DS Holiday Party: for stormymouse, by Isis (isiscolo)
what he remembers
PG, 640 words
Prompt 26: Stella/Ray K. "Sometimes I think you love the car more than me."
Thanks to malnpudl and secret_garden for beta, and to minervacat for Chicago help.
Good thing Stella doesn't come down to the station too often, 'cause it hurts like a bullet in his heart to see her, now that the two of them are divorced, split up, doneski. No matter how you put it, it sounds bad. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
Ray watches her stride toward Welsh's office, focused and furious, high heels click-clicking. She doesn't even look at him. He watches her, not realizing he's holding his breath until Frannie comes up behind him and says, "I bet it's weird to see her in here, huh?"
He stammers something, and she nods, saying that she doesn't run into her ex-husband very often, thank God, because just seeing him makes her so angry she could spit. What a loser. Bastard even broke her arm once. "So I know how you feel, Ray," Frannie says, heading back to her desk. Good thing she doesn't seem to require an answer. Because that isn't how he feels at all.
What he feels when he looks at Stella - well, it isn't anger, but it sure as hell isn't happiness. It's like there's a Stella-shaped hole in his life that nothing else can fill, and it hits him like a punch in the gut. Because what he remembers when he looks at her are the good things, the good times, before the fights about her long hours and his bad habits, before just loving each other like crazy turned out to be not enough to keep them together.
He remembers one Saturday afternoon in September, when they both had the day off - hell, that alone would have made it worth celebrating, 'cause it didn't happen nearly often enough. But on top of that, it was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and the sky was this amazing clear blue like nothing Ray had ever seen before.
They'd driven to Montrose Beach. Stella had made a picnic lunch, so they sat on an old tablecloth that she'd spread across the sand, eating sandwiches and drinking wine out of plastic cups, watching waves crash against the curving jetty and sailboats skidding along the horizon. The hot sun and the light breeze combined on Ray's skin to create the perfect temperature, the perfect day to be out on the beach with his girl. Stella had giggled when he'd firmly set her empty cup off to the side and slid over her, kissing her into the soft sand.
Her lips were soft, too; he remembers that. He remembers the way her breasts sort of squished against his chest, the way her giggles changed into tiny gasping moans. When he rolled off to the side, she'd snuggled into his arm and whispered into his neck, "Let's go home."
They had gathered up the remains of their lunch and walked back to the car hand in hand. As he put the things in the trunk, she opened the passenger door.
"Hey," he had said, touching her arm to keep her from getting in the car. "You've got sand on your butt." His hand dropped to brush it off, but she grabbed him by the wrist.
"You just want to feel me up," she'd said, smiling.
"Nah, I can do that any time. I just don't want you to get sand in the car."
"Sometimes I think you love the car more than me." Her lips curved into a pout, but her eyes were bright and laughing, and he grinned as he pushed the door shut again and pinned her against it with his body.
"Stella," he had said fervently, between wild kisses, "there is nothing in this world I love more than you."
Both of them had known then, on that sunny September day, that it was the absolute truth. Now, years later, Ray thinks that maybe it still is.
PG, 640 words
Prompt 26: Stella/Ray K. "Sometimes I think you love the car more than me."
Thanks to malnpudl and secret_garden for beta, and to minervacat for Chicago help.
Good thing Stella doesn't come down to the station too often, 'cause it hurts like a bullet in his heart to see her, now that the two of them are divorced, split up, doneski. No matter how you put it, it sounds bad. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
Ray watches her stride toward Welsh's office, focused and furious, high heels click-clicking. She doesn't even look at him. He watches her, not realizing he's holding his breath until Frannie comes up behind him and says, "I bet it's weird to see her in here, huh?"
He stammers something, and she nods, saying that she doesn't run into her ex-husband very often, thank God, because just seeing him makes her so angry she could spit. What a loser. Bastard even broke her arm once. "So I know how you feel, Ray," Frannie says, heading back to her desk. Good thing she doesn't seem to require an answer. Because that isn't how he feels at all.
What he feels when he looks at Stella - well, it isn't anger, but it sure as hell isn't happiness. It's like there's a Stella-shaped hole in his life that nothing else can fill, and it hits him like a punch in the gut. Because what he remembers when he looks at her are the good things, the good times, before the fights about her long hours and his bad habits, before just loving each other like crazy turned out to be not enough to keep them together.
He remembers one Saturday afternoon in September, when they both had the day off - hell, that alone would have made it worth celebrating, 'cause it didn't happen nearly often enough. But on top of that, it was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and the sky was this amazing clear blue like nothing Ray had ever seen before.
They'd driven to Montrose Beach. Stella had made a picnic lunch, so they sat on an old tablecloth that she'd spread across the sand, eating sandwiches and drinking wine out of plastic cups, watching waves crash against the curving jetty and sailboats skidding along the horizon. The hot sun and the light breeze combined on Ray's skin to create the perfect temperature, the perfect day to be out on the beach with his girl. Stella had giggled when he'd firmly set her empty cup off to the side and slid over her, kissing her into the soft sand.
Her lips were soft, too; he remembers that. He remembers the way her breasts sort of squished against his chest, the way her giggles changed into tiny gasping moans. When he rolled off to the side, she'd snuggled into his arm and whispered into his neck, "Let's go home."
They had gathered up the remains of their lunch and walked back to the car hand in hand. As he put the things in the trunk, she opened the passenger door.
"Hey," he had said, touching her arm to keep her from getting in the car. "You've got sand on your butt." His hand dropped to brush it off, but she grabbed him by the wrist.
"You just want to feel me up," she'd said, smiling.
"Nah, I can do that any time. I just don't want you to get sand in the car."
"Sometimes I think you love the car more than me." Her lips curved into a pout, but her eyes were bright and laughing, and he grinned as he pushed the door shut again and pinned her against it with his body.
"Stella," he had said fervently, between wild kisses, "there is nothing in this world I love more than you."
Both of them had known then, on that sunny September day, that it was the absolute truth. Now, years later, Ray thinks that maybe it still is.