Title: Places People Live
Author: the stylus (thestylus(at)hotmail.com)
Fandom: TWW/CSI crossover
Category: CJ/Catherine Willows (CJ, Toby)
Summary: "I miss the innocence I've known"
Disclaimer: Santa left many things under the tree-- but not these
characters. They belong to someone else.
It’s a bordy SS that merged with a fic already in progress and got very much
out of control. Merry Christmas, babylil. A crossover, in honor of your
newly discovered CSI love. And CJ. I hope the holiday finds you warm,
happy, home. Also, I hope my SS gets me in less trouble this year.
*
Some time off, she'd said. To straighten out a few things.
"Take a long weekend," Toby said, implying his magnanimity by his tone: a
Friday and two more days in which to struggle against the gravitational pull
of headlines, deadlines, bylines. He had blinked up at her and she knew his
office was so much darker than the corridor that he had seen only her
outline.
The noise of his pen on the paper traced fine lines of tension outward from
her spine. She wondered what words were spelled out in this tightening down
of her muscles.
*
Carol bothered to ask. "Where are you going?"
"To LA," she replied. And then, because they were themselves, she answered
the follow-up before it followed: "Just some unfinished business."
Her suitcase fit into the overhead bin. Before she closed it, she flicked
in the last Christmas card; if she did it quickly enough there was the
possibility of denying it had ever happened at all.
*
Her LA friends still kept the cult of the two-martini lunch alive. She
kissed children and cheeks and breathed very deeply alone in the bright
sunshine. The rental car smelled faintly of cinnamon and industrial
cleaner. She drove with all the windows down.
The first night she unpacked into the guestroom, hanging everything neatly
in the cedar-lined chest. When she came to the card she propped it against
the phone extension on the bedside table.
Wei-Ling leaned in the doorway, her infant son cradled to her chest and
jerked her chin toward the phone. "You should call him."
"I'm thinking about it." She sat on the edge of the bed, a pair of socks
hanging limply from her left hand. "It's been a long time, though."
"He's sent you Christmas and birthday cards every year for the three years
you've been gone. And I know for a fact that you haven't even called,
because he occasionally does ask if you've moved or died." Jack gurgled and
she shifted a little to ease him, her dark hair falling at an angle across
her brow.
Wei-Ling had been twenty-nine and hell on wheels when they'd met. For two
years she'd dragged CJ and Sean through every bar in LA, each seedier than
the next.
"You should call him." The baby's hand curled into the front of her shirt
and she ran a hand over his small head.
"I think I will."
*
The second night they had drinks with Wei-Ling and Todd before dinner. Jack
was on a blanket on the floor studiously exploring the limits of his own
limbs.
Brendan knew where all of the liquors were kept. "How is the new account
going?" he asked Wei-Ling, and without further clarification she launched
into a long discourse on the balance of television to print advertising.
The jargon was vertiginous, causing CJ to finish her second drink too
quickly.
It didn't matter because Brendan drove. The restaurant was dim and tables
for two were set so that they were almost beside one another. Conversation
stalled until a few bites into the salads, at which point Brendan's knee
brushed hers and he carefully balanced his fork on the rim of his plate. In
a completely neutral tone of voice, he said, "I was a bit surprised that you
called, to be honest. Don't get me wrong—I was glad to hear from you."
CJ stared at the vibrant plate of romaine and arugula, stirring it
doubtfully. "Frankly, I was a bit surprised that I called."
He didn't touch his fork. "Why now?"
She looked up at him, because she was trained to look people in the eye.
She was trained to project honesty, and eye contact was essential. "I don't
know."
"All right."
They finished their salads and by the time the waiter came to clear the
plates anecdotes about old friends had taken over.
*
"Remember the time that Wei-Ling took all of us to that horrible club in
West LA? The bouncer was that four-hundred pound guy who looked like an
extra from a Wayans brother's film and the cover was about twenty-five
dollars but she was wearing those white go-go boots and she just batted her
eyes and convinced him that he'd never even seen us as we ducked under the
rope."
*
"So Andrew—remember Andrew: tall Australian guy, balding, worked down the
hall from Marge?—walks up to him and puts his hands on his hips and says,
'No, mate, but I will.' And this guy cocks his head to the side for a
second, thinking, and then loops his arm through Andrew's and says, 'Well,
that's an offer I can't refuse.' Poor Andrew looked like someone had just
told him the world was flat. The guy on his arm just grinned."
*
CJ laughed until she had to dab at the corner of her eyes with her napkin,
and once Brendan let out a particularly undignified snort which caused the
couple at the cozy table beside them to turn and stare.
They split dessert and snickered together at the knowing look with which the
waiter asked, "So that'll be two forks?"
In the car on the way back to her guest room she watched the streetlights
wash over his profile. His hands on the wheel curled like Jack's hands in
his mother's shirt. There was a moment when she might have reached out and
placed her hand on his arm, but the light changed. He glanced over at her
and smiled when he shifted from second to third and it was like looking at a
photograph.
On the porch they stood awkwardly making whispered conversation until he
leaned in and kissed her. She didn't pull away, finally. He did, trailing
one finger down her cheek and looking so hard at the path it traced she
wondered if he might burn through her. There didn't seem to be much to say
that they hadn't said before, so she thought he might leave then and let her
nurse the hard, empty thing curled in her chest. Instead he leaned in
again; and though he kissed her on the softly cheek, she felt the touch
knock out against her ribs.
"Happy early birthday, CJ," he murmured. Before she unearthed any words he
had closed the Volvo's door and was looking over his shoulder to avoid
flattening the border of geraniums under his back wheels.
*
Two hours on the runway, a faulty display light and a lack of pretzels
later, the day couldn't get any worse. CJ blazed through the desert.
A blond woman in a leather jacket materialized in her path: "Ma'am, I'm
sorry. You can't go down there."
"Like hell I can't. I'm CJ Cregg. I'm the Press Secretary to the President
of the United States. I've missed two connecting flights because of a damn
storm stretching from Texas to Canada and I am in desperate need of some
place without seven thousand tourists so I can call the White House and have
them bomb this entire state off the map."
"Okay, Ms. Cregg. I appreciate your dilemma, but you're going to have to
find another place to work."
"This is my concourse. I just want to get to the executive lounge where
there are seats and free peanuts." An afterthought: "Who the hell are you,
anyway?"
"Catherine Willows, Las Vegas CSI. And the departure lounge is precisely
where you can't go."
"Why is that?"
"Because at the moment there's a dead guy using it."
CJ took half a step back, and the scene slowly swam into focus. Cops milled
around the head of the concourse, pressing back against the curious crowd.
The blond woman—Catherine—smiled and ran a hand through her hair. She
looked as tired as CJ felt. "Look, I'm really sorry about the
inconvenience. There must be another lounge on another concourse."
And then the overhead speakers spat something other than courtesy phone
pages and CJ's shoulders slumped. "Well, looks like it's a moot point. I'm
not getting out of here until tomorrow at the earliest."
*
The day had gotten worse. And darker. CJ scanned for a taxi—what kind of
city had an airport without taxis?
"Still here?"
CJ whipped around. The blond woman from before stood behind her, shrugging
into a leather jacket. "God, you scared me."
"Sorry." Her head titled a little and CJ saw something that might have been
a smirk start. Everything was rose-colored in the last of the daylight.
"Don't be."
"I thought you'd be long gone. Off into the sunset. Or headed east.
Aren't you vital to the preservation of national security?" There was
something at the edge of her tone that made the hair on the back of CJ's
neck rise.
"Yes. And if I can't find a taxi in the next seven minutes I will
self-destruct."
"Okay," she laughed. "Listen, I have a car. If you're going into the city
I can give you a lift."
Her laptop case was digging into her shoulder. She was shivering lightly as
dusk chilled the air. The strap of her garment bag cut into her hand. She
looked down at the blonde woman. "Just like that? What if I'm a serial
killer?"
"With all due respect, Ms. Cregg, I don't think I'm the one who should be
worried." Her right arm tucked back the tan jacket, revealing a holstered
gun.
"What did you say you do?"
"I'm a CSI—crime scene investigator. I work for the Las Vegas police
department."
She shifted her suitcase to the other hand and nodded. "Lead on."
*
It was a black Tahoe, large and heavy and Catherine drove it furiously,
freely. It made CJ think of convertibles and California. It made her a
little nostalgic. "Do you do this often?"
"Pick up strange women at the airport?"
CJ's eyes crinkled at the corner. "Yeah."
"Mmm." It was a noncommittal sound and Catherine pulled her eyes away from
the road long enough to meet CJ's. Her right eyebrow was near the line of
her bangs. "Do you often go home with strange women who carry guns?"
"More often than you'd think."
That caused a little start of surprise, though the blue eyes didn't leave
the road again. Catherine passed two cars and slipped the Tahoe back into
the right lane.
"Secret service," CJ offered.
"Ah." She looked as though she was going to say something more, but a sharp
ring caught them both by surprise. They reached for their phones, even as
CJ's brain registered that the ring wasn't hers. Catherine shifted forward
to slip a phone out of her back pocket.
"Hello? Hey, baby. Yeah. I'm going to be home in about half an hour and
then I'll take you to Kelly's, ok? Ok. I'll see you then. I love you,
too." She flipped the phone closed against her leg. "My daughter Lindsey,"
she explained.
"Oh. How old is she?"
"Nine." Her face seemed to soften, just a little, before she clenched her
jaw. "Where am I taking you?"
"I don't know. I wasn't planning on staying. Anywhere that isn't shaped
like one of the seven wonders of the world."
"How about the Hilton? It's a big, ugly box."
"I can live with that."
The rest of the drive passed in silence. CJ watched the scenery and
occasionally the woman next to her who was humming softly to the radio and
calmly weaving in and out of traffic. Her slender fingers kept time on the
wheel. The expanse of the desert abruptly gave way to the outskirts of
Vegas, which blurred past in streaks of white and red light. Catherine
pulled the Tahoe into the circular driveway of the Hilton and cut the
engine.
"Well, Ms. Cregg. This would appear to be your stop."
"It would." CJ pushed the door open and stepped out, reaching awkwardly
behind the seat for her bags. Catherine twisted around and lifted the
laptop off the floor, passing it over. When CJ reached out for it, her hand
closed briefly over the other woman's fingers. She straightened back,
adjusting the strap.
Catherine leaned across the seat. "Got everything?"
"Yeah." CJ smiled. "I really appreciate the ride."
"No problem. Really."
She reached out to close the door as the car started, turned over and caught
in a hail of rapid-fire drumming from the radio. CJ saw the evening before
her: the industrial bisque of the corridors and the quiet hum of her laptop
and CNN's anchors, the heaviness of yellow light reflecting off of strange
walls. She canted her body back toward the interior of the car. "Listen,
it's presumptuous of me to ask, I know. But would you let me buy you dinner
or at least a cup of coffee as a thank you?"
Not a muscle moved in Catherine's face for a long moment. Then she blinked
once, as if having reached a satisfactory conclusion. "Sure. Give me two
hours? I need to pick up my daughter and jump in the shower."
CJ merely nodded.
"All right. I'll pick you up here in two hours. And Ms. Cregg, this is
Vegas." Catherine waved a hand to encompass the length of CJ's body. "Try
to wear something that doesn't scream uptight East Coast investment bank so
loudly."
*
The black Tahoe pulled up so close CJ thought she could feel the heat of its
engine. Catherine emerged as the tinted window rolled down. "Ready?"
"You bet." She walked around and slid in.
"Much better."
"Hmm?"
"The outfit."
CJ glanced down, though she hadn't forgotten. "Thanks." It was as close as
she came to finding casual clothes in her wardrobe these days, the grey
flannel pants and the white oxford unbuttoned farther than she'd wear it at
the office. "I didn't have a lot of choice."
"Right. So, any preferences on dinner?"
"Food. The only thing I had today besides a bagel at breakfast was a gallon
of horrible coffee." It was said lightly, but CJ could feel the sentence
hang between them, as if she'd revealed a bad habit or her father's illness.
"How do you feel about Thai?"
"I have strong positive feelings about Thai cuisine."
Catherine barked a short laugh and pulled out into traffic. "Okay, then."
CJ took advantage of the short drive to take in the lights of the Strip and
her companion. The hair around Catherine's face was still slightly damp and
when the car slowed to a stop under a streetlight, CJ could see the fine
lines that belied the first impression of someone younger. She wore dark
pants and a top in a bright shade of blue that dipped low enough to show off
freckles across her breastbone. And a different, black leather jacket. CJ
plucked at the white cuff of her shirt, feeling its stiffness.
*
After the "where are you...?" and "what do you...?" the silences became
uneasy for CJ. Her whole world these last years has been composed of
articulations: wrist, waist, voice. The other woman did not seem
discomfited by the conversational lapses, or by CJ's level regard.
"It's odd," she ventured over her pad thai, "but I never thought of Vegas as
a place people lived-- not normal people."
Catherine murmured something and took a sip of her beer.
"What?"
Those pale blue eyes were steady. "I said, I don't know how normal you'd
think I am."
It could have been something more if the tone had had anything but simple
fact about it. CJ turned it over the way she would a new wine, teasing at
its edges. Asking felt invasive, risky. It had been so long in the halls
of power and their carefully guided transgressions. "Why not?"
She had a half-smirk that briefly reminded CJ of Toby at his moments of
extreme levity. "I voted Republican once."
"Oh?" CJ leaned her elbows on the table.
"Mmhm. Also, I work with the dead."
"Well, I work with the brain-dead." Not even a tick of recognition came
from across the table. "The press," she elaborated.
"Ah." A smile flitted around the mouth and then was replaced by the
unsettling intensity under which CJ had squirmed all evening. It was hard
to eat with the lower half of her stomach curled into an inexplicable
tangle. It had been a long time since she'd met someone so unimpressed with
her place of work but so intent on her words.
"You know," Catherine said, motioning as she spoke, "I'm going to have
another beer. I think you should do the same. Two more," she told the
petite waitress, sweeping her hand to encompass the nearly empty bottles of
Singha that sat between them.
"Ordering for me now?"
"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?" There was an impish challenge in
the glance that followed.
"I'll let you know when I have a problem." CJ could feel herself easing
into the rhythm of the exchange, so like and so different from sparring with
Josh. Or Toby. Especially Toby.
"You be sure to do that. I'd hate to disappoint." One fine-boned hand
pushed the reddish blond hair back off her face.
*
The second beer did not make CJ drunk, or even tipsy. But it eased the
steel band behind her eyes and she found herself, inexplicably, telling the
story of her first—the administration’s second—Thanksgiving in the White
House. When she described the turkey deliberations, she was a little afraid
that beer was going to come out through Catherine’s nose. It was a near
thing.
Because Catherine’s face closed a little when she mentioned her work, and
because talking was something she was good at, CJ talked. She stayed far
away from power structures and situations and only brought up obscure
agencies and numbered regulations when they applied to one of Josh’s
particularly harebrained schemes.
She was very good. All her words wove tightly together as she strung out
the convoluted goings-on of the West Wing and the press corps into taut,
funny narratives. She brought to bear the skills garnered from the podium
and Capitol Beat and the sun-bleached years of doublespeak. She had
forgotten what it was like to actually have a conversation with someone that
wasn’t overlain by righteousness and a five minute warning—or underlain by
the past.
When the waitress had tried to clear the table three times, CJ invited
Catherine back to her hotel for a drink. Something about the way the other
woman tilted her head to listen had seemed to imply that she would accept.
*
The hotel bar was nearly empty, an austere stab at leather-covered comfort
modernized by glass tables and abstract art. Catherine had a lazy, hooded
look that ensured prompt service and nearly undid their waiter. CJ ordered
a grasshopper, her first in nearly two years. The taste reminded her of
summer and high skies, and when Catherine focused too sharply on her, she
stared down at the cloudy, vibrant green surface.
"Who is this Toby?" Catherine, folded into a low chair, seemed to be mostly
knees and black boots and pointed questions.
"What?" And she tried to scan back through the stories she had told,
through what she had said and not said about him.
"Toby Z-something." Her hand indicated it wasn’t important. "Are you in
love with him?"
Her drink was the color of the sea before a storm, but Catherine’s eyes were
the color of the sea under a clear bright sky. And so she said "no" quite
softly, believing herself.
They didn’t touch or talk on the way upstairs, not even when the elevator
doors closed them together. CJ stared at the mirrored wall just beyond
Catherine, seeing the way their reflections bounced back and forth into
eternity.
*
Catherine’s skin tasted of salt and CJ thought, while she was still
thinking, that it was strange to associate the sea so strongly with the
desert. There were teeth over her collarbone then, almost painful as she
arched into the hands at her hips. The tongue that followed alternately
soothed and teased.
They were much too far from the bed. When Catherine pulled her up for a
kiss with the strong hand twined in her hair, CJ stilled and studied her
face.
"CJ," the other woman murmured, dragging her back to the present—the hands
and the lips and the rasp of their clothing where their bodies met.
She tried to put it all into words, tried to worry aloud, but finally found
a finger lightly resting on her mouth.
"I’m a big girl, CJ. You’re not going to hurt me. And I don’t expect
anything from you, so relax." There was a dark edge that CJ couldn’t place,
an insistence about this bit of openness that spoke loudly of everything it
did not reveal. But Catherine’s mouth replaced her finger and CJ was aware
of carefully stowing all her objections and apprehensions before abstract
thought became impossible.
The bed moved or they did. When it hit the back of her legs, she fell back
onto it, dragging Catherine ungracefully after her. There was a moment of
laughter and then the deathly serious business of buttons and belts and
zippers. CJ found herself unable to move. When her hands were pinned above
her head, she left them there and fought to remember how to breathe.
Catherine was the bright center above her, around and inside her. When she
came, her eyes closed and her head twisted to the side, she saw nothing but
light.
A minute or ten later, she ran her hands down the narrow flanks of the other
woman’s body, her fingers still tingling at the tips. She remembered how
different a woman’s skin felt. She counted Catherine’s ribs twice—once with
her hands and then again with her mouth. She followed this pattern down and
then, the body under hers still shocking, she unexpectedly found herself
content to stretch out and tuck her knees into the back of Catherine’s and
ease herself to sleep.
*
When the front desk called at 6.30, Catherine had an arm hooked over CJ’s
stomach and a leg thrown across her leg. CJ showered and dressed and kept
waiting for it to be awkward, but it wasn’t. Catherine rose naked out of
bed and kissed her and made a joke about still respecting her and then
repeated it, more seriously and quietly.
"You didn't see much of Vegas."
"I saw everything I wanted to see."
At the airport CJ made her hand into a fist and brushed the back of her
knuckles across Catherine’s sternum. They kissed on the mouth and exchanged
business cards, and CJ closed the door of the Tahoe very softly as the
burning desert air raked across her face and walked inside without looking
behind her.
*
She stood in his doorway, nothing the line of his shoulders and the way he
always worked under the overhead light, even when the day outside was sunny.
"Toby."
He ducked his head up in the way that only Toby did and smiled, just a
little. "Welcome back. How was being stuck in Vegas?"
"It was good. It was… There was this thing that happened." She smoothed a
hand down the crepe of her pants.
"Ok." He didn’t ask, because he never did. "Is it going to be a problem?"
She stared at the window, the light ribbing through the cheap blinds. And
smiled. "No. No, I don't think so."
"Well, okay. I need to—"
"Yeah." She was already turning to leave when he spoke again, very softly.
"It’s good to have you back."
"Yeah," she murmured to herself, though Josh was passing and turned to look
at her and then caught his breath and the tail of the numbers he’d been
rattling off to Donna.
"It’s good to be back," she said to no one.
*
Fin
*