This part is a little racier. Stuff implied at the end, nothing explicit,
but definitely implied.
**************************************************************************** ********** Chinese Takeout and Accidents
Even the strongest wills can break. After sixteen days of rain, the weather was on course to break a hundred year standing record and the office was at its breaking point. Nerves were stretched thin. They had been stuck indoors, held captive by humidity and rain, and the strain was starting to show. People snapped at each other and the gossip mill, always active, was operating at full strength. No one was safe from it. The people who had office doors kept them shut, ignoring the outside world and the people in it.
There were stacks of folders on his desk. They were six inches deep in places. A notepad sat in front of him. It was blank and the pages were slowly diminishing as he tore them off to make crumpled paper basketballs. He had missed, on average, every third shot, but he felt his aim was improving. The misses weren't nearly as bad. After all the pick-up games with Sturgis, he thought his trashcan basketball would have improved, too. Apparently, he was wrong.
He was bored. Catherine was out of town and he had a pile of dull cases and duller clients waiting for him. Through his half-drawn blinds, he could see Mac slouched over her desk. Her forehead rested in her hand. For a minute, he thought she was doing work until he noticed that she was tapping her pen against her desk with her other. If he wasn't mistaken, it was a one handed rendition of "Chopsticks." An idea flitted around the back of his brain like a moth around a light bulb. He swatted at it, because it wasn't supposed to be there. Like the moth when it reached the bulb, fulmination of the idea could only lead to bad things. But, also like the moth, it wouldn't go away. He was drawn to it.
Before he could stop himself, he found himself walking across the bullpen heading towards her office. He knocked but entered before she could answer. His plan depended on spontaneity.
"Harm," she gasped, the flat of her hand lying against her chest and eyes wide. "You startled me."
He shrugged easily. "I knocked."
"You did? I didn't hear you. My mind was wandering."
"And you call yourself a Marine." He smiled to lessen the impact of the barb. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"
"What?"
"Plans," he repeated. "Do you have plans for tonight? With Adam?"
"No." She shook her head. "He's working."
"Great. What do you say we call it a day and get some Chinese takeout or something? It'll be like old times."
Her eyebrows knit into a frown of confusion. "I thought we weren't doing that anymore."
He slid into a chair and hooked his ankle over his knee. "Those were your terms, not mine. The way I see it," he leaned back and steepled his fingers.
"Please, make yourself comfortable." She gestured to the chair he was already occupying and, cupping her chin in her hand, tapped her fingers against her cheek.
He flashed a quick grin. "Thanks, I will. Now, as I was saying, the way I see it, I can ask but you can't."
"There were loopholes in that arrangement?"
"Every good one has them. Now, quit interrupting. Since you were obviously sitting here waiting for me to ask, I thought I'd end your misery."
"I didn't know I was doing that."
"Please. I could feel the vibes through the window. So what do you say, Marine? Have any civilian clothes with you?"
Her expression was peculiar. It was an odd mixture of wistfulness and ambivalence, covered with a thin layer of blush. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered what she was thinking. He could tell, however, that she was wavering; it was only a matter of time before she capitulated. "As it so happens, I do," she mumbled into her palm.
"Great. Pack it up." He left the office before she could change her mind. This, he decided, was much better than wastebasket basketball.
Dark clouds had bubbled over the city by the time they returned to his apartment with the food. In the distance, lightning flashed and illuminated the dark clouds. He ushered her ahead of him and they dashed into the building seconds before the rain. Gesturing to his bedroom, he told her, "You can change, I'll set up for dinner."
She murmured her agreement. As she stepped into the bedroom, she tried not to marvel at the fact that she was standing in his bedroom again. In his apartment again. It seemed like so long ago. Their friendship had been rocky before; sometimes it was so thin it was almost transparent. But it had never been like this. It had never gotten to the point where her skin had itched and tension slid under it like a thin, cold layer of water. She wanted it back; she knew he did, too. Which was why she agreed to come back with him.
Nervously, she slid a hand over her shorts and tried to tuck her bra straps beneath her tank top. She huffed a breath out in exasperation. Why couldn't she have had jeans and a parka in her car?
Smothering a grin as he jumped, she stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, I can take over if you want to change." She placed her hand lightly on his back. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She bumped him gently with her hip. This time, they both jerked at the contact. Smiling nervously, she shooed him away from the food. "Go. Change."
"Yes, ma'am."
It happened slowly. It was slow enough, had she noticed, that she could have stopped it, them. But the evolution from awkward to friendly was so seamless, she would never be able to figure out the moment when things began to shift and change. Tucked away in his quiet apartment, while the rain ran down the window in tiny streams, conversation flowed from one topic to another, as fluid as those little rivulets of water. It must have been rote memory or inherent knowledge. Like animals migrating year after year to places where they had never been but knew how to find. Light taps to limbs became lingering touches. Sidelong glances and shy smiles turned into long stares.
It was as natural as their friendship had once been, but accompanied by something else. Years of sexual frustration and innocent, and not so innocent, flirting were going to end. When one of them would leave the couch, for coffee, water, or something equally innocuous, they would return to sit inches closer. Inch by inch, the expanse of leather couch was disappearing between them. Like conquering heroes, fueled by desire and determination, they waged steady assaults against the space between them.
His fingers threaded through her hair. Voices lowered to murmurs; murmurs whispered into sighs; sighs slipped into silence. Her head lay beneath his chin, her fingers, woven through his, lay in a tangle on his lap. His leg brushed against hers. Jolted by the contact, she jerked her head up. Their eyes met and his hand tightened on the crown of her head. Her eyes widened slightly. She had been working so hard, concentrating on a chess game made up of human pieces and tactical maneuvers, that she wasn't sure whose turn it was to move next. The palm of his hand pushed lightly on her skull and she found herself leaning forward slightly, her head tilted fractionally.
Their lips were a breath apart. She could almost feel them, but didn't move closer. Anticipation coiled in her stomach; it rested on her lips. Before she could think the word 'please', his mouth was on hers. Her hands moved to his shoulders, his arms pulled her against and she found herself crawling over his lap. Without asking or agreeing, without directions or discussion, begging or promises, they stumbled off his couch and backed into his bedroom, a trail of clothes marking their passage.
**************************************************************************** ********** Chinese Takeout and Accidents
Even the strongest wills can break. After sixteen days of rain, the weather was on course to break a hundred year standing record and the office was at its breaking point. Nerves were stretched thin. They had been stuck indoors, held captive by humidity and rain, and the strain was starting to show. People snapped at each other and the gossip mill, always active, was operating at full strength. No one was safe from it. The people who had office doors kept them shut, ignoring the outside world and the people in it.
There were stacks of folders on his desk. They were six inches deep in places. A notepad sat in front of him. It was blank and the pages were slowly diminishing as he tore them off to make crumpled paper basketballs. He had missed, on average, every third shot, but he felt his aim was improving. The misses weren't nearly as bad. After all the pick-up games with Sturgis, he thought his trashcan basketball would have improved, too. Apparently, he was wrong.
He was bored. Catherine was out of town and he had a pile of dull cases and duller clients waiting for him. Through his half-drawn blinds, he could see Mac slouched over her desk. Her forehead rested in her hand. For a minute, he thought she was doing work until he noticed that she was tapping her pen against her desk with her other. If he wasn't mistaken, it was a one handed rendition of "Chopsticks." An idea flitted around the back of his brain like a moth around a light bulb. He swatted at it, because it wasn't supposed to be there. Like the moth when it reached the bulb, fulmination of the idea could only lead to bad things. But, also like the moth, it wouldn't go away. He was drawn to it.
Before he could stop himself, he found himself walking across the bullpen heading towards her office. He knocked but entered before she could answer. His plan depended on spontaneity.
"Harm," she gasped, the flat of her hand lying against her chest and eyes wide. "You startled me."
He shrugged easily. "I knocked."
"You did? I didn't hear you. My mind was wandering."
"And you call yourself a Marine." He smiled to lessen the impact of the barb. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"
"What?"
"Plans," he repeated. "Do you have plans for tonight? With Adam?"
"No." She shook her head. "He's working."
"Great. What do you say we call it a day and get some Chinese takeout or something? It'll be like old times."
Her eyebrows knit into a frown of confusion. "I thought we weren't doing that anymore."
He slid into a chair and hooked his ankle over his knee. "Those were your terms, not mine. The way I see it," he leaned back and steepled his fingers.
"Please, make yourself comfortable." She gestured to the chair he was already occupying and, cupping her chin in her hand, tapped her fingers against her cheek.
He flashed a quick grin. "Thanks, I will. Now, as I was saying, the way I see it, I can ask but you can't."
"There were loopholes in that arrangement?"
"Every good one has them. Now, quit interrupting. Since you were obviously sitting here waiting for me to ask, I thought I'd end your misery."
"I didn't know I was doing that."
"Please. I could feel the vibes through the window. So what do you say, Marine? Have any civilian clothes with you?"
Her expression was peculiar. It was an odd mixture of wistfulness and ambivalence, covered with a thin layer of blush. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered what she was thinking. He could tell, however, that she was wavering; it was only a matter of time before she capitulated. "As it so happens, I do," she mumbled into her palm.
"Great. Pack it up." He left the office before she could change her mind. This, he decided, was much better than wastebasket basketball.
Dark clouds had bubbled over the city by the time they returned to his apartment with the food. In the distance, lightning flashed and illuminated the dark clouds. He ushered her ahead of him and they dashed into the building seconds before the rain. Gesturing to his bedroom, he told her, "You can change, I'll set up for dinner."
She murmured her agreement. As she stepped into the bedroom, she tried not to marvel at the fact that she was standing in his bedroom again. In his apartment again. It seemed like so long ago. Their friendship had been rocky before; sometimes it was so thin it was almost transparent. But it had never been like this. It had never gotten to the point where her skin had itched and tension slid under it like a thin, cold layer of water. She wanted it back; she knew he did, too. Which was why she agreed to come back with him.
Nervously, she slid a hand over her shorts and tried to tuck her bra straps beneath her tank top. She huffed a breath out in exasperation. Why couldn't she have had jeans and a parka in her car?
Smothering a grin as he jumped, she stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, I can take over if you want to change." She placed her hand lightly on his back. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She bumped him gently with her hip. This time, they both jerked at the contact. Smiling nervously, she shooed him away from the food. "Go. Change."
"Yes, ma'am."
It happened slowly. It was slow enough, had she noticed, that she could have stopped it, them. But the evolution from awkward to friendly was so seamless, she would never be able to figure out the moment when things began to shift and change. Tucked away in his quiet apartment, while the rain ran down the window in tiny streams, conversation flowed from one topic to another, as fluid as those little rivulets of water. It must have been rote memory or inherent knowledge. Like animals migrating year after year to places where they had never been but knew how to find. Light taps to limbs became lingering touches. Sidelong glances and shy smiles turned into long stares.
It was as natural as their friendship had once been, but accompanied by something else. Years of sexual frustration and innocent, and not so innocent, flirting were going to end. When one of them would leave the couch, for coffee, water, or something equally innocuous, they would return to sit inches closer. Inch by inch, the expanse of leather couch was disappearing between them. Like conquering heroes, fueled by desire and determination, they waged steady assaults against the space between them.
His fingers threaded through her hair. Voices lowered to murmurs; murmurs whispered into sighs; sighs slipped into silence. Her head lay beneath his chin, her fingers, woven through his, lay in a tangle on his lap. His leg brushed against hers. Jolted by the contact, she jerked her head up. Their eyes met and his hand tightened on the crown of her head. Her eyes widened slightly. She had been working so hard, concentrating on a chess game made up of human pieces and tactical maneuvers, that she wasn't sure whose turn it was to move next. The palm of his hand pushed lightly on her skull and she found herself leaning forward slightly, her head tilted fractionally.
Their lips were a breath apart. She could almost feel them, but didn't move closer. Anticipation coiled in her stomach; it rested on her lips. Before she could think the word 'please', his mouth was on hers. Her hands moved to his shoulders, his arms pulled her against and she found herself crawling over his lap. Without asking or agreeing, without directions or discussion, begging or promises, they stumbled off his couch and backed into his bedroom, a trail of clothes marking their passage.
