Oh, the things you'll write.
Title: Dean and Frank
Author: Jocelyn Brant
Email: jocelynbrant@hotmail.com
Rating: G - PGish
Pairing: Catherine/Sofia
Fandom: CSI
Prompts: whisky, grey (color)
Requested By: angelaumbrello
Word Count: 1421
Summary: “Just like Martin and Sinatra… the two of us.”
Warnings/Spoilers: Slight mention of an “argument” from “King Baby”. Also, MAJOR spoiler for Kill Bill Vol. 1/Vol. 2.
Disclaimer: Written with entertainment purposes in mind. I do not own the characters, and am in no way affiliated with Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS Productions, CSI Productions, its share holders, and affiliates, and in no way am I affiliated with Quentin Tarantino, and the bit of dialogue from Kill Bill is all his.
Author’s Notes: This may not be what the requester had in mind, but this just made the most sense to me, at least for the prompts and the fragment I received. I had originally written an NC-17 scene, but I scrapped it. It didn’t fit well with what I had written, and I’m pleased that I got rid of it. Also, be advised that this has been UN-BETA’D! I don’t have one, and perhaps that will be my literary fatal flaw, but at present they just don’t exist.
Fragment:
here (once again)
Muses
leaving the gold
***
“‘Silly Rabbit, Trix are for kids.’” With the proper emphasis on the words, ‘Trix’ and ‘Kids’, you see recognition dawn in her eyes. Her mouth breaks out into a huge grin, and she lets out a little yelp of excitement.
“Now that’s genius,” she murmurs, her eyes shining with amusement, and you find it hard to breathe for that second, but you’re not concerned.
“It’s Quentin Tarantino; every line has its purpose,” you shrug, your own grin smug.
“Beatrix Kiddo,” she muses to herself. With a slight shake of her head, she returns her eyes to yours, focused, but still alight with something, and you find it hard to breathe for that second, but you’re not concerned.
“It’s one of my many favorite movies,” you explain. “I just love combing through it, to find all the references he throws in.”
“I can’t wait to explain that to Lindsay. She’ll be shocked she didn’t think of it first.” Your eyebrow rises in surprise, and she scoffs a bit before continuing, “Eddy promised her he would take her to see it in theatres, behind my back.” She pauses, and you watch the subtlety of memory flicker across her face, before settling once again in the here and now. “I didn’t have the heart to deny her, after he died. But we compromised on renting it when it came out on video. I didn’t really think it was appropriate to take her to see it in theatres.”
You smile easily at her, content with the thought that she feels comfortable revealing that to you. The Mother Side of Catharine Willows was so rarely visible to you when the two of you crossed paths at work, but the hallowed time spent in this space, things were always different, no perception was the same. Perhaps that scared you a bit. The things you knew here, Detective Curtis couldn’t know. And what if you slipped up? What if Sofia replaced the detective, if even for a moment, and she suddenly shut you down, took this from you? This had become such a sacred exchange to you that the possibility, as remote as you hoped it was, made you shiver a bit.
She reached for the tumbler, respectively placed atop the coaster on your coffee-table, and downed the rest of the whisky inside. You reach for the bottle, to pour her another, but her hand covers the top of the glass.
“Sofia,” she chides, “Blue Label is expensive. I would feel horrible if we drank the entire bottle tonight.” You glance down at the lopsided label of Johnnie Walker’s finest whisky, and then back at her. You didn’t care at that point how much it cost; if she wanted more, you were happy to serve it.
“Catherine, its just liquor. If I didn’t intend to drink it someday,” you affirm, “I wouldn’t have bought it at all.”
You can see the internal debate in her eyes, but you maintain your position, bottle slightly bent, anxious to pour. She reluctantly removes her hand from the top, and allows you to pour her another approximated double. You top yourself off, just to prove that the liquor is there to be drank, and then settle back into your spot on the loveseat beside her.
You stretch your legs out before you, laying them gently on the glass-top of the coffee-table, and barely contain a grin when she does the same, both of you leaning further into the soft leather of the cushions. You laugh at the picture you both present: legs crossed at the ankles, short tumblers in hand, filled midway with an expensive whisky, bodies sunk into the comfortable couch.
“Like Martin and Sinatra,” you chuckle softly to yourself, “the two of us.”
“Yeah, but did Martin and Sinatra ever fight crime?”
“I didn’t know them, in their off time,” you reply. She shoves you bodily with her shoulder, and you release a more boisterous laugh. You’re glad you got to this place, with her. You never thought it could be like this.
She’s not one to accept interlopers. Sara had explained that often enough. Though Sara was a bit more socially awkward than you, you had to give her credit. She did eventually crack through the shell, to be considered family. But you had to wonder, did Sara see Catherine like this? Relaxed and sharing stories of her daughter, past relationships, and other anecdotes of life; listening intently to your theories on various movies, environmental phenomena, and your own tales of crime fighting. Did Sara notice the delicate curls of her hair, and think how luxurious it would be to have them wrapped around her fingers while her lips were otherwise preoccupied? Did Sara sit in comfortable silence, shoulder to knee contact with her, watching the clouds of the early morning roll in, threatening a rain storm in their grey depths, though it was obvious to natives of Nevada that none would come?
The truth was you didn’t care if Sara had done any of it, because you were there right now with her, and she seemed very satisfied to be there.
***
You don’t know if it was an apology that brought her here the first time, but the fact that it coincided with a particularly heated dismissal from her, in regards to an autopsy if you recalled correctly, never escaped you. She didn’t offer up any words of apology, but that wasn’t really her style. You learned that she was more an ‘actions speak louder than words’ kind of girl, and that was okay with you.
***
“I brought my own,” she said, indicating the Johnnie Walker Gold Label in her hand. “It’s not Blue Label, but not everyone can afford to splurge,” she teases.
You laugh easily, as you step to the side, opening the door wider to her. She steps in and moves to your kitchen, knowing exactly where to go, and where everything is. You watch as she pulls down two glasses, and pulls the ice tray from the freezer. She’s methodical in her ice division, and you always found it a bit OCD that she preferred exactly seven ice cubes in her glass. She explained that it allowed for refills, without another trip to the ice tray; you figure it’s just compulsive.
She fits easily in your kitchen, and you dream of telling her so, but things are always so delicate with her. You know that it’s a step you want to take, but don’t think it will be well received, and these times are too important to you, to throw away on a casual whim. You’re content, you guess, with the status of this friendship. She’s come to mean so much to you, but you still can’t help yourself from staring at her mouth, the slope of her upper lip just slightly crooked, but more gorgeous as a result. You like the way her face flushes a bit when she talks about all the crazy antics of her teenage daughter. You appreciate the companionable nature of her touches, and enjoy how you feel like you’re an old married couple when you prepare dinner together, the handful of times it’s happened. You wish everything was more permanent, that you had a guarantee to always have this.
But you don’t.
You know that with her it’s touch and go, and maybe that’s how it will always be, but she’s here now, and that had to count for something.
***
She’s leaving the Gold Label bottle with you, an unspoken promise to return to help you finish it. She departs a short while later, her hand softly caressing your neck, in a friendly, familiar gesture. You revel in the action, and she smiles gently at you, before murmuring a pleasant goodbye, and heading to her vehicle in the parking lot.
You watch as her truck pulls out of sight, and your mind switches to a vision of the following week’s encounter. Would that be the time you throw caution to the wind and try your chance at something else? Would that be the time you show her things could be different, but still just as great?
You chuckle to yourself, and your eyes refocus on the spot where her vehicle was last seen. Perhaps you’ve been too content to let her set this pace. Perhaps things could be different, but still just as great. And perhaps, just perhaps, she’s been waiting on you.
Bet Dean and Frank never worried about this kind of thing.
-End
Author: Jocelyn Brant
Email: jocelynbrant@hotmail.com
Rating: G - PGish
Pairing: Catherine/Sofia
Fandom: CSI
Prompts: whisky, grey (color)
Requested By: angelaumbrello
Word Count: 1421
Summary: “Just like Martin and Sinatra… the two of us.”
Warnings/Spoilers: Slight mention of an “argument” from “King Baby”. Also, MAJOR spoiler for Kill Bill Vol. 1/Vol. 2.
Disclaimer: Written with entertainment purposes in mind. I do not own the characters, and am in no way affiliated with Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS Productions, CSI Productions, its share holders, and affiliates, and in no way am I affiliated with Quentin Tarantino, and the bit of dialogue from Kill Bill is all his.
Author’s Notes: This may not be what the requester had in mind, but this just made the most sense to me, at least for the prompts and the fragment I received. I had originally written an NC-17 scene, but I scrapped it. It didn’t fit well with what I had written, and I’m pleased that I got rid of it. Also, be advised that this has been UN-BETA’D! I don’t have one, and perhaps that will be my literary fatal flaw, but at present they just don’t exist.
Fragment:
here (once again)
Muses
leaving the gold
***
“‘Silly Rabbit, Trix are for kids.’” With the proper emphasis on the words, ‘Trix’ and ‘Kids’, you see recognition dawn in her eyes. Her mouth breaks out into a huge grin, and she lets out a little yelp of excitement.
“Now that’s genius,” she murmurs, her eyes shining with amusement, and you find it hard to breathe for that second, but you’re not concerned.
“It’s Quentin Tarantino; every line has its purpose,” you shrug, your own grin smug.
“Beatrix Kiddo,” she muses to herself. With a slight shake of her head, she returns her eyes to yours, focused, but still alight with something, and you find it hard to breathe for that second, but you’re not concerned.
“It’s one of my many favorite movies,” you explain. “I just love combing through it, to find all the references he throws in.”
“I can’t wait to explain that to Lindsay. She’ll be shocked she didn’t think of it first.” Your eyebrow rises in surprise, and she scoffs a bit before continuing, “Eddy promised her he would take her to see it in theatres, behind my back.” She pauses, and you watch the subtlety of memory flicker across her face, before settling once again in the here and now. “I didn’t have the heart to deny her, after he died. But we compromised on renting it when it came out on video. I didn’t really think it was appropriate to take her to see it in theatres.”
You smile easily at her, content with the thought that she feels comfortable revealing that to you. The Mother Side of Catharine Willows was so rarely visible to you when the two of you crossed paths at work, but the hallowed time spent in this space, things were always different, no perception was the same. Perhaps that scared you a bit. The things you knew here, Detective Curtis couldn’t know. And what if you slipped up? What if Sofia replaced the detective, if even for a moment, and she suddenly shut you down, took this from you? This had become such a sacred exchange to you that the possibility, as remote as you hoped it was, made you shiver a bit.
She reached for the tumbler, respectively placed atop the coaster on your coffee-table, and downed the rest of the whisky inside. You reach for the bottle, to pour her another, but her hand covers the top of the glass.
“Sofia,” she chides, “Blue Label is expensive. I would feel horrible if we drank the entire bottle tonight.” You glance down at the lopsided label of Johnnie Walker’s finest whisky, and then back at her. You didn’t care at that point how much it cost; if she wanted more, you were happy to serve it.
“Catherine, its just liquor. If I didn’t intend to drink it someday,” you affirm, “I wouldn’t have bought it at all.”
You can see the internal debate in her eyes, but you maintain your position, bottle slightly bent, anxious to pour. She reluctantly removes her hand from the top, and allows you to pour her another approximated double. You top yourself off, just to prove that the liquor is there to be drank, and then settle back into your spot on the loveseat beside her.
You stretch your legs out before you, laying them gently on the glass-top of the coffee-table, and barely contain a grin when she does the same, both of you leaning further into the soft leather of the cushions. You laugh at the picture you both present: legs crossed at the ankles, short tumblers in hand, filled midway with an expensive whisky, bodies sunk into the comfortable couch.
“Like Martin and Sinatra,” you chuckle softly to yourself, “the two of us.”
“Yeah, but did Martin and Sinatra ever fight crime?”
“I didn’t know them, in their off time,” you reply. She shoves you bodily with her shoulder, and you release a more boisterous laugh. You’re glad you got to this place, with her. You never thought it could be like this.
She’s not one to accept interlopers. Sara had explained that often enough. Though Sara was a bit more socially awkward than you, you had to give her credit. She did eventually crack through the shell, to be considered family. But you had to wonder, did Sara see Catherine like this? Relaxed and sharing stories of her daughter, past relationships, and other anecdotes of life; listening intently to your theories on various movies, environmental phenomena, and your own tales of crime fighting. Did Sara notice the delicate curls of her hair, and think how luxurious it would be to have them wrapped around her fingers while her lips were otherwise preoccupied? Did Sara sit in comfortable silence, shoulder to knee contact with her, watching the clouds of the early morning roll in, threatening a rain storm in their grey depths, though it was obvious to natives of Nevada that none would come?
The truth was you didn’t care if Sara had done any of it, because you were there right now with her, and she seemed very satisfied to be there.
***
You don’t know if it was an apology that brought her here the first time, but the fact that it coincided with a particularly heated dismissal from her, in regards to an autopsy if you recalled correctly, never escaped you. She didn’t offer up any words of apology, but that wasn’t really her style. You learned that she was more an ‘actions speak louder than words’ kind of girl, and that was okay with you.
***
“I brought my own,” she said, indicating the Johnnie Walker Gold Label in her hand. “It’s not Blue Label, but not everyone can afford to splurge,” she teases.
You laugh easily, as you step to the side, opening the door wider to her. She steps in and moves to your kitchen, knowing exactly where to go, and where everything is. You watch as she pulls down two glasses, and pulls the ice tray from the freezer. She’s methodical in her ice division, and you always found it a bit OCD that she preferred exactly seven ice cubes in her glass. She explained that it allowed for refills, without another trip to the ice tray; you figure it’s just compulsive.
She fits easily in your kitchen, and you dream of telling her so, but things are always so delicate with her. You know that it’s a step you want to take, but don’t think it will be well received, and these times are too important to you, to throw away on a casual whim. You’re content, you guess, with the status of this friendship. She’s come to mean so much to you, but you still can’t help yourself from staring at her mouth, the slope of her upper lip just slightly crooked, but more gorgeous as a result. You like the way her face flushes a bit when she talks about all the crazy antics of her teenage daughter. You appreciate the companionable nature of her touches, and enjoy how you feel like you’re an old married couple when you prepare dinner together, the handful of times it’s happened. You wish everything was more permanent, that you had a guarantee to always have this.
But you don’t.
You know that with her it’s touch and go, and maybe that’s how it will always be, but she’s here now, and that had to count for something.
***
She’s leaving the Gold Label bottle with you, an unspoken promise to return to help you finish it. She departs a short while later, her hand softly caressing your neck, in a friendly, familiar gesture. You revel in the action, and she smiles gently at you, before murmuring a pleasant goodbye, and heading to her vehicle in the parking lot.
You watch as her truck pulls out of sight, and your mind switches to a vision of the following week’s encounter. Would that be the time you throw caution to the wind and try your chance at something else? Would that be the time you show her things could be different, but still just as great?
You chuckle to yourself, and your eyes refocus on the spot where her vehicle was last seen. Perhaps you’ve been too content to let her set this pace. Perhaps things could be different, but still just as great. And perhaps, just perhaps, she’s been waiting on you.
Bet Dean and Frank never worried about this kind of thing.
-End