, raising an eyebrow at her this time.
"Hmhmhmhm."
She pulls herself up from his chest, looks into his eyes, stops thinking again. "Come on," she says, smiling.
He doesn't need telling twice.
.
.
[1] Le Vent Nous Portera by Noir Désir ( French people, I know, this is a bit of a controversial choice. Kind of have the Sean/Martha dynamic in mind, here, if you want to know everything).
[2] She's Lost Control by Joy Division