Fic: Cracking Bones Make Noise
Title: Our Cracking Bones Make Noise
Summary: Later, she'll chalk it up to the fact that she was cold. That it was raining and she'd been up for 22 hours and spent the last ten of those on a plane as the court jester of the Leader of the Free World, and not in the good, telling-truth-to-power kind of way. Post-ep to The Portland Trip
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: CJ/Danny
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Our Cracking Bones Make Noise
A piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret.
Then you drove me to places I'll never forget.
Later, she'll chalk it up to the fact that she was cold. That it was raining and she'd been up for 22 hours and spent the last ten of those on a plane as the court jester of the Leader of the Free World, and not in the good, telling-truth-to-power kind of way. She'll say that she was hungry and tired and he was there, knocking on her door with a bag full of groceries from the Lebanese deli across the street. She'd pulled him in hastily, because didn't he get what this would look like if someone saw, and he‘d replied, with a grin, "Wouldn't it look worse if they saw you dragging me in here like you were about to ravish me?"
She shoots him a look. She's halfway through changing into her pajamas, and feels ridiculous about pairing Max Mara slacks with a ratty Berkley sweatshirt, and also, oh God, has he ever even seen her without make-up?
"Anyway," he clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize." He hands her the plastic bag and she peeks inside, with a smile despite of herself when she sees it contains, amongst other things, a package of cheese-and-onion goldfish.
"Apologize for what?" She asks flatly.
"Oh, come on, you know," he shrugs. "I was getting under your skin on the plane ride today, and I feel bad about it, so, you know-"
"Okay." She's too tired for this, too tired for him to be standing here, scruffy and doleful and apologetic and there, like he's never going to leave her side, and she's not sure if it's a threat or a comfort. "It's fine, Danny," she says, just to get rid of him, even though it's not fine, even though she's sick of being everyone's comic relief girl while Sam gets to make emboldened speeches about education that make her want to hug him, and also throw up in her mouth a little bit. "Thanks for the food."
"Yeah. Okay." He sighs, and turns to leave, but hesitates. "You sure were good?"
"Yes, I'm sure," she snaps, impatiently, and then she looks at him, really looks, at the uncertainity in his eyes and the way his hair's wet because he just ran through perpetual Portland rain to get her some food, a peace offering. How did he know she never touched that pasta salad on the plane?
Later, she‘ll say it was the rain, the darkness of the night and the lateness of the hour, later, she‘ll say he looked at her with so much gentleness and apprehension and she was just to tired to deal with it; later, she‘ll say it was an impulse. Later, she‘ll tell herself, she had no good reason to shake her head „no“, cross her tiny hotel room and take her face in her hands, smiling sadly at the way his stubble feels scratchy under her palms. But the truth is, when she looks at him, and says, „no, we‘re not good,“ when she meets his eyes full of confusion and hope and most of all, so much love that she‘s afraid it‘s going to leak out like water out of an overflowing glass, when she kisses him and feels him melt against her lips, not hungrily and bantery, like before, but gentle and like he‘s coming home- the truth is it‘s been more than a year in the making. When they look at each other, wide-eyed and lost for words as he runs his fingers down her spine, as her fingertips trace his face and as slowly, deliberately, they crowd against each other, it‘s about more than warmth and comfort for aching, tired bones on a Portland night. When she pulls him down and he tumbles into her bed and his fingers find their way under that ratty Berkley T-shirt than softly lands on the carpet soon afterward, no matter what she later tells itself, it‘s about love.
Summary: Later, she'll chalk it up to the fact that she was cold. That it was raining and she'd been up for 22 hours and spent the last ten of those on a plane as the court jester of the Leader of the Free World, and not in the good, telling-truth-to-power kind of way. Post-ep to The Portland Trip
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: CJ/Danny
there'>
Our Cracking Bones Make Noise
A piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret.
Then you drove me to places I'll never forget.
Later, she'll chalk it up to the fact that she was cold. That it was raining and she'd been up for 22 hours and spent the last ten of those on a plane as the court jester of the Leader of the Free World, and not in the good, telling-truth-to-power kind of way. She'll say that she was hungry and tired and he was there, knocking on her door with a bag full of groceries from the Lebanese deli across the street. She'd pulled him in hastily, because didn't he get what this would look like if someone saw, and he‘d replied, with a grin, "Wouldn't it look worse if they saw you dragging me in here like you were about to ravish me?"
She shoots him a look. She's halfway through changing into her pajamas, and feels ridiculous about pairing Max Mara slacks with a ratty Berkley sweatshirt, and also, oh God, has he ever even seen her without make-up?
"Anyway," he clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize." He hands her the plastic bag and she peeks inside, with a smile despite of herself when she sees it contains, amongst other things, a package of cheese-and-onion goldfish.
"Apologize for what?" She asks flatly.
"Oh, come on, you know," he shrugs. "I was getting under your skin on the plane ride today, and I feel bad about it, so, you know-"
"Okay." She's too tired for this, too tired for him to be standing here, scruffy and doleful and apologetic and there, like he's never going to leave her side, and she's not sure if it's a threat or a comfort. "It's fine, Danny," she says, just to get rid of him, even though it's not fine, even though she's sick of being everyone's comic relief girl while Sam gets to make emboldened speeches about education that make her want to hug him, and also throw up in her mouth a little bit. "Thanks for the food."
"Yeah. Okay." He sighs, and turns to leave, but hesitates. "You sure were good?"
"Yes, I'm sure," she snaps, impatiently, and then she looks at him, really looks, at the uncertainity in his eyes and the way his hair's wet because he just ran through perpetual Portland rain to get her some food, a peace offering. How did he know she never touched that pasta salad on the plane?
Later, she‘ll say it was the rain, the darkness of the night and the lateness of the hour, later, she‘ll say he looked at her with so much gentleness and apprehension and she was just to tired to deal with it; later, she‘ll say it was an impulse. Later, she‘ll tell herself, she had no good reason to shake her head „no“, cross her tiny hotel room and take her face in her hands, smiling sadly at the way his stubble feels scratchy under her palms. But the truth is, when she looks at him, and says, „no, we‘re not good,“ when she meets his eyes full of confusion and hope and most of all, so much love that she‘s afraid it‘s going to leak out like water out of an overflowing glass, when she kisses him and feels him melt against her lips, not hungrily and bantery, like before, but gentle and like he‘s coming home- the truth is it‘s been more than a year in the making. When they look at each other, wide-eyed and lost for words as he runs his fingers down her spine, as her fingertips trace his face and as slowly, deliberately, they crowd against each other, it‘s about more than warmth and comfort for aching, tired bones on a Portland night. When she pulls him down and he tumbles into her bed and his fingers find their way under that ratty Berkley T-shirt than softly lands on the carpet soon afterward, no matter what she later tells itself, it‘s about love.