❛  Hey. Wasn’t sure if you were still awake. ❜  I’m glad you are.  Lisa takes her cue, entering with a calm readiness; she pushes herself off of the doorway, smoothly, a taut smile tugging her lips ever so slightly. A hint of defeat lingers there, too, but this is separate from Allison, of course. 

Seating herself upon the edge of the bed, she places one hand, fingers curling gently against the quilt beneath them, wrinkled around the shape of Allison’s retreat, in front of her balanced, tired body.  Lisa is bored; she wants to talk to her wife  –  though she won’t admit this aloud, of course  –  her forward body, pointed with the intimate, comfortable openness, says enough.  

Allison’s face is naked and makeup free in the dim light, and Lisa can’t help but think of several instances in which her heart was full with that very same face, all early in the morning, all dark, all cold and vulnerable, but warmed by the help of her wife.  It’s nice, she thinks, to not be alone in this house.  ❛  Can’t sleep?  ❜  She doesn’t ask what she is reading; Lisa’s sure it’s something she’s not particularly interested in, but certainly Allison could tell her anyhow.

A soft grunt rolls in Cameron’s throat - I’m awake, I’m here. Her eyes close slowly, blink languidly. She’s calm, sleepy, but decidedly more attentive to have her wife here now, seemingly with a little time spared too for late night whispers. Lisa joins her, sits on the soft bed. Cameron isn’t sure what intrinsic quality it is, but any space she’s ever had dominion over has been cold and scrappy. Any space Lisa has inhabited has always been, in her mind anyway, warm. Lived in. 

Lisa listens to Allison, patiently, waiting through every unsteady breath, every pause, every stammer Allison takes; each reset of the sentences confirming just how fearful she is, of saying the incorrect thing … or perhaps at feeling what she feels. It’s always an apparent internal battle with Allison that Lisa can never hope to understand but is pulled to the fronts of more often than not; sometimes getting her to talk about even those matters that seem so trivial and simple to Lisa is like pulling teeth, and it makes her lose patience. But here, the matter at hand is important and difficult, in a way that is not entirely hard to understand, and so Lisa does her best. 

The        dragging out       of one’s own expression – at least the type that may or may not cause conflict or discord – is foreign to someone as blunt as she. With Lisa, one usually sees what one gets. Not quite so much coaxing is needed to peel apart her inner layers of personal needs; at least not in this way.  But Allison is different, and through years of partnership she has grown in her understanding of this; found herself trying, and succeeding, a bit clumsily, to be more open to other approaches … at least, in Allison’s approach, because Lisa loves Allison differently than she has ever loved anyone before. She is more understanding. It’s not like her, but she loves Allison whom is not like her. 

                                                     CAN WE START AGAIN?

Allison touches her forearm, collapsing in a heap of exhaustion. Lisa reaches forward, a tiny smile upon her lips, and brushes her pointer finger against a few strands of Allison’s hair that had fallen out of place in her struggle. 

❛  Alright. Go ahead. Start again.  ❜       Lisa’s mouth is still settled in a soft smile; one of understanding and patience, one offered to no one else.  She views Allison through soft slate gray, waits for her to continue, invites her to take up space. When she does not immediately speak, Lisa does again.

         ❛  I know whatever you had with Joel is separate from me. I’m not … trying to take anything away from that.  You don’t need to talk about it.  I just need to know if … marriage is what you want. Not because you think it might be what I want.  ❜   Lisa takes a small pause; one corner of her lips flattening with the weight of truth of her statements. 

Because it was what Joel wanted. It was what he needed and you gave it to him. But your suffering, your pain; did you REALLY need that?       The answer doesn’t need to be yes when it is no.        It is time for you to stop suffering at the sake of what who you love needs.    

                                              THIS   ENDS    –    WITH     ME.  

                            I KNOW WHATEVER YOU HAD WITH JOEL IS SEPARATE FROM ME.                             I’M   NOT   …   TRYING  TO  TAKE   ANYTHING  AWAY  FROM  THAT.                               YOU DON’T NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT.  I JUST NEED TO KNOW IF…                             MARRIAGE IS WHAT YOU WANT.        NOT BECAUSE YOU THINK IT                                                                MIGHT BE WHAT I WANT.  

        ❛  I think I know.  ❜   It’s a little shaky, a little unsteady. She appreciates Lisa’s finger folding her hair behind her head, and she leans into it. Really, what she’d like to do is clamber across the seat divider and curl into Lisa’s lap between her warmth and the steering wheel, eyes closed and nose buried in the nape of her girlfriend’s neck. She feels stupid for being overdramatic, oversensitive, for not being able to stay steady and calm like Lisa can. She does allow herself to lower her forehead, press against Lisa’s own for a moment, drawing strength from the heat of her skin.                                     She also wants to remove herself entirely. Walk out of the car and walk off the road. Keep walking. Walk until the mist clears before her eyes, stops stinging. It’s not Lisa’s fault. It’s just what she ought to do. So, stuck between urges, she stays         ❛  When you ask about Joel... If I wanted to marry Joel.  ❜     She withdraws.    ❛  I did. In a way. But a different way. And I loved him and loved being married to him - in a different way.  ❜   The hand she has on Lisa’s forearm tightens.     ❛  Uh, it’s - it’s difficult to explain. It’s different to this. To us. ❜    That’s as good as she’ll get it. Maybe in the night the pale death of her husband will ooze more readily from her frozen throat. But not now. It’s buried beneath layers of snow and dust and disused medical equipment. 

She is so close now; so close to releasing just how much she wants, loves, needs.  Allison’s kissing her neck and she can feel her hair standing on edge, every inch of her body pricked with the sting of desire;   OH GOD, YES.   Lisa throws her neck back, wraps her legs around Allison’s middle, opens her mouth and lets out a loud moan. 

                                                                 BUMP.

Fuck.

Like a doe in headlights, Allison’s stopped.  Lisa can feel her heart pounding screaming demands just below her collarbone. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Coldness follows as Allison dashes to their bedroom door, whispering her apologetic phrase that is, given the implication, needless.  Lisa opens her eyes after a long moment, trying to catch her breath. 

Allison is standing against the now locked door, across from her, away from her, from their bed. Lisa knows the gesture had been necessary; they were both incredibly cautious to never allow a situation in which Avi might … see something he should never be forced to see. But her blood pressure rises immediately as their eyes lock, and she can’t help the overwhelming wave of thoughts that follow –  SHE HASN’T HAD ALLISON TO HERSELF IN SO LONG. HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME HERE, LIKE THIS.

                                                    I’m not finished with you.

In a somewhat loud, breathy motion, Lisa swings her legs around, and shifts position to sit upon the edge of the tousled bed. She stands; advances on Allison. As she approaches in front of her sexy little escapee, Lisa steadies herself in a gesture of dominance, placing her left hand against the wall, next to Allison’s head.   Don’t try and go anywhere.   Her other hand reaches forward, and rests upon the curve of Allison’s waist; she squeezes her fingers against her skin, gently, and closes her eyes, brushing her nose against Allison’s.   

❛  Fine.  Right here works just as well,  ❜  Lisa purrs lowly after a moment, her voice seductive and menacing, the way a pin pierces into the fabric of a cushion; slow, sharp, pristine. She begins kissing her once again, grazing her tongue softly across Allison’s lips, then letting her own press against her mouth and suck lightly, tasting her. A whine sits unreleased in her throat, and instead of letting it out, she parts her lips just slightly, teeth visible from behind her lips. She whispers into the emptiness between their mouths.   ❛  Get the strap.   ❜

She loves Lisa - very, very much - but sometimes she can be so terrifying. It’s a patient CEO’s look that she dons when her eyes open. A look that says, I’m a graceful bastard and I know when to cut my losses: so long as I receive recompense. Cameron loves to be intimidated. Wanted, but animalistically and single-mindedly. She has lived so long in her own head only - to have Lisa prowl to her, kisses and bites and play at the forefront of her frighteningly determined mind, she finds it warm. Gratifying.  Cameron is fixed to the spot, her wife encroaching on her. Territorially. She’s pinned, got, long before Lisa puts her hand against the door, long before she snakes an arm against Cameron’s waist. She thinks she’s been got for a lot longer than today. Maybe for years now. Her hips are made to fit against Lisa’s and she pushes right against her, her naked chest beating tightly against Lisa’s spilling, heaving chest. Something satisfactory pulses low within her at the notion of teasing her wife: oh, did I do that? Oh my.  

        ❛  Oh.  ❜   Lisa’s  pulled  out  of  her  thoughts  around  the  Aetna  contract;  she  reaches  behind  herself,  clutching  at  the  zipper  resting  on  the  small  of  her  back.  Right.  Zipper.   She’s  dressed  in  a  gray  pencil  skirt;  her  favorite  one  …  and  beneath  it,  a  black,  silk  G -string.  New,  actually.  She’s  forgotten  this  one  is  too  tight  to  simply  hike  up,  or  brush  aside.  And  now  Allison  Cameron  was  about  to  see  …  well.  Everything.   

It  doesn’t  matter,  though,  Lisa  shrugs.  If  there  was  ever  any  shame  attached  to  this  entire  process  –  and  Lisa’s  not  exactly  familiar  with  the  word  –  it’s  vanished  by  now.  They’ve  been  at  this  for  a  while;  longer  than  she  had  expected,  frustratingly  enough  …  long  enough  for  any  embarrassment  to  wash  away  in  an  impatient  swash.  Allison  has  been  great  company,  at  the  very  least.  

She  starts  to  unzip  herself.  She  manages  it  halfway;  but  she  can’t  undo  it  completely;  it’s  too  tight,  and  it  feels  jammed.  If  she  can  just  get  the  top …    

            ❛  I  –  can  you  get  it,  please.  ❜   She  presses  her  hand  to  her  stomach,  trying  to  make  the  skirt  as  loose  around  her  waist  as  possible.  Really,  though,  it  is  her  hips  that  are  the  main  obstacle.  Supposed  sign  of  fertility.  Ironic.  

        ❛  Yeah. Sure.  ❜     Cameron is a professional. The sun dazzling over the curve of Cuddy’s nape doesn’t factor in at all. Nor does Lisa’s quiet, low  ‘OH’ ,   a sure sign she’s lost in work.  What are you thinking about ?  Are you worried ?     WHY DON’T YOU TAKE OFF MY TIGHT SKIRT AND PRICK MY ASS, CAMERON.      YEAH, SURE.        This whole arrangement is so weird sometimes. She’s not complaining. It’s important to help. 

                                       Cameron pushes that thought aside, it sinks to the back of her mind like a pebble in a well. There are living things she needs to occupy her time with.  She tilts her head to one side, a disarming and patient downward curve to her lips. 

Cameron is moving toward her, and though her words speak null of any implication of trouble given the task at hand  – Yeah, sure. I don’t mind – her face reads the complete opposite.  A small crinkle between her brows. Eyes, distant and elsewhere (  in  thought  ).  A solid jaw. Cameron is admittedly a woman whose emotions are easy to read as they paint her expression; her face is usually what gives her away, and this is actually very charming, Lisa realizes for a moment. It is comforting, perhaps. Maybe this is why so many people gravitate to her, she muses briefly; why so many other Johns and Joes see some sort of spark, some hope … usefulness … in Cameron. That, and her undeniable SWEETNESS, a trait most tend to read as nonthreatening – though Lisa knows better – resting somewhere between self sacrifice and moral composure. Cameron’s face is easy to read, and it is easy to project onto. Something humans love; a canvas they can paint themselves on, those self-important sons of bitches. Even Lisa can admit feeling a flutter of ease wash over her chest at never having to question it the moment she looks over Cameron’s features. It’s … straight forward. Cuddy likes straight forward.

❛  Yeah.  ❜  She answers Cameron’s statement a bit quietly – not delicately, not shyly, but in an even, breathy undertone that sounds deep and tired. Administration into a large muscle; yeah, yeah. I know. My ass. She’s the Dean of Medicine and it’s clear, of course,  how this could should would pose a problem, left in the wrong hands. But it’s too late now, either way; Cameron’s already overheard her phone conversation with Julia; Cameron knows Cuddy is planning on IVF, Cameron can spread the rumor if she so pleases. This little request is simply one less pair of ears that might spread things around, given the chance … particularly things about the exposed ass of the hospital’s highest executive in the actual flesh. Lisa Cuddy is cutting her losses. 

                                    It’s almost a power move in its vulnerability.

And yet, there Cameron is, standing before her, almost … ambivalent to the house of political cards she has suddenly found herself thrust upon, acting as though the request is no more severe than if she’s just been told she needs to cut her hair a few inches. She’s so polite about it, Cuddy thinks, as she shifts and turns around, both hands on the waist band of her skirt. She’s already handed the syringe and vial of the dose to the other.    

                                                       ❛   I appreciate it.   ❜   

Cuddy’s never been a ruminator; she’s always done, never thought too hard or too long on anything she wants, nor would she now. That’s not how she’s gotten this far, and in this thought she lifts one side of her skirt, pulling the long fabric over her hips, scrunching it in her palm. Her bracelet and watch jangle in the motion. She’s in a salmon colored g-string beneath; the air meets her skin, confirming she is now exposed, at least part way, to Cameron. Tongue in cheek, she releases a loud breath through her nose, staring straight ahead, waiting. She’s almost … shy now … which is stupid, she’s a doctor, Cameron is a doctor, and this is nothing more than a procedure between professionals. 

                                              Still, she hopes she’ll get it over with.

               YEAH.                                YEAH.  Cameron takes the equipment like she is day dreaming or, conversely, like some sort of insomniac.   I’M TOO BEMUSED BY MY LIFE TO TRY PUT STRUCTURE ON WHAT’S HAPPENING.   She stands there, syringe in hand and spine oddly stiff. Before she can summon the words to say,  OH MAYBE I NEED TO THINK ABOUT THIS -- !   and, HELL, before she can summon the desire to say it, Cuddy is turned around hiking up enough of her skirt to expose the skin beneath.  A sharp inhale of breath threatens to knock Cameron’s composure. She sees a flash of pink underwear  -  no, orange  -  no, salmon, and she becomes glad that Cuddy is turned away:   she knows her face is completely stoney and probably pink.                                                           Salmon.  Anyway, she takes the cotton out of the pouch, and   --  it’s a really nice ass, as they go   --    and fumbles with the syringe in her hands. Okay. So. No time to think this over. She’s doing this. Living in the moment. The cotton wad gets stuck in the lip of the pouch, and she rolls her eyes, refocusing herself on her hands and not the exposed flesh of her boss’s boss. Dying of fluster in the moment. Great.                                                       ❛   Don’t mention it.  ❜   Especially not to HR.   That’s a funny quip. She should say that out loud, because it’s what House would do. Her mouth opens to stammer out the rest of her ‘socializing’ but she catches herself preemptively. 

       ❛   I think - uhm, you need to angle - more ... um, bended down.  ❜   Twice now she’s been grateful for their lack of eye contact. Bended isn’t even a fricking word, man. Cameron approaches a little more, and there’s something kind of funny in a strange way about how fast this has all happened. The pressure she feels to not immediately mess this up and betray Cuddy’s trust is watering down her pride at being chosen to be the helpful one. It’s eating her relief that she’s not in trouble, too.

                      ❛   Bent over. Just at the desk. For the angle.  ❜   It’s helped her find a little more surety in her voice, at least. Her eyes haven’t broken from the soft curve of her boss’s boss’s butt. She blinks once, twice, and wonders now about how is appropriate to do this. Medically, she knows how, of course. But socially? Is there even a social dimension she ought to factor in here? Like, an extra politeness-and-don’t-write-me-up clause? No. She’s just overanalysing herself now, because its a jarring situation. That’s all. 

Cameron asks her if she has any plans, any at all, and Cuddy feels like sighing heavily at such an inquiry; instead it’s shallow, focused; treading lightly. If only. If only I did, and if only you knew. She removes her hand from her face and places it instead, neatly, in her lap, the back resting upon the gray fabric of her skirt; a subtle gesture of attempted propriety and serenity when she is really anything but. Of course, this isn’t appropriate, Lisa, this needs to stop, she’s talking to you, straighten up, and she does so, picking her neck up as well, shoulders back, chest forward and open. She hasn’t had any plans for the past two weeks because all of her plans revolve around this damn feeling of gaping, horrible desire; like she needs to go, go, go, get this out and get it OVER WITH - god she’s so in NEED and HORNY AND IT IS SO INCONVENIENT.

She doesn’t know if it’s just because Allison is here, right now … if it’s because she likes Allison, genuinely, as a person, as a friend, as a lover – if the trips to and from House’s wing as of late had been a little bit more than just simple delegations, of law, of power, of wanting to make sure her employees are doing their jobs but if she had wanted to, perhaps, see Allison. She doesn’t know if maybe she’s just hormonal and frustrated. She doesn’t know if she does have a crush on Allison Cameron  –  who  is  she  kidding  she  does  just  as  everyone  else  – but oh God, does she want to fuck Allison Cameron, and she wants to fuck her HARD. And she almost wants Allison to fuck HER, hard – a notion that makes her, once again, picture the two of them rolling around in her bed, her satin sheets, her home, legs intwined, dripping and panting and exhilarated as her wet curls brush both sides of her neck. This is a notion that has plagued Lisa Cuddy nonstop, for two entire weeks, and one that has prevented any sort of release otherwise, unless done by her own hands; one that’s caused a number of cancelled plans, a gasping scream of frustration, a canceled night of paid sex or two, one before the woman had even gotten there, over the phone, and one after she had, and Cuddy had had to sordidly apologize, pay for her cab and tip her generously anyway. She can’t. Unless it’s Allison.  

                                I HAD THIS EX-GIRLFRIEND–

Oh. Girlfriend. Well. There is her confirmation. Lisa can’t help but feel a flutter in her chest. Quick, but there. Recovering quickly, she blinks a few times; pulls her mouth into a diplomatic, somewhat pained, tired smile. Women. She could talk about those.

                       ❛   Was she at least – fun when she finally got out?   ❜   Did she take you to nice places, did she treat you to fancy restaurants? Did she TAKE CARE OF YOU?   This is what she means to ask, and it’s nuanced, perhaps, but there if one listened. The idea of another woman opposite Cameron, kissing Cameron, loving Cameron and subsequently turning her head away in a total disinterest, distraction, disconnect, irritates her a little bit. But all of this is, of course, hardly appropriate to ask. And she’s sure, on some level, with that amount of bait – Allison will offer, anyhow; she will tell her. 

            Okay.    Lisa adjusts herself, changing her pose for comfort, no doubt. Allison shifts in her seat, a hooded sidelong glance at the new position. She wants to be pushed against the wall of this fine establishment, Lisa’s tits pressed and panting against her, spilling out of her bra. She can see a tight V where the bra shapes the breast tissue. All of it. She wants to kneel on Cuddy’s office couch and kiss them while Lisa pats her head and tells her she’s a good girl. Or grabs her, far lower than that, forcing a scared whimper out of her. Cameron shifts again, gulps.  Her glance has lingered a moment or two too long so she puffs her cheeks and blows out, looking instead at her thumbnail.             A short, breathy laugh wrenches its way out of her throat.    ❛  Ha  - uh, not really.  ❜       She chortles a little further. Bailey? She was timid and comfortable, and very sweet. But irrevocably in love with someone that wasn’t Cameron. And that was fine - Cameron was yet to meet Joel. He died. Bailey’s next girlfriend died. There’s a sick sort of solidarity in it.      ❛  No, she was like. Really into someone else.  ❜      

        This has to be a joke. This has to not be a legitimate situation she’s found herself in?    I DON’T HAVE A STRONG URGE TO EAT OUT UNLESS YOU DO?    Lisa closes her eyes for a moment too long as she awaits the unpreventable image of just       WHAT IT TASTES, SMELLS, FEELS LIKE       to have her nose resting on the curve of Allison’s soft skin, her mouth buried between Allison’s legs  …  to flood over her.  Her chest feels so tight, so uncomfortable; her clothes suddenly feel as though they are lead constraints, resting on her body in a terrible bind.  

        This has to be a joke.  She HAS to have known what she was saying?  Maybe Allison can read how truly THERE Lisa’s urge is?  She’s perhaps saying it tongue in cheek?  But no, Lisa knows tongue in cheek humor is … not really Allison’s thing as soon as she thinks this, and she realizes she must be genuine. She settles her gaze upon the others face again, looks at her intently, unblinking, from across their lunches. Dr. Cameron is pretty. DR CAMERON IS HOT. 

What Lisa wouldn’t give to be eating out, right now, between Allison’s HOT LEGS, lifting her head to glance up as her back arches, her eyes roll back in pleasure … what she wouldn’t give to be laying her down, RIGHT HERE, on this table and FUCKING HER UNTIL SHE CAN’T COME ANYMORE … 

Lisa readjusts herself again; uncrosses her legs so that both feet, dressed in, what she has very recently found to be, increasingly uncomfortable black stilettos, are resting on the floor. She bounces one, very subtly, so as to somehow CATAPULT this energy elsewhere, into more acceptable, productive means; she swallows, and gives Allison a nod.   

                            ❛  You – don’t need to apologize.  ❜   

She offers, now, an incredibly tight smile, feeling as though it will crack as soon as she pulls it.   ❛   It’s not nausea. Really. I’m fine.  ❜  She is DESPERATELY TRYING to distract herself from the tingling sensation from between her legs as she’s talking; the careening impulse to jump forward, grab Allison, bite her lips.  ❛  I think the only real symptom I’ve had is hot flashes.  ❜ 

               ❛  Right. Makes sense.  ❜       Unfairly, Lisa’s - uhm... chest is still in view. The unfairness comes in at the notion that somehow Lisa Cuddy makes the idea of hot fricking flashes weirdly sexy. UNF,  she can hear her BOSS’S BOSS moaning, tugging at her partially unbottoned blouse and saying :  DOCTOR CAMERON YOU’RE SO HELPFUL AND SMART, COULD YOU PLEASE . . . OPEN A WINDOW TO BALANCE OUT MY WIDENING BLOOD VESSELS WHICH CAUSE TONES OF REDNESS AND A THIN SHEEN OF SWEAT TO BREAK OUT OVER MY CHEST, NECK, AND FACE ?                                                                             Like. Sure, Lisa. I could do that.                Cameron roughly shoves the cucumber slice into her mouth. She’s frustrated, but not only by her own odd brain. Something has shifted, felt strange in the conversation. Disinterested. It’s a pity she’s boring, or at least not that interesting. House is interesting. Maybe she should be more like House. Her eyes narrow. On further thought, she doesn’t think it’s worth it to be more like House.     ❛  Do you have any plans ?  ❜     Like at all.  She’s so bad at conversation all of a sudden - or rather, she’s always been bad, but not really with Lisa in a while. She’s just skittish now because of the quiet, and a little distracted too. 

he looked curiously down at the woollybear still wriggling but staying within the confines of their kitchen table, and he tried to picture his eating habits from a critical, outside perspective. there was that time he dropped not one, not two, but three entire pieces of vegetarian pizza on the living room couch, though,  after picking them back up to devour them, he’d done everything he could to get the red grease stains out before anyone noticed. he supposed, too, the students assigned at his lunch table during school often complained that he could not keep his space clean, that avi, you got crumbs everywhere … again, but he was still not convinced.  he would be careful around the woollybear,  as he was always careful with the creatures he befriended, since he’d realized –  as he witnessed with the boys who lived down the street who liked to burn ants, and ladybugs,  and whatever else was unlucky enough to cross their path,  under a magnifying glass, or, just as bad, smash them sporadically with the covered backs of their tablets when their mothers ordered them outside of the house – most people were not and probably never would be. ❝ winston, ❞   he said, deciding on the name right then and there.  he’d just read the first half of 1984 before his teacher, an unduly nervous woman with frazzled red hair,  instructed him to pick up a different book from the school library.   one that was more age appropriate.  ❝   he’s still pretty young,   i think . i mean, not even close to being a tiger moth.  ❞   translation:   he’s a baby, mom. do you really,  seriously think i would ever get sauce on a baby ? but without being pushed, and thinking it would be safer if the woollybear was protected while avi dealt with the plates, he gently placed his hand down on the table, waiting for winston to climb onto his palm which he soon did. he guided the caterpillar back into the plastic container he’d caught him in, the one he’d slashed full of holes and padded with leafy treats from the outside, which he left not on the table but on one of the padded cushions of their chairs. winston was, after all, a guest. 

❝   they’re endemic to the united states and southern canada . ❞   he’d looked that up on wikipedia earlier,  wanting to be sure,   and he said it with the same pride he felt at having learned it as he pulled their plates out of the cupboard with ease. he was the tallest boy in his class, so the high - placed plates were no worry,  though he was still getting used to the length of his limbs and how, exactly, they were supposed to work together.  

❝   when do you think mom will be home ?  ❞   his voice shifted with excitement at a new topic as he sloppily,  loudly, banged the plates on the table and ran   (    for no reason in particular    )   to the silverware,  which also was soon to reach the table with unnecessary clanking.  he,   of course,   wanted to tell her all about winston, too – even if she wasn’t fully prepared to listen. 

❝   when will he grow up into a tiger moth, d’you think ?  ❞   she asks it gently while scraping the stir fry into a bowl.  her blonde hair falls down her back, one brow quirked as she drinks in her boy’s little details.  winston is a sweet name, thoughtful. she supposes most kids would name a pet - and to be clear, this ISN’T a pet, he can’t keep a caterpillar as a pet : lisa would hate it - but most kids, anyway, would name a pet something like  SPOT  or  ROVER.  and here’s avi, with a brain so full of facts that he scarcely seems to ever unplug from the world at all, wants it crawling all over him and his bedsheets and under his fingernails and the dust of it in his eyelashes.   (      pets had recently, and for a while, been a topic of discussion. her father had promised avi a dog if he did well in school, and when it was pointed out to him  that this wasn’t his promise to make, he had sulked. jon, that is. not avi, though he’d been after a dog as well. frankly, so had she. but, there are practical concerns to consider.      unfortunately.     )  WINSTON.   she sighs a laugh at that through her nose, takes the large bowl of rice and the stir fry over, and she sets down on a placemat as he clatters happily around the table.  her mind is a little preoccupied with work, so she asks:   ❝   and where do they holiday ?  ❞   because she’s from the united states and / or southern canada, and would like to holiday in cancun. or tahiti. it reminds her of the worn postcard she has in her office of chase in a hawaiian holiday shirt, which reminds her, again, of work, which reminds her of pathogens, which reminds her of the dreaded head office administrator, gareth. that rat - bastard. with his smug face and his wide ears and his unassuming goatee. quietly, she seethes. 

Allison is driving her crazy, and Lisa wants her to deliver  –  it’s quickly becoming too much. She’s always been a reactive woman, and no doubt one who  GETS  WHAT  SHE  WANTS  ; she can tease if it’s desired of her, of course … but this  –  this is such a deeply gratifying, frustrating game that Allison loves to play with her.  She both loves and hates this teasing; hates how much she has to WAIT to have her lover   &   loves how this very notion, in turn, confirms how much she DOES have her  …   all of her, Allison’s freedom, her confidence  …   it’s subtle and calming somehow in its absolutely maddening frustration.  

Lisa’s entire body bucks forward at the kiss pressed beneath her ear and in response to the PRESSED fingers in the way she had so EARNESTLY asked for.  The pressure, the sensuous motion  …  it sends an electric pleasure up and through her spine; she curls up and into Allison, a loud moan escaping from her barred teeth.  She is at her mercy, for better or for worse, and she would have it no other way.

         ❛  You  ARE  mine,  ❜  she reaffirms, breathily, Allison’s words a delicious, affirming caress, and cranes her neck to the side, giving her wife a bite on the earlobe.  ❛  Mmmmmmmmm  –  I want you.  ❜  Another sound escapes from the back of her throat; this one more of a whine as Allison PRESSES, as she MOVES with her body’s sexy little rhythm.

Lisa’s barely paying attention to the words  –   barely able to listen to what Allison is asking of her  …  and even if she had, she is becoming less and less able to form coherent sentences from her fragmented thoughts, all of which are pulsing variations of : FINISH ME, FINISH ME NOW.    ❛  God  I  MISSED  you.  ❜  

There’s such warmth and reassurance in being pressed so close to Lisa, listening to her moaning, hot breath, right up close. Knowing, at the end of it all, that its her doing - and that Lisa wants only her to do it. She’s watching her mouth open, whines and moans escape, the pleasure of Allison’s fucking absolutely doing her in. Lisa nips her ear, and Allison gasps breathily, girlishly. She pauses, fingers twitching to a halt, distracted and relishing the attention, her brows together and eyes shut.   ❛   Ah, yes, yes I’m yours, I’m yours.    ❜      Allison resumes almost as quickly. Lisa’s so loud and it is so pleasing, so gratifying. Her lips move to her wife’s neck, leaving a trail of wet, desperate kisses upwards whilst one hand steadily caresses a rhythm out - and the other is stroking the swell of Lisa’s breast, the heel of her palm pressing against the lace, her fingers greedily digging into her chest. She’s almost infuriatingly wet now.   ❛   Lisa,   ❜     she whispers shallowly, nose nuzzled into dark hair. And then she hears a noise. Allison’s eyes snap open, and she turns her head to the door, laying off the pressure from her hands for a moment. Shit. That could be Avi.   Maybe post nightmare, and about to walk in on another one. 

There is a pang at Lisa’s chest, harrowing and long and seeping through her like a bloody, LARGE swash of paint, drawn over her by an unnamed, phantom hand of Allison’s past.  One that whispers  –  chides,  even  –  do  you  see  this?  This is her:   the woman you love.  This is all she’s gone through, and you weren’t there and you’ll never know.  There is nothing you can do.  It is too late to save her.  And though Lisa falls just short of biting her lip in anxious shame at such a thought, she wonders:  is saving her even the right thing?  Why does Allison need to be saved?    She doesn’t.   That is the answer.   Allison is Allison is Allison, and Lisa has always known that.

       MOM AND DAD DIDNT REALLY GET IT AT THE TIME.   Of course not.  Allison’s parents are a breed all of their own, and this sentiment is not surprising to Lisa; they are, and always have been, in the entire time she’s known them, washed away of any understanding for someone so painfully understanding to them  …  washed away of any comforting clasps of approval they should have offered, so many times; washed away of most soft embraces they have gotten but hadn’t deserved, and of lovely phone calls, and of    I love yous     that felt right and free and non obligatory.  Not getting much of anything at all that had to do with Allison, herself, as a person.  Of course they hadn’t gotten it, Cuddy quips with herself, a snicker that never quite makes it to her face amusing her in ironic concealment. Time hadn’t been the issue. Jon and Miranda didn’t get Lisa Cuddy, and they didn’t get Lisa Cuddy’s love for their daughter, nor Allison’s for her. But to hell with them; they didn’t need to.  It is Allison that she is concerned about.

Lisa does not want to upset Allison. She realizes this must be upsetting, or perhaps at the very least, not comfortable.  But she needs to know, and with this thought of  S H A R P  ,   pristine logic, she makes a skilled, unthreatening veer toward the side of the road, softens the engine and slows, stopping on the shoulder.  The traffic is light; the only surroundings that encase the vehicle on either side are endless fields, gray skies above and droplets upon each window.  

Lisa turns in her seat, facing Allison.  She looks at her in a long moment of silence, expression one of genuine desire to reach: to understand.  Her brows lay creased, her forehead wrinkled, and it all reads one simple phrase:  I NEED TO KNOW, BUT EITHER WAY I WILL UNDERSTAND.

          ❛  I just,  ❜  Lisa starts slowly  – thinks for a moment before continuing  –  wanting to phrase correctly.  This is not a negotiation; not a business deal nor a member of the Board that has just asked for her insight on a counter offer or  b u d g e t  proposal that falls flat. This is the (  woman she loves  ) , and she deserves Lisa’s emotive honesty.  Her voice is soft, quiet and rests in a place reserved only for her.  It is honest vulnerability.  ❛  I need to know.  If marrying me  –  if it’s.  Something you want.  For real.  ❜   She tilts her head slightly.  ❛  Because if it’s not  –   we don’t have to do this. But tell me now. Please.  ❜ 

There’s an agitation that sits squat in her mind, a nail-biting sort of pool of worry.   I’D SAY SO MUCH IF ONLY IT WERE UP TO ME.   Allison doesn’t mind the sudden transition into the topic, and maybe talking about Joel is - maybe it’s fine. But she’s not able to do it how she wants it done. Do you really want a wife if your heart is still partways in another marriage? Like a foreign body only partly removed in surgery :    maybe it’d rot. Rot right inside the organ it ought have been removed utterly from.  A harpooning horror strikes her, because she’s terrified that’s what Lisa might think. 

Allison lets a plaintive breath out slowly. Plaintive:  it’s unfair that I’m not able to explain. Slow breath: I am steadying myself. I’m trying.    It’s impossible for her to know what her wife thinks about any of it. She’s explained it badly, dragged her heels a little, and now she’s fractured something. The car crawls to a gentle stop, and Allison is looking at Lisa with brows knitted in concern before she’s said anything, and placed a cold, pale, dry hand atop her girlfriend’s before she’s even finished speaking. 

  ❛  No, no, Lisa; it’s not like that.  ❜    She’s cut the other off at the end of her sentence, desperate to reshuffle even against the belt. In a quick movement she takes her hand back, unbuckles herself, and sits on her ankle, facing the other. Her hands rest on the divider between them.     ❛   I don’t. I find it - I’m just.  ❜   Cameron rolls her eyes, a sharp, short sigh coming out.    ❛  I’m not good at talking about this because I don’t. I don’t do that. But it’s totally separate from my feelings about you. And I - you’re not - these are two separate conversations. ❜   WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE TRYING TO SAY ?    Whether she wants to marry Lisa and whether she wanted - wants - to be married to Joel are very different topics :    the landscape is entirely different. One takes place in the breath between her mouth and Lisa’s ear, in a shared laugh and tangled legs and soft sun, endlessly. The only breath in the other is codependent lungs and a mechanical ventilator, steely dust fluttering in a room that belonged to neither of them. Tentatively, after her panic over the idea she’s upset Lisa or her little plunge back into the coffin, she starts to compose herself. She knows that she reacts like this because suddenly things are all too clear :    when she married last, was it what she wanted? And now, is it only to be helpful?   To be good?     I WANT TO CALL YOU MY WIFE.  The realization rocks her, the same as it did the first time she said it.