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Part 9: Gravity
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It was the year 2001; and it was waters breaking, rippling currents. It was the promise of repetition; it was the foreboding of another impasse. Collision was always twofold when it came to their connection; either it was work or it was their personal lives that propelled them into a quarrel. When it was both components it was a lethal combination that always managed to bring them even further into an angry pool – it was not unlike a relentless stream of water when the collision turned personal. A force of nature that merely flowed till nothing remained but what had been there in the beginning. Sometimes the water was still and motionless but when they tumbled together it was a tumultuous sea of water.
In that aspect they were too delicate; their connection was both very sturdy and yet very weak. In that aspect they were both like knives; they cut clean through – through skin, through precious tendons – into the sinew, into the marrow.
It bothered him.
It had become a very tenuous essence to their relationship; the ability to clash together in conflict – their natures too rooted in causality. She poked him; he poked right back. He needled her to the point of anger; she naturally needled him right back.
Sometimes there was nothing to do but rile each other up, nothing to do but wait for the other to break – wait for the other party to offer surrender. The problem always arose to higher altitudes since none of them were likely to admit defeat.
Predators rarely backed down from a fight.
They lingered in fight mode. Wielded a shield of intensity and aggression; no wonder it always felt like an explosion – deafening, roaring; wild in appearance and uncontrollable in its implication. It always felt like being thrown down by the rising tide – surrounded by water suddenly on all sides.
Sometimes their fights became arousing in their intensity; sometimes they were rage incarnated. Sometimes they had a fluidity to them that reminded him too much of repetition – sometimes it was merely a masquerade and they laughed about it afterwards. It was the same and yet always so new when they collided.
It was strange but they had never been like this early on in their acquaintance. He gathered they had both been too afraid of collision back then; it would had broken their bond back then – now it kept them together as much as it pulled them apart.
Life was peculiar in that way, he found. He was sober, seven years and counting, and she was still separated, nine years and counting. He was evermore brash and easily aggravated but unlike years back it was a thing he was able to temper down – a thing he had somewhat mastered to a degree. It did not leave him in much trouble anymore. Maybe he was becoming soft in his old age; maybe being able to take control of his own life afforded him with a clear head and the ability to manage his anger issues. She, however, seemed evermore elusive – aloof and very distant in demeanor – it was a façade that suited I.A. magnificently.
The few times she had collided with robbery/homicide in her investigative functioning it had left him astounded. It was peculiar but he had always believed that the rat squad was not a suitable option for her; he was sorely mistaken. It was as much a natural element for her as narcotics had been – really it was a reservoir where she flourished – and advanced. She would never have been allowed to be a predator in the narcotics division; too many wolves and old gruffs – that place had been too conservative for her in hindsight. Now, everyone were aware of her nature; everyone were hesitant and on their guard.
Her bitchy attitude – he would never call it that to her face, but it was what he liked to call it in his own head – was as much a delightful thing as it was aggravating. It suddenly afforded them another little avenue for conflicts; it seemed to clash beautifully with his own sarcastic, aggressive behavior.
Back when she had transferred he had thought it was a matter of transformation within her; he had thought she had forced herself into a foreign role she did not fit – for the sake of working hours befitting two small kids and an absent husband, for the sake of some obscure reason. Now, he knew better. There had always been a competitive streak in her; despite all her gentle attributes, despite the small sweet disposition she had always comforted him with. I.A was not a façade; it was the blossoming of her dark creature – it was the natural progression for her, he was forced to admit to himself.
Maybe if he had known this little fact when she had transferred it would helped him understand, helped him to acknowledge her back then in a way he had not been able to. Maybe there would be fewer conflicts between them now; maybe they never would have drifted apart back in the late eighties.
I.A. was a perfect fit for her, perfect for intimidatingly roaming through their department and enforcing laws upon the rest of the animals of the savanna. There were hidden boundaries, hidden laws – there was obvious, clear and written ones; she was a natural in keeping everyone in line. Even if it made her into a resented outsider. Everyone was mindful of a leopard, however much they might begrudge its existence. It was her new environment and she had integrated herself into it with flair and perfection; just like she had in narcotics years back.
Even though he understood her function, even though he understood her choices, it was still an aggravation to him. He would rather she had merely stayed put; rather she had continued to inhabit the same place as him. Even if he could admit to himself that he understood her reason and saw how the role befit her, he would never admit it out aloud to her. Something held him back.
Life was never straightforward logic; it was never well rationalized action and well-thought behavior only.
They clashed when their divisions came head to head – they took everything and blew it out of proportion. Not unlike the clash of titans – each god mighty in his own reassurance. It was giants, righteous and sure in their foundation, that towered and tried to bring the other down, tried to overrumple in strength – whether it be well-worded sentences of reasoning or grumpy sarcastic deflection, it was always two opposing forces meeting in a storm.
She had a propensity for grating his nerves raw; a capability unlike any other living being. She had a knack for knowing exactly where to strike; always a calculating precision to her attack. She never did things halfway – naturally she was bound to take fights between them to an abnormal elevation.
She was his predisposition, in essence.
Collision was always a very vivid display – emotions always heightened even if surfaces were calm. It was always a reminder of her calculating nature for him. It felt like a brutal reminder. Somehow she changed whenever he became too complacent in his perception of her; he had suspicion she waited for the right moment and pounced when he least expected it. He had a suspicion she enjoyed tilting him off the edge.
That he gave back with even greater force he chose to relocate to a minor thing. That they were both to blame was always a revelation that only came in hindsight. Aggression and anger never gave way to rationality – it never led the way to reconciliation. Anger and aggression always led to placing blame on the other party. In that aspect she was sinister and he was a brute.
She was a silent deadly thing that always hit the target when she chose to launch an assault.
Naturally he struck back with equal fervor, always able to counter.
Unsurprisingly it was always a disaster.
It always ended with them backing into different corners, hurt and wounded and refusing to listen to the other. Sometimes it took weeks – months – to reconcile. The ramifications were always more brutal than he had imagined.
Unlike any other person she had the strange tendency to slip underneath his skin and light his being on fire; an inherent little ability to bring him from calm waters and into a fiery temper of liquid turbulence. Miniscule changes in facial expressions and carefully worded sentences and she could choose between tempering him down or lighting him on fire.
She knew exactly which buttons to push and exactly what to say to deter him from maintaining control.
That he was stubborn beyond imagination when it came to her was maybe as much a part of the equation as well; but he had never really felt inclined to analyze it too much. Until now, that is.
Now, it was a necessary requirement. It was a prerequisite; one that would ensure that they did not drift so far apart that coming back together would be an impossibility. When they ended up in a storm together, one that drew them into animate and uncontrolled anger, it would undoubtedly only end in heartache if they left it to rot by itself. When an inordinate amount of words were exchanged, words that were never meant to be said out aloud, it was a matter of great importance to take them back in some way.
He did not want a repeat of 1998; those wounds had never been mended properly – they had been left to fester. He did not want to go a whole year before they spoke again. That storm back then had been just on the brink of ruining them – it had destroyed almost everything between them. It was still a mystery how they had ever managed to close the gaping hole 1998 had left. Maybe time had healed the conflict to a degree – but it was something that seemed to itch now and them, reminding them of what had happened. Mostly he ignored it had happened, and he was sure she had relocated it so some far away nook in her mind as well.
When they clashed however, he was intensely reminded of 1998, so a little self-contemplation was in place.
Compulsion to rectify the situation was foremost in his mind; a small feeling of righteousness lagging behind. So much that he – despite still being in a hard grip of anger – knocked on her door, steeled himself against her uncooperativeness and fortified himself to resolve this somehow. Usually it was better to let her steam off; better to let himself calm down – but they needed to talk about this before it became one of those things they never talked about – before it started festering in their hearts with the rest of the raw, reeking darkness.
If fortune favored them the slightest they would both be too tired to continue their fight.
"What do you want?" she opened her door with a glare, a little frown directed sourly at him, "It's 1 am"
"Were you asleep," he countered, voice equally rough.
"No"
"Then what's the fuss?"
"You, being here"
The comment turned his face into a grimace, and he mostly felt compelled to snap back at her. Somehow apologizing had been easier when they had been young. It was strange but it only became harder with age. Maybe it was the fact that their relationship was a lot more complicated now – it had become too tangled with emotions and the impact of being able to inflict the other with pain.
Sex complicated things – love even more so.
"I will repeat; what do you want, lieutenant?"
Her tone was not per se cold; it was indifferent. Neither warm nor cold; just a tone that felt almost frightfully dead in its neutral vibration. It did not bother him; he was used to a colorful spectrum of different voices when it came to her – he was always able to detect the different meanings behind the flavors. Indifference was not really indifference; it was merely a display of control on her part.
"Invite me in"
One of her eyebrows lifted and her eyes narrowed.
"I don't think so – I'm -" she started, her door suddenly about to close.
One foot in, he managed to slip inside anyway. When she was already in this mood it did not really matter what he did; he might as well annoy her a bit more. When she found him annoying before he had done anything to deserve it he might as well live up to her expectation. Incidentally he knew it would rile her up, he knew it would force any notion of indifference to flee.
"Andy!" she exclaimed, her voice suddenly not neutral – a little flavor of simmering anger. She did not stop him however; she was not unaccustomed to pushing him out if she wanted him truly gone. A few times she had slammed the door in his face – so even if she appeared annoyed it was a tensile welcoming.
"Yeah, yeah – you don't want me here; you hate my guts right now," he jabbered, closing the door behind him and shedding his jacket and shoes, "and what, the next time I see you? You will be even angrier then!"
"I am not angry"
"Well, I'm goddamn angry"
"Of course you are, you idiot – you are always angry!"
Tilting his head he regarded the red tint on her cheekbones – the very vivid shadows of frustration in her eyes, the tight-lipped mouth.
"You want a repeat of 1998?" he asked her, his voice tight; a low growl.
She shut her mouth, crossed her arms and seemed to simmer even more repressed fury. They rarely mentioned that year; it was a very sore wound. It was better to pretend it had never existed.
"Look, it's been a couple of shitty days – let's chalk it down to stress."
She harrumphed and seemed to be even more intent on glaring at him.
"You are not even going to apologize?" she asked him.
"Are you?" he retorted in the same tone.
Stalemate; that was where they ended when they were both too stubborn to acknowledge each other.
They continued to glare at each other, eyes tuned into a narrowed, annoyed look.
It quickly became a comical, absurd stare – he would have laughed if he was sure she would not take offense.
Instead he felt the corners of his mouth lift – a little indulgent smile. She grinned back; it was more a little show of teeth than it was smiles of warmth. But it was a beginning – reconciliation was always tenuous and something that started slowly. Sometimes they propelled it along by pretending nothing had happened; sometimes they merely tried to forget whatever had happened. It was easier to forget than to apologize sometimes.
A smile could hold a thousand little apologies in it.
Her body ceased to be a statue; he watched as tension slowly started evaporating around the small lines around her mouth, how her eyes turned a bit brighter – tension was always a very vivid impression in her body. It was always easy to see when it left her.
She turned on her heel and went in the direction of her kitchen - he followed behind her, watching her closely. She was wearing a faded t-shirt and a pair of loose pajamas pants; nothing form-fitting but her figure was a familiar soothing outline anyway. She looked even smaller than she was.
"Thomas home?" he enquired, watching as she took two glasses out of a cupboard and opened her fridge. Mischa was on an interrail adventure in Europe and Thomas was, as Sharon commented lately, always at some party or other – he had just turned seventeen. Mischa had always liked him but he was never sure about Thomas; he had a nagging thought that the kid had inherited Sharon's ability to be obscure like no one else – those two were like two peas in a pod. Maybe it was just the grouchy nature of teenagers but the kid had a tendency to hang his shoulders and glare from under a curtain of hair – whether the glare was more pronounced when he was visiting he did not know.
Sometimes he took the boy to a ballgame – along with his own younger son; not an often occurring event but it had happened a few times. The two boys, one year apart in age, got along, joking and grinning – and yet he knew the kid was suspicious of what was the deal with him and his mother; in that aspect Thomas was protective of Sharon. It was not a bad thing – just a little nuance. Whereas Mischa sent him postcards – and called to enquire whether he was treating her mother alright; always with a light teasing tone. He adored the both of them; always nostalgically thinking about them as two small kids.
Sharon placed a glass of sparkling water in front of him; a gesture of armistice.
"He's out – a friend's place"
He nodded. Even if he was a bit of an idiot sometimes he was not completely shitty; he was not about to start anything with her kid in the house. That would be an unmitigated disaster – he had no desire to bring her kids into the complicated mess. He sipped the water, watched as she poured a glass for herself.
"You're insufferable," she told him, her eyes watching him just as intensely.
"You're a goddamn nuisance," he delivered back.
Her lips curled.
"Bastard," she retorted, voice sounding lightly amused.
He grinned.
Sometimes they did not need to apologize out loud; sometimes all it took was smiles.
He took another swallow of the water; leaned against the counter – trying to figure out her eyes. Her eyes were always foremost obscure; he had gathered it was their natural hue. It was the color that accompanied obscure that he tried to detect – always a little glint of something else in between opaque.
They were not completely out of the woods yet; she was still wary.
"I was going to clear him from the start," she told him, voice edgy.
"You could have told me."
"No; I could not. It's a closed investigation. I'm bound by law not to talk about it with outsiders."
It should not surprise him but she was adamant when it came to following every little procedure, particular when it came to conduct. He arched an eyebrow; there was a certain glint in her eyes when she started her now infamous tirade on the law and what she was bound to do by all those precious regulations. It was a glint he came to know as something caught between amusement and surrender. Sometimes he found her amusing as well in her I.A. role – as long he was not on the receiving end.
"You could have tried to not behave like a wounded bear, you know," she told him – coming closer and uncrossing her arms, "You should be able to handle your anger better."
His eyes widened, his mouth curled into disbelief; "My anger!"
She smiled, "Yes, your anger lieutenant"
"I was not the one practically stomping my foot or trying to pull rank on everyone"
"It's a requirement everytime I have to investigate anyone in robbery/homicide – you're all on the defensive before I can even utter a single word."
He pulled a little grimace; "No one to blame but yourself."
She crossed her arms again.
"Really," she drew out, the tone half annoyed.
"Really," he imitated voice equally hard.
They could go on like this for an eternity – it was a little fact that sometimes snuck up on him. Even if reconciliation took an insurmountable long time they always ended up in a little familiar place; they always ended in a familiar embrace. Today however, he was impatient – caught in the desire to skip ahead of all the trouble and merely plunge right into being connected with her.
So, leaving his glass on the counter, he approached her; let his hand settle along her jaw and throat.
"I really am sorry," he told her, his voice low and serious.
Her lips curled into a full smile.
"Me too"
Maybe they had learnt from the past; it was better to let pride be – it was better to leave anger out of the equation. Otherwise it was bound to cause a rift between them. The one from 1998 had not mended yet; it was like an infection – dormant for the time being.
It was not unlike a headache when he thought about that disastrous year; he had ended up hurting her immensely – not something he was proud of. It had been like a raging river – it was no good trying to swim upstream. They had both followed the currents – both in the relentless grip of anger and hurt. The wrong word at the wrong time – and it crashed into them both with force. He had hurt her then; he knew that. She had fought back and managed to sink her teeth in; hurt him back as well.
His other hand came up and caught her jaw as well, he leaned down and kissed her, full on the lips – intensely catapulted into serenity the moment she kissed him back, her hands landing so softly in his hair, pulling him closer. It was a little intricate part of her he adored; she was rarely rough with touch. Always soft, little tender touches – sometimes they evolved and became intense and impatient. Roughness only came from words and tones.
"I'm sorry about what I said," he told her in between a kiss, "you know me, I'm a complete buffoon when it comes to diplomacy"
She laughed against his lips, "True"
Stroking the soft skin behind her ears, fingers into her hair – he pushed his body further into her, pushed a leg in between hers; backing her into the kitchen counter behind them. Anchoring them together – touch was as soothing as smiles between them when it came to reconciliation. Words drew them into different corners, words catapulted them apart – but touch would always bring them back together again. It was an infinite little fact that he treasured beyond comprehension; but oh god he always sought her skin – he always coveted the tingle of touching her.
"You've been thinking about this," she breathed when his lips went in a pattern across her throat.
"What?" he was somewhat occupied, hands on the way under her faded t-shirt – bare flesh warm at his touch.
"Fuc-king," she gasped, the word drawn out. Profanity always sounded so deliciously sinful coming from her lips. He still remembered vividly that one time she had said 'fuck' in the middle of climax; it had overthrown him and it had almost been too much.
"Yes," he growled into her ear, tightening his grip on her, digging fingers into flesh and compressing himself further into her.
It was a lie. The truth was much more complicated and he knew she would not understand it. It was better to simply let her believe he imagined fucking her when they were caught in the middle of an argument. It was better to let her believe he wanted to fuck her senseless when she annoyed him. However it was not the essence of his thoughts when they exchanged tensile, angry words; then he felt overwhelmed by an ache – an urge to merely lie next to her in a bed, comforted by the warmth of each other and bed sheets. He was always consumed by a need to be tender; only it would not fit in with her perception. Of course he wanted to fuck her till she became too incoherent to sprout any angry words; till she forgot what had gotten her riled up in the first place. But mostly he just wanted to exist with her - peacefully.
"God," she exclaimed, eyes crinkled as he hoisted her up on her counter, her legs going around his middle, "you're impossible"
Grinning, he drew a bit of flesh into his mouth, in between the sharp edges of his teeth, enjoying the little sound of pain escaping her throat, vibrating against his lips. He slid his lips down her neck, latched onto the thin skin along her collarbone, the bone beneath hard.
Her fingers travelled into his hair, reversed and came around his neck, in front of his chest as she started unbuttoning his shirt.
"What about – John-whatshisname?" he asked against the skin just behind her ear, hands splayed across her back, under the t-shirt – bare skin familiar.
"Jeremy," she corrected, her voice an annoyed vibration, a little puff of air that told him he was skirting on thin ice. Curious, he had a whole repertoire of little warning systems of what every little different breath of air meant and yet he always felt compelled to mostly ignore them. It was a curious thing. He supposed it was the same conundrum that made her wear grimaces and facades he did not care for, made her strive to anger him as well.
"Whatever," he mumbled.
"Do you really think I would be kissing you if I was still with him?"
Her eyes were angry again, hands on either side of his head as she tilted his head back so they could look at each other. Dark, swirling eyes – sinister in their hue.
He ignored her angry comment; instead he kissed her again – forcefully bringing his own lips unto hers.
"I don't care," he said when he broke apart from her, breathing against her lips. The truth was a bit more complicated than that – but again the truth was always a little hidden component of their relationship.
He still remembered that awful day in 1998 – how everything had turned upside down merely because of spoken words, merely because some words were apparently the key to a whole different world. A world of agony – a world where she had suddenly unleashed torrents of hurt on him – delivered to him in a stride as she catalogued every little mistake he had ever made, every little thing he had done to hurt her.
She had reeled off a nauseating list of all his faults.
There were some things in their lives that were hidden – hidden laws that made up the intricate little world of their relationship; in that aspect they were both collaterals. Responding to attack was a natural reaction; he had hurt her back – only somehow his words had been even more forceful, even more cruel.
It was the first time he had seen spring morning in her eyes and he had been to fault.
She had closed completely off – he was relocated to mere dust in her existence.
He had been too angry then to see the nuance, to reflect about what had happened. Naturally they had both moved on to other people – naturally the little nest of exclusiveness they had been swathed in had been shattered.
1998 had been a battle – it had been devastation.
It had been ugly.
They had never talked about it.
One day, after a whole year of silence, she had suddenly been on his doorstep – that hurt anguished look in her eyes – someone else had managed to hurt her more vividly than him. Something more devastating had happened and she had sought him out; he was not forgiven, he knew that. But he was welcome again in her life.
Her grudges might be intense and rough; but they never lasted indefinitely.
The whole ordeal had left them both rather raw.
He slid his hands around the sides of her abdomen, up along her ribcage – mesmerized and obsessed with the heavier breaths she took. Up to the swell of breasts – cupping and caressing as he slanted his mouth more firmly against hers.
No one else would be able to integrate themselves into her life like he; they were too entangled.
Jealousy would be pointless when they both met other people.
Jealousy was pointless; even if he did not want to possess her he knew she belonged to him.
They always ended up back together in the long run.
He imagined it was the pull of gravity; a little component of their cells that always pulled them back into orbit – always managed to tug on the strings that held them together. It was the gravity of unconditional love. She could pull his heart from his chest; rip it out and throw it away; he would still love her as intensely.
Gravity was a force to be reckoned with.
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