Chapter Text
She'd always craved heat, even when she was a child. She would snuggle into her bed, under as many blankets as she could get hold of, embrace her teddy, and pretend to be somewhere not there. Maybe a Mediterranean island. Anywhere far from the riot and the glass shattering against the walls at predictable intervals.
It shouldn't have been strange then that her first instinct was to snuggle closer to the source of heat instead of moving away. The solid weight was drawing lazy circles on the small of her back, sending tingles down her belly, and whatever was keeping her head in place felt like a safe haven into which to lean further in, not recoil from.
And when she felt something hard press against her thigh, it was only natural that what slipped out of her mouth was a moan. It wasn't until she heard a frustrated groan and felt a solid bump near her head that her mind shifted from instinct to conscious thought, and the worrisome question flashed, Why was someone on her bed?
She tried to keep still, but her heart beat faster, and she was convinced that her breathing must have changed. Anybody minimally observant would've noticed the precise moment she went from asleep to awake.
Still, she kept the illusion. The last thing she remembered was being at work, starving, and taking a cookie Shirley had left behind on her desk.
After that, nothing. Well, something, but it made no sense. Just feelings. Fast images. Just like back then.
She really hoped that her resolve hadn't faltered, that she hadn't headed straight out of work into the nearest pub and had four drinks. One wouldn't have cut it. One was to get started. The second, to relax. The third, to be social. And the last, the last was the one that gave her the courage to approach the least objectionable man in the place and take him home.
She didn't feel the aftertaste, though her mouth was dry. Her head was heavy, not in the usual way. Not a headache, not spinning, just heavy, albeit relaxed. No pain between her legs, nor anywhere else. Maybe she'd chosen the right kind of fool, and he'd gone gentle or decided to wait until she wasn't falling over herself. Miracles happened… although never before to her.
The important part was that whoever this warm body belonged to, he'd not hurt her, which maybe meant it was safe for her to open her eyes and try to stitch together what had happened.
She wished she'd kept them closed. She wished she'd ignored the noise and snuggled for a while longer. Maybe until she died. Just long enough not to come face-to-face with reality.
Because upon opening her eyes, two things became clear.
This was not her bed, and she knew the idiot lying with her.
No, this was a couch, one that had seen better days, and the idiot in question, Jackson Lamb himself. Not even sleeping, no, that would've been a reprieve. His eyes met hers and she knew that she was in for it. Desperation was written all over his face, searching hers, for what? She really didn't want to guess. Living in the dark made things easier, if only for a few minutes.
“Standish, are you thinking straight?”
“I... suppose?”
“Thank fucking God, if you ever do this to me again, I swear I'll kill Itch, Scratch, and any other dimwit that may aid their fucking stunts.”
Jackson knew they had all left. He always made sure to pay attention to that. Each and every one of his losers had stumbled down the stairs after another day of doing precisely fuck all. Shirley and Marcus went first at 4:05, Louisa next at 4:17, River at 4:39, and Ho, finally, shortly after 4:45. Blissfully alone at last, free to drink himself under the table and escape his mistakes.
Catherine was always the wild card. It'd been years since he'd been able to tell exactly when she left. She moved like a ghost, avoiding all the cracking floorboards. Her office door had closed at 4:30 on the dot, so his best guess was that she'd left with Cartwright, who'd been whispering some daft nonsense as if incompetence could be improved with rehearsal.
But if they'd all left, who the hell was in the kitchen, throwing a damn party?
He crept down the stairs, all the way to the first-floor landing. Which of his idiots had decided that blasting music and dancing belonged here was beyond him. But whoever it was, they were in for a shock. He made a point to pull out his phone to record it and keep it safe for a rainy day. Blackmail always came in handy.
And then he saw her.
Catherine, sensible at all times, standing in the middle of the kitchen, oblivious to the world, reliving her party nights. He took a couple of pictures for safekeeping.
Her hair was loose, eyes closed, hips rocking in ways that woke up his imagination, and he had a bloody lot of that.
Before he could speak, the song changed, slower, more bass. Still unaware of him, she sank into a chair. A lot of leg came on display as she took her heels off, one at a time, bending over in ways that shouldn't be humanly possible at their age. Mouth-watering sight. He felt tempted to offer some help until his upper brain took over and pointed out that something was terribly wrong.
Bloody out of character. He feared that a cocktail of dealing with his bullshit and grief had finally nudged her off the rails. He would've been less disturbed if there were a couple of bottles opened here and there. After all, most alcoholics relapsed. She was due for one. It wouldn't have been easy, but at least he would've known what to fucking do. This? Not so much.
“Standish, having a party without me?”
He expected her to freeze, to be mortified, maybe look at the floor, even to walk out. What he hadn't bloody expected was for her to smile, warm and bright, and to jump out of the chair and straight at him for a hug.
Should he… hug her back? Push her away? Tell her—? Damn, no idea, he couldn't come up with anything even remotely sharp. So he studied her as nonchalantly as he could. Her arms were around him, head on his chest, soft smile on her lips. Perfectly content.
“Standish. On pain of disappointing you, you won't squeeze lemonade out of me?”
She laughed softly and sighed, pressing herself against him tighter. The most damning part was that he really liked it.
A change of tactic was necessary. Better to make her angry. “Standish, have you been pilfering my booze?”
No fucking reaction. Had she even heard him?
“Standish, Paddington lives—”
She slid her arms from his back and across his chest until they found a new resting place around his neck. All the while grinning at him like he was the best fucking thing to ever happen to her. Jesus. He was shocked. And who was he lying to? He wanted to believe she was in control.
“I haven't had a drink, not since '91. Would you dance with me?”
Her reply was electrifying, exuding an energy that he'd heard of but never witnessed firsthand. No wonder half of the service had lined up.
“I will spare you the embarrassment. Trust me, you don't want this.”
She laughed as if he'd told the funniest joke, the rumbling of her chest vibrating against his own.
Finally, she was done. Laughing, not with him. That would've been a relief.
She lifted her head, lingering inches from his face, and still hanging from his neck, whispered:
“Then what do you want to do?”
Thank Christ she sounded confused. If she'd gone for seductive, he would've been done for.
The answer that leapt to his mind, 'For starters, you' died on his lips. Her glassy eyes and lost gaze didn't make for a fair battlefield. Yes, something was wrong, and he was inclined to believe she was telling the truth.
So he set his palm on her cheek to keep her in place.
“Why don't we go—”
She leaned into his hand.
Of course she did.
Torture. Maybe he'd finally hit the bucket, and this was his personal hell.
He felt his face twist despite himself.
And naturally, Catherine had to notice and worry about it. Because, yes, what else could go wrong for him?
He let his head fall back, looking at the ceiling in search of a deity he didn't believe in, and braced himself for whatever happened next.
“Why don't we go upstairs, sit down, and you tell me absolutely everything you did today?”
She nodded at once, excited at the prospect, as if he'd suggested a treat instead of an interrogation. If she'd been alright, she'd have told him to mind his business before walking out.
“Hold on— I need to get my cookie. I haven't eaten all day.”
She disentangled herself with alarming speed and picked up the half-eaten snack from the table. Then took a bite before holding it out to him. Generous. Thoughtful. Very her.
“No. At this hour, I'm strictly liquids.”
It wasn't even fucking funny, and yet she bent over, laughing anyway. If only he could make her laugh like this on a regular basis, not even for the glimpse of her assets—
He watched for a second longer than he should have.
Sick, he chided himself, before taking her hand and pulling her up, never letting go as they climbed the stairs. She giggled the whole damn time, bumping into him as they trod in the dark.
He deposited her on the couch and crossed the room to switch on the side lamp. The proper one. Anyone who used the big light deserved prison.
When he sat again, he kept his arms resting along the back of the couch, a deliberate distance. She kept munching.
Maybe he should offer something more substan— Wait.
“Since when do they sell white chocolate cookies at the corner shop?”
She looked down at it, then up at him, unfazed.
“I found it on Shirley's desk. Seemed a shame to just let it go to waste.”
“And you thought taking anything from Shirley was sensible?!”
He knocked the cookie out of her hand and sniffed it like a dog after a trail. Fucking Christ! That bloody Potterhead.
“Standish, bad news. You are high.”
“Alright.”
“That's it?”
She shrugged.
“At least I'm not drunk.”
From that perspective, it was a win.
Suddenly, she frowned, maybe finally realising the seriousness of the situation.
Or maybe not.
Her stomach just growled. The loudest he'd ever heard from her. At the same time, her big, glassy eyes focused on him.
“Sorry.”
Damn, she was annoyingly charming when she wasn't aiming for the absolute control and perfection crap.
He held her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Innocent enough. It still sent a tremor through him.
“You are cold.” Pointless observation. She was wearing a dress, barefoot, bare-legged, and it was mid-March.
“Right. I should get some food.”
She stumbled upright and wandered off, looking for something greasy at which she'd have wrinkled her nose under normal circumstances. Shouldn't be difficult. There were piles of takeaway in there. He'd got distracted again. By her calves of all things. She was so used to walking in heels that she just tiptoed her way around. Or maybe she was too baked to realise that she wasn't wearing any.
He didn't notice his mistake until she swore. It stumped him for a second until he clocked it. He'd had Sichuan for lunch, and Catherine considered black pepper overpowering. Her mouth must be on fire. Eyes watering. Scrambling around for some liquid other than whisky.
She wouldn't find it.
He bolted to the bathroom, snatching a clean cup from the window ledge, and filled it up with tap water, hoping that the purification process had taken out enough of the Thames.
Thirty seconds later, he walked back into his office.
Only—
Only—
Fucking Christ.
For a fleeting moment, he debated going back and dropping icy water down his trousers. Plenty of it. In her fight to combat the heat, she'd taken off the dress. There she was leaning on his desk, mouth open in gasps, tears streaming down her face, only in her undies… suffering. That tipped the balance in favour of giving her the water and worrying about the evidence of his discomfort later.
He approached her, eyes fixed on the ceiling the whole way. Not that it helped. The image was already etched. The blood flow was already moving away from his head. The uncomfortable twitching couldn't be escaped.
She drank the whole glass in one go. It calmed her despair. Not his, his was skyrocketing by the second, in rhythm with the twitches.
He turned around, his back to her, before speaking.
“Aren't you cold all of a sudden? Maybe you should put your dress back on… before you catch a chill.”
Please. Do this for me.
Five seconds passed, then ten, and she hadn't answered. What the hell?
“I think— I think I may need help.”
He shut his eyes in pain.
No way.
He shook his head.
He stared at the floor instead, spotted the abandoned dress, and dismissed the idea at once. He couldn't guide the fabric over her skin, getting an unwelcome catalogue of her curves, and then button it up with her chest on full display. He would— there was enough to forget as it was.
“What about my shirt. You could fasten it with the belt. Think you could manage?”
Please say yes.
He heard her breathing, once, twice… nine, ten.
“Won't you be cold?”
“I'm overheating,” he snapped. Then added, softly, “I will be fine, I'm built like a whale.”
That did it. Unrestrained laughter was all he heard… and her scrambling to keep upright, the floorboards creaking under her. If he weren't so frustrated, he might've found it endearing.
“It sounds like a good idea,” she replied eventually. Relief wrapped around him.
He unbuttoned his shirt, concentrating on the task more than it deserved, undid the sleeves, and was about to slip it off when she appeared in front of him, her tiny hands working at his belt.
Shit.
“Miss Standish, undressing your boss is generally frowned upon by the Park.”
Not that it wasn't done. Diana had made a habit of it. Another image that he didn't need right now.
Too late for the one standing before him. Her tits would be in his dreams for a long time.
She had a face.
He blinked.
He should look at it.
It was tilted towards him. Teeth biting her lower lip as she fumbled to fit the pieces, her mind half lost in the fog. Not that it would've taken anybody more than a glance to conclude.
“Didn't you once say you had no interest in catching me in my underwear?”
“Surprise, I lied.”
She smiled softly. No hysterical laughter. A good sign.
“Give me the shirt, you may as well enjoy it. You'll never see it again.”
Fucking tease. He shrugged it off, watching intently. If he was suffering, she could share the burden. She slipped it on, buttoned crookedly, and temporarily closed the show. Then a wicked smile formed, and her hands went back to his belt. He groaned when she unbuckled and accidentally, or not, brushed him.
She wrapped it around herself. Naturally, she couldn't get the strap inside the buckle.
He swallowed and steadied his hands to do it for her. It was too big. If he was built like a whale, she was built like a pixie. He looped it twice, passing it through the front loop before securing it, hoping for the best.
Alright, self-control test done.
Now back to taking care of her.
He pressed on her fingers, trying to snap her out of whatever had a hold of her brain. No reaction. Her eyes were very intent on studying… what?
He followed her gaze. What she'd awoken from slumber, it seemed.
“Like what you see?” That should've been enough to make her back off.
Any other day, it would've.
“Do you really want me to answer?” It was flat, devoid of emotion, like she'd told him that today was Tuesday.
In different circumstances, he would've taken on the challenge. Not tonight. Tonight, it would only end in heartache. He guided her back to the couch, avoiding her gaze. Slumped down and tried to regain ground by ignoring the inconvenient truth in his lap and the fact that this was anything but a regular night.
She settled next to him, staring ahead.
Good. Staring into the void together was something he was used to. Maybe it would give him enough time to stop considering what she would look like fully naked. Not that there was much imagination involved anymore.
No such luck.
The shiver travelled across the couch. She was turning pale, which was better than blue but not good either.
“Still cold?”
“Yes,” she managed between the chattering of her teeth.
He would've offered, but she beat him to it. In a heartbeat, she was against him, her arms wrapped around his middle. Her head tucked under his chin. Her eyes closed, and a contented sigh left her lips.
He remained unnaturally still. At least until she drifted off. At some point, she mumbled “Mein Bärchen”, and he allowed himself to be amused. That was a first.
When her breathing became steady, he thought 'Fuck it', and lay down holding her. One hand on her lower back, keeping the belt in place, and another on the back of her head, just because. He wished that he could do something about the situation in his pants, but between her thighs coaxing him, and the gap in the shirt, he knew that he would have to suffer in silence.
Catherine listened to it all, even though she didn't want to believe half of it. When he reached the part about her getting undressed, she finally realised she was wearing his shirt, and it opened far enough down the front to leave little to the imagination.
A little too late to fake modesty, he'd already seen it all. And liked it, if the unmistakable tension in his trousers was to be believed.
For a second, she thought of those old noir movies her father had favoured and contemplated sitting on his lap to ask him if he had a gun or was just happy to see her.
There were gaps in the story, of that she was certain. At least between her undressing and falling asleep. But it was his lie, not an unkind one at that, so she would allow him to tell it how he wanted to. The important bits were that she'd accidentally drugged herself, and he'd taken care, not taken advantage of her. More than could be said of the dozens of men who'd made it to her bed.
"What time is it?" she asked.
“Sometime after three.”
“Too late to go home and change.”
“Probably.”
“Why don't we go back to sleep?” After all, she hadn't moved an inch. The old fool was really warm and soft. Morning could wait, and frankly, he beat her bed on comfort alone.
“Trying to tempt me, Standish?”
“Wouldn't have to do much, apparently,” she murmured, eyes already closing.
There, that shut him down fast enough.
She internally winced. A tad unfair, though. She glanced his way, only to find him staring at the ceiling, his expression wavering between resignation and pain.
Back in the day, she would've slipped her hand into his pocket and solved the issue for him. She couldn't do that now. Too many lines would be crossed, too many already had. Going home suddenly seemed like the right thing to do, after all. Give them both some space to come to terms with— whatever this should be called.
“You know, I think that I'll go home. I need a shower.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye. They both knew what smelled was the shirt, not her.
“Probably sensible, yes,” he muttered as he shifted. “I could give you a ride,” he added, lifting both eyebrows suggestively.
“I will call a taxi, don't bother yourself, I have… bothered you enough tonight.”
He didn't argue. Just focused on the dust floating in the lamplight while she went to the bathroom to change.
He still hadn't moved when she came out, ready to return the shirt and belt. Lost in thought. Trousers still tented.
Would he—No. Best not to think of what he would or wouldn't do.
Her hand on his shoulder brought him back.
“I could really give you a ride,” he tried again, leaning over his knees.
“I know,” she joined him and looked ahead. They were both uncomfortable now that reality had set in. “Thank you.”
She peeked out of the corner of her eye to see his reaction. He just shrugged.
Maybe.
“Look at me,” she requested, and he straightened up. Worried. Yes, she couldn't blame him. “Will we be alright?”
His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “About what? Me spending the whole night here drinking my life force away.”
“In that case—” She leaned in, just close enough to whisper in his ear, “Vielleicht... willst du... ja mal mein Teddybär sein?”
He turned, startled, which she took advantage of.
A stolen kiss. Quick. Almost chaste. Almost. Her lips brushed fast against his. A few times. She lost count. Once she'd started, she had a hard time breaking apart. But she did, pressing her hand to his chest to stop him from following her. Her courage was all used up.
“Another night, one with a better start. I'll let you work out the details.”
She rose a final time, walked towards the door, and before closing, she looked back. She'd shocked him. He still hadn't moved, except for the tip of his tongue tracing his lips, confirming it'd been real.
She closed the door and leaned against the wall, heart racing. She was still tasting him on her mouth, smelling him on her skin. And she'd liked it, she knew that.
She'd call the taxi from downstairs. Give him some space.
But when her foot landed on the first step, she heard him murmur, probably just to himself.
“Verdammte Scheiße. Ich liebe dich.”
She descended, carefully, measuring each quiet step, fully intent on keeping it to herself. She called the taxi and waited for the driver's call back. She sat in the car and gave precise instructions on where her home was and the route she wanted to take.
It wasn't until she looked out the window and the rain had started that she gave up, opened her phone, and typed, Gleichfalls.
Then she leaned back in the seat and laughed quietly, her reflection on the window smirking at her. Until the beep of an incoming message interrupted her planning, stealing her attention away.