Castles on the Beach By Cappuccino Girl Pairing: Catherine/ Sara. Girls who like girls, etc. Rating: R - ish Disclaimer: Often the most obvious conclusion is the right one. Notes: Post-ep for Sex, Lies and Larvae. The accompanying collage to this story can be found at http://www.cappuccinogirl.com/sandcastlescollage.jpg Thanks to Andi for tolerating the slashiness, Miyaka for listening, Devanie for the encouragement, and Midnight Caller for the clean-up job. Without you, this little tale would be looking far worse for wear. Summary: Catherine's pretty, and Catherine's smart, and you're sure her castles never got destroyed. You've always hated violence, ever since you were a little kid and those bad boys wrecked the sand castles you had built at the beach with your brother. You kept on hating it when you contemplated forensic science and a career with the police, but Professor Woodward told you some story about how people get used to it. It's rather depressing when people start recruiting police men and women by telling lies. Grissom didn't lie to you today, and you were honest to him two days ago, told him how sometimes these tiny things get to you. He thought you meant sex when you said "Do you want to sleep with me?" but you really wouldn't be so well spoken if that would have been the case. You were being truthful and open instead, and you've never been good at that. You never told the bullies at the beach that they were wrong, so they grew up to be bigger bullies, and now it's still all about those fucking bullies at the playground. The lab is silent aside from the faint whirring noise of the fume cabinet. You rest your face in your hands and a tear falls down your cheek. Maybe it's sympathy, but you don't really know, so you let another one fall, and another, drip drip drip onto the files. Time passes. Your body clock is so out of sync that you don't even think to check your watch for the time. Catherine strolls in and starts spouting a funny tale about a kid who forged his dad's prize paintings, and you hardly think anything of it. "I mean, this guy who claims to adore these paintings can't even tell they're a fake. What a fabulous source of artistic knowledge he must be," she babbles to Grissom who's walked in with her. "Please tell me these weren't those ugly paintings made with elephant dung. Man created paint so it could be used. We keep going backwards as a race," he tells her. She laughs, a soft flirtatious laugh before responding, "It was definitely regular oil paints." You twist around slightly and look up at them to be sure you haven't disappeared. Definitely still here, because Grissom's staring at your breasts. Asshole. "When I was fourteen, my art teacher let me use some oil paints in these tiny white tubes," he explains. " Do you paint?" You watch them both pull out stools at the far end of the room. "You painted?" Catherine smirks. "I can wield a brush with the best of the amateur painters, " he says, and you can't tell if he's fucking you or Catherine with his eyes. "Okay." Sighing, she flicks a piece of fluff across the table and crosses her legs, foot swinging back and forth. She rakes her hand through her hair, and it's all so effortless. "Only thing I know about art is that the three sketches in my living room came from a cheap antique store down town," she confesses. You'd like to wipe away the smudge of mascara beneath her left eye. "You get antique stores in Vegas?" "Bet your ass," she beams. Catherine's pretty, and Catherine's smart, and you're sure her castles never got destroyed. The two of you could go to the beach together and see if they still stand. "I'm going," you mutter under your breath, sliding down from the stool. "Hold up," Catherine says when you're almost out of the door. You stop. "I just noticed how late it is," she continues. "I keep staying at the office later and later. Got to be unhealthy." "I'll see you Tuesday," Grissom tells you with a subtle wave of his hand. "Go on home." "Bye," Catherine says. She smiles. You think you have forgotten how to breathe. She brushes past you, and there's not enough oxygen left in the world to swallow. You stand there and watch her walk down the hall. "Aren't you coming?" she calls after you, and you mumble something incoherent before following. You find yourself in the parking garage when you didn't drive your car to work today. "Want a ride?" she asks, reading your mind. Swallowing quickly, you say, "Sure," and climb in the passenger side. The car is new, smells like cheap air-freshener. An Enid Blyton book sits on the dashboard. Five Go To Mystery Moor. 'My name's George,' you recall. George was cool and did just fine with Anne and the boys. If the Five would have been seventeen years old and written in 1996, you're sure George would have been gay and fucking half the cheerleading squad. Not so great for a children's story. Catherine purses her lips together a little before turning the ignition and driving out of the maze of the parking garage. When you tilt your head a little, you can take her in without her noticing. Delicate features and pretty blonde hair contrast with the boyish cut of her brown leather jacket. You wish you could see more of her legs. "You got tomorrow off too?" she inquires when the third stoplight in a row turns red. You blink your eyes. "Yeah." Maybe Catherine blinks when the sunlight shines through the blinds of her bedroom at six thirty in the morning. You tend to get woken far less glamorously by the garbage truck at ten AM on your day off. Catherine must be stunning with messy hair and sleepy eyes. "Any plans?" she asks you while the lights from the other vehicles paint luminescent patterns on her face. "Nothing spectacular. There's about half a carton of milk and some two day old take out in the fridge, so I guess I should probably go and get some food. And I need to write a letter to the bank. And I haven't vacuumed the place in a week." While observing the oncoming flow of traffic, Catherine states, "Sounds just like my to-do list. Lindsey's staying over at a friend's house until later tomorrow afternoon so that's a huge help." "I can imagine." You nod, watch her hands on the wheel. The car pulls to a halt just outside the garage of your building. A hand touches your shoulder, sweeps your hair behind your ear. "Are you okay, Sara?" she asks, and all you can do is shiver at the feel of her finger trailing along your neck. Her eyes are tropical ocean blue. Catherine moves closer to you, unbuckles your seatbelt. Her hands move quickly without losing their gracefulness. And then they stop, and you sense nothing but eyes and hands and lips. She gazes into your eyes, places her hand on your cheek, and every so gingerly touches your lips with hers. Somehow, you're stumbling through the front door of your tiny apartment with the squeaky floorboards, and you're pushing her against the wall while you tear the clothes from each other. Her leg brushes the inside of your thigh. Her lips meet yours again. She's teasing you now, and you don't try to stop the moan in the back of your throat. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" she says, but you don't think she wants an answer, so you just kiss her neck and collarbone her while she drags you into the bedroom. She maps your body with her hands, all delicate and china fingers on your limbs. When she coaxes you to climax, you call her name, "Catherine. Catherine," and her eyes sparkle and flash. Fire, water, and every other force of nature combined. ~* *~ Clothes are strewn everywhere, tiny mementos of last night. The alarm clock glows nine forty three. You've been awake for a few minutes, been listening to her breathe beside you. Outside, in the street below, a fire truck drives by, sirens blaring. Catherine stirs. Her eyes flutter open, blonde hair partially covering her face. "Today's my day off," she mumbles, tiredness still audible in her voice. You kiss her cheek, then her lips, and it leaves a divinely sweet, salty taste on your tongue. "Mine too," you whisper. From where you are lying, arm draped over her, you can just see her hip and navel peek out from under the swirl of sheets. You dreamily trace the contours with your index finger, listen to her sigh. "We should do something out of the ordinary," she suggests, running her fingers over your shoulders, and down. "I miss building sand castles," you say. "So do I." And Catherine can make you believe it's true. ~ the end ~ ----------------------------------------------------- all feedback to cappuccinogirlie@h... visit the author's website at www.cappuccinogirl.com