Disclaimers et all in Chapter One
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He stared outside the window, watching technicians run their final check before christening the plane's journey. He inhaled sharply through his nose, following the inherent rhythm of his breath, and a minute smell of citrus caressed his senses. So unaccustomed to the arousing smell of a woman's perfume, his eyes sought the bearer of such a pleasant aroma.
"I love first class."
Her comment brought a smile to his lips, and his eyes embraced her graceful body, not having heard nor felt her take seat beside him. He spotted the tall orange-graced glass, but their friendly history already clued him in on the not-so-pure contents contained within. A raised eyebrow was all that was needed to speak his mind.
"It helps me fly." Catherine's voice mirrored that of a young child: no matter how making episodes of scolding, innocence still brought forth trust.
"Thank goodness you're not a pilot..." Gil muttered, buckling up as per the captain's request. He side-spied her, noting her intent to finish her calming brew before take off. Impulse caught him off guard and he soon found himself reaching over her form, grasping both parts of the belt, prepared to buckle on her behalf.
Catherine's eyes grew wide as she downed the rest of her drink, feeling her supervisor's hands close to her waist. The warm weather had incited her to don a cropped t-shirt, exposing her tight abdomen to the appraising and jealous alike.
The feel of his hands against her heated skin caused a moan to erupt from deep within, but she curbed any sign of effect he offered, by swallowing her emotion with the rest of her drink.
He smiled secretly, having felt her stomach spasm slightly in reaction to the light brushing his fingers had experienced. He listened for the click, no rushing intended, and gently placed the belt against her lap, creating a gentle pressure against the top of her pelvis.
He slowly raised his eyes, seeking her reaction, as his hands dared to linger; half on her low-rise jeans, half against her bare skin. He looked at her through his lashes, a small grin taking in her tense state - tension caused by his impish actions.
She let her eyes slip shut, feeling her mouth slowly pull open to accept exhalation's desire to escape.
Her breath longingly left her lips, wispy and curiously arousing to his senses. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hold said breath within him: breath equalling life, her life fulfilling his desire to live. He wanted to hold her breath captive within the confines of his mouth - to feel her energy inside him and taste the very essence of her.
"Refill?"
Fate took on the role of an overly chipper stewardess, complete with placebo medicated smile.
Catherine glanced up to meet interruption's eyes, and held the intrusion's gaze, all the while still feeling his stare on her. His intent warmed her, battling welcome and uninvited sensations, causing them to stem from her core and expand outwards.
Only when he withdrew his hands from her skin did she re-acknowledge his presence - only when he settled back in his seat did she allow herself to breathe again. She watched the stewardess walk off with her empty glass dangling precariously between two fingers, having declined further tongue- loosening juice. She turned her head discreetly, eyes leading the way to desire.
He felt the plane jolt sharply, and begin a slow paced journey, quietly building up speed to prepare for ascension into the barren skies, void of clouds or distractions. He watched her reflection in the glass, knowing that he was within her view. He quickly altered his own, with a quick swing, holding a direct stare. A hand darted out, holding his as the plane tilted upwards, pushing them back into their seats. "Calm yet?"
She scoffed at his smug humour, not offering an answer; save for a small puff of breath, and a gentle separation of their previously joined hands.
After a few moments of silence, followed by the captain's permission of a more comfortable environment, Gil took out his laptop and placed it on the fold-out-tray in front of him. He unbuckled his seatbelt while relaying a little ground information to the strawberry-blonde seated beside him. "Okay, I asked the lead detective for some information -"
"- why exactly are we going to London?" Catherine asked bluntly, curiosity blossoming with a sudden jolt.
"What do you mean?" He asked non-chalantly, typing loudly on the keyboard in front of him.
She eyed his beautiful hands for a moment; taking in his beautiful, long and nimble fingers darting erratically over the keyboard, though hitting the desired keys. Her eyes then floated back to his face, unable to weather missing pieces in a puzzle. "This is out of our jurisdiction, Gil..." Her tone was expectant of an answer, and she let out an impatient breath. "So why -"
"- a friend needed a favour, they're stumped." He interrupted her question, filling her in with a minute amount of resistance. "The London PD..." He answered her unposed questions.
"Ah..."
"Samuel Buckley...his daughter was one of the three victims." Gil's tone turned grim. "He's not working the case, because he's too emotionally involved, but he e-mailed me seeking help. 'I need someone I can trust...' was what his e-mail consisted of. He's an old friend, and it's the least I can do."
"And what do I have to do with this brew?" Her dazzling smile inched into view, selfishly asking inane questions to keep his rich voice fresh in mind.
"I have blood spatter experience, Catherine, but your skills far exceed my own."
"And here I was thinking this was an elaborate set-up to woo me." She jested dreamily, nudging him in the ribs. "So, fill me..." lashed gaze found his quirked eyebrow, "in on the details."
Grinning, he flipped the armrest up, allowing her space to sit close; half-selfishly craving her energy, half as a courtesy to straining eyes.
She placed a hand on his thigh, leaning in close, comfortable being in his personal space, and very much at ease knowing the discomfort she was causing him with such contact.
Taking a deep breath, he scrolled through the images displayed on his laptop. "How well do you know your Bobby Darin?" He remarked, cryptically. Smiling at her furrowed brow, he leaned in slightly, addressing her with a lowered voice. "Oh the shark bites, with it's teeth dear..."
She closed her eyes momentarily, enjoying his rich tenor voice tackling the familiar words. "Mack the Knife?"
"In 1888, East London was at the mercy of a serial killer, who's identity still remains a mystery to this day." Gil began, his professional mode kicking in. "He was also known as the 'White Chapel Murderer', because most of the killings took place in Whitechapel, Spitafields, or 'Leather Apron'."
"And was never caught." Catherine stated, familiar with the legendary murderer.
"No, and he always left the bodies in plain site, horribly mutated as a final degradation." Gil sighed, staring out of the window. He smiled, feeling her give his thigh a gently squeeze of support. "Police are still not sure how many people he killed -"
"You think 'Leather Apron' was a man?" Catherine interrupted him with a challenge.
"A male would fit the criminal profile, and given the mutilation of the bodies, and the manor in which they were disposed, science and psychology leads us to believe that Mack is in fact, a man."
"What do you mean?" She asked, her eyes on the laptop screen, taking in dates and names while her supervisor gathered his thoughts.
"Investigation has led us to believe that he seized them by their throats and strangled them, while their hands were busy holding up their skirts. He then would lower the unconscious body to the ground, always making sure that the head was placed to the left, and he never threw the bodies, for there were no post-mortem bruising." Gil continued, stopping himself upon viewing a sparkled challenge in her eyes. A slow smile spread on his lips, and he patiently awaited for her to bring up a detail she couldn't put to rest.
"If he gently laid the bodies down, couldn't that resonate as being a rather womanly action. If this guy was killing women, strangling them, hurting them physically, degrading them... then wouldn't you say that placing them lightly on the ground would be going against his M.O.?" She smiled, satisfied with her reasoning.
"Yes, if they hadn't found his signature." Gil retaliated, his own smug smile battling amicably with hers. "He cut their throats, and then proceeded to remove part of their viscera, as a trophy."
She pressed her lips together, jesting a pout. "It's still possible."
"Cath, anything's possible. You know as much as I do, that there are exceptions to every rule, and for all we know, Jack the Ripper could have been Jacklyn the Ripper. But right now, we are working with a profile that given to us by the London Police, which is supported by a century's worth of psychological and forensic studies."
They sat in a stilled silence; Gil apologetic for taking on a harsh tone and Catherine embarrassed that he had just somewhat scolded her.
"Sorry."
She glanced at him, giving him a shy smile. "I'm sorry for pushing..."
"- no, you have a keen eye and intellect, Catherine, and I shouldn't have just shut you down like that. I apologize." He held out his hand, a friendly gesture of truce, both desired by each CSI.
"Friends." She flashed him a dazzling smile, before shifting in her seat. She toed off her shoes and curled her legs underneath her, not bothering to stifle the yawn that interrupted her flow of words. "Man, that screwdriver really did a number on me."
He sighed a laugh, his eyes still on his laptop. "Pleasant dreams." He mumbled to her, the smile still tugging at the corners of his lips, though his gaze never faltered from the screen. Suddenly, he pushed himself further back into the chair, upon feeling her legs deposit themselves into his lap. Eyes wide, he sought her stare.
"What, you don't mind, do you?" She was perplexed at his reaction, and could feel the tension riddle his lower half, rendering his muscles into rigid concrete. She leaned the side of her head against the seat, allowing her own body to conform and relax into the position she currently held.
He still sat there, bolted to the back of the seat, while his eyes stared straight ahead. He held his breath, feeling his heart hammer through his chest, knowing that just one twitch of her foot and he would have hours upon hours of explaining to do to her. Moments passed, and he tried hard not to concentrate on the painfully comfortable pressure that was being applied to the area surrounding his groin. He turned his eyes back to the screen, knowing the futility in trying to continue with his analysis.
Her mind began to slow, dropping into a serene darkness that posed no threat to her psyche. Images filtered behind closed eyes, repercussions of weeks gone by and current surroundings meshed with promises of dreams to come. Her breathing regulated and she felt her body spasm before she gave in to slumber's taunts.
He flinched, biting down hard on his lower lip to quell any embarrassing arousing developments. He carefully reached under the seat, picking up a hard-cover book. He stared at the cover, before fingering his bookmark, and opening the page to his last memory's recollection. Her movements had ceased and he listened to her quiet breathing, while he himself being transported by the imagery offered by the book in hand.
—TBC—