Summary: Sara goes to Sofia's apartment during the events of Bullet Runs Through IT. Sofia's POV. Previously published elsewhere, just rounding up the stray sheep.
"You shouldn't be here."
I turn the simple statement into a snarl, but if Sara recognizes her own words thrown back at her, she doesn't acknowledge it. She raises one sharp eyebrow and bites off a smirk. When she turns away I want to pounce at her, yelling and scratching. I don't, of course, and she shouldn't be here. Obviously. I imagine her saying it, that the word would be less sound than motion, her lips smirking, or is it sneering, at a joke I am too obtuse to understand.
She doesn't say anything, just takes in my apartment, her back to me as she glances at the battered furniture and makeshift bookcases. When I moved in I put up books and a computer, always thinking I would find the time to decorate, yet it remains lost. Too late, now this beautiful woman is smirking at my housekeeping skills, and given her training she is probably analyzing my whole character. I'm not as put together as I seem at work, with the guys, with Gil. And she might see through it all if she stays any longer.
"You shouldn't be here."
I need her to leave, now. Before she sees, before I start to fall apart again. I don't want her seeing me as I was in Gil's office, how I was before she started pounding on my door this afternoon, how I will be once she is gone. She turns to look at me, one long finger laid to her lips with a slow shake of her head that makes me feel eight years old, being called out for talking during class. The shame at being disobedient. Damn her for being so condescending. She is not my better, not at work, certainly not with people.
I feel my blood rising into my face as she picks up the glass from the coffee table. Whiskey, the good stuff too, and so what if I am drinking alone at 3 pm. At least I am not so far gone that I skip the glass. After what happened, after what I did, she can't criticize, no one can. They can't say anything worse than I've told myself in the last 12 hours.
She sniffs it and then raises it to her lips, and from where I am standing I can see how her lips cover the gloss marks from my own and it is such a strangely intimate gesture from this woman I can't tolerate. Now I can't even remember why I let her in, except I didn't, really. She didn't wait to be invited when I opened the door and I closed it after her out of habit. So she is here, standing in my living room, drinking my whiskey, and reading the titles off my books, I presume, though she still hasn't spoken and her back is to me again. That pompous bitch, I think as I cross the room towards her.
"You shouldn't be here."
I'm close to yelling, and I think I am as near the edge of my control as I will let her see until she turns, startled at my proximity, and I fall over that edge. Then I'm hitting her, pounding at her shoulders and chest, a low keening cry escapes me, but I can't stop, not now. Her hands are on my shoulders and for a second I think she is going to shove me away, hard, but she checks herself quickly. Her face is blank, not an uncommon look given how cold she is to everyone, but her eyes are blank as well. I always thought her eyes were expressive, the only part of her I could begin to make sense of, and this is off-putting though I can't place it.
The moment is gone as she pulls me into a stiff embrace, and I am clutching at the front of her shirt and sobbing against the soft skin below the hollow of her neck as she rubs tight circles on my shoulders. It is meant to be comforting, I'm sure, but it is so oddly mechanical, like she is implementing a procedure she has only read about and never seen. Maybe she is; I can't imagine her yielding into this kind of embrace. I yield, for the moment, because I have pushed everyone else away, my friends,
my mother. I imagine I will have to apologize for much of what I have said to my loved ones this day when it is all over; hopefully it won't be from a jail cell.
And then it all feels wrong, her hands, her skin beneath my forehead, her scent, her arrogant presumption that I need this comfort, her pity. I start to pull away, but she catches at my shoulders, holding me a hands breath away and I want to lash out at her again, but not with my fists, I want to do more damage.
So I kiss her, harshly. If I was less stressed, less scared, or, god, yes, less drunk, I wouldn't have done it, wouldn't have chosen this. But I did and I am kissing her with enough force to bruise, my tongue between her teeth whether she wants me there or not, but she's not complaining. I nip at her lips, a part of me hoping to draw a drop of blood, and the reasonable part of my mind feels sick, but I'm not listening anymore. I just feel, her lips crushed to mine, her fingers bruising my shoulders, her shudder as my teeth catch her lower lip.
I pull back, realizing what I have done, afraid that I have made my situation even worse. I open my mouth, to say what? Apologize I guess, but before I can speak her lips are on mine and her fingers are unbuttoning my shirt, though they shake, and I am sure at this moment her canines are leaving small puncture marks on my lip. She steps towards me, forcing me back until my calves hit the low coffee table and I side step around it, wincing at another bruise I hope I will never need to explain. She fumbles with the buttons, which are too small to manipulate blindly anyway, and she stops kissing me and leans in to see what she is doing. Her hair falls over her face, but I can feel the penetrating gaze she views the whole world with turned on the thin fabric above my breasts. I can still see the moisture from my tears on her chest, which is when I realize I can see down her shirt and know I'm not the only one who forget a bra this morning.
"You shouldn't be here."
She pauses and looks up at me, a pleasant reversal from our usual positions, and her hands still on my shirt. There is a question in her eyes, now, and apparently I am not the only one who has considered whether this is consensual. I try to breathe slowly, steady my pulse so I can think, but I am still too fuzzy from the whiskey, and right now all I can think about is the feel of her lips on mine and what they will feel like on my skin. Fuck the consequences, I think as I pull her back up for a quick kiss. Fuck Gil.
Ah, and there it is. Probably my truest reason for not throwing her out of my apartment. She may be as close to Gil as I will ever get. The entire lab knows there is something between them, though no one knows the whole truth, I suspect. I bet it is a lot less interesting than they imagine, god knows my relationship with him is less than fascinating. I've certainly never felt his hands sliding beneath the hem at the back of my jeans as he licks at the tender skin between my breasts. Oh, god, Sara, it is so unfair. The only way to get his attention is to threaten to leave, and once I'm settled again, he takes it for granted that I will stay there, waiting for him to get his head together.
This is what you do to me Gil. To us both I suspect, given the passion Sara is exhibiting. This can't be for me, it can't. I feel her teeth bite at the wrinkled skin around my nipple and I whimper but don't pull back. It hurts and I can see red marks on my flesh as she moves to my other breast, but this feels, I don't know, more right than gentle caresses would. In a few minutes, or an hour, she will be gone and this way is easier to deal with, so much easier to work into the framework of our existing relationship. Antagonistic for individual gain. We are doing this for ourselves, not each other.
And I am enjoying this, which she will know in a moment when she gets my jeans open. Her hand slides beneath my panties and I avert my eyes. I'm not ashamed of how turned on I am, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how completely undone I am by her. Her teeth pause on my skin and I see a ghost of that arrogant smirk before she turns me by the shoulder, her hand coming out of my pants, her fingers still damp as she strokes the skin above my spine. She guides me towards the open door of my bedroom, and I can't seem to muster anger anymore at her presumptions.
She stops me in front of my bed and as I turn to face her I find her on her knees in front of me, yanking my jeans and underwear down in one motion. She takes up kissing where she left off in the living room on the plane of my stomach and it is less teeth and more lips as she moves down my toward my mound. By the time she reaches my pubic hair I'm moaning, I can't help it. She rises and lays me carefully back on the mattress. The gentle manner unnerves me as much as anything else this afternoon. She straddles my thigh just above the knee and it occurs to me that while I am completely naked, she hasn't even removed her shoes. But then her lips are pressed against mine and I no longer care.
Her fingers tug lightly at the dark brown hair and I arch into her touch. Without warning she drives two fingers deep into me, but I'm so wet there is little resistance. I sigh into her mouth and feel her breath hitch and become ragged. She jerks against my thigh for a moment, trying to find a rhythm that works, and I wonder what this friction rash will look like tomorrow as I raise my knee to give her more contact. At least she's wearing slacks and not jeans; that would be an awful rug burn.
When she slides a third finger inside me I almost come and I try to pull myself back from the edge because I want so much more of this. Just when I have a little control back, her palm meets my clit in a slow massaging action and I am gone, lost in the sensation of climax, my nails digging into her back as my lips work at her shoulder.
I come back to myself and realize she isn't done, she is still rubbing against my thigh, the seam of her pants must be providing just enough connection to get her off. Her face is above mine, eyes closed, and I doubt it makes any difference who is with her now. Her face is twisted as if in pain, and I want so badly to see her eyes, but I won't ask her for anything, not even a simple request. When she comes, she shakes, eerily silent, until she collapses against me, the fabric of her shirt course against my over sensitized nipples.
I lay beneath her, her weight above me comforting, feeling for the first time the soreness. I haven't had sex like that in much too long and such disused muscles were bound to complain. I feel her breath start to slow and steady against my hair, and I wonder why I let this happen. No regret, I save that for the things I don't do out of fear. I feel a little calmer, clearer, though that could just be because the liqueur is wearing off.
I still don't know why she came here; I doubt I'll ever ask. Actually, I know I won't ask since that would mean acknowledging that she was here with me when I am supposed to be off limits to everyone working the case. What could I say to defend myself? I didn't even say five words to Sara, honest. Only four words in pain and now understanding.
"You shouldn't be here."
She rolls off me, barely stopping to straighten her shirt before walking out the door.