#andercase

This was the kind of thing that stuck, that resurfaced at inopportune moments during the day, and once, okay maybe twice, when he couldn’t sleep, oh God he fucking hates himself for this, he downloaded a “Black Coffee” that sounded kind of the same–because of course Scratch’s version didn’t actually exist–and, under a warm shower, thought about that Saga, pretended it was her hand around him, making him–

“Whoa, back up, back up, back up,” Casey’s face is flame-red when Saga snaps back to reality. She’s suddenly warm, too, the base of her spine tingling and her lower belly flip-flopping.

Oh really, Saga?

A giggle bubbles out of Saga’s chest.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill myself,” Casey groaned, folding his arms on the table and putting his head down.

The giggle turns almost into a cackle.

“It was one time,” he insists.

“Actually it was twice,” Saga teases.

Casey’s response is another muffled groan.

“It’s fine! It’s fine. It’s still fine, I promise.”

He looks up at her, face faded to a light pink.

“And honestly, I’m kind of insulted that you got Scratch’s version of me. If you’re going to fuck me and then jerk off thinking about it, I’d rather it be the real me.”

my writer's block is lifting and I'm making it everyone's problem

“Hey, before we, um,” Saga says, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue and inhaling sharp through her nose, “I have to tell you something.”

Casey gives her a puzzled half-smile. “What?”

“I’ve, uh. Only ever been with David.”

Saga can see abject terror leap into Casey’s eyes. “No fuckin’ way,” he blurts.

“Way,” Saga says.

He plays with the hem of her sweater, pleating it between his fingers. He looks at her like he’s in pain, about to cry from the force of being so close to what he wants and expecting to be denied, the way it had gone with most things he’d wanted in his life.

“You sure?” he asks. “I want you to be sure.”

He wants, he wants, he wants, but if she said no, said stop, he would. He would rather let that asshole curl his cold lake-water fingers around his brain again than guilt her, coerce her into doing something she doesn’t want.

now that I feel like I'm a capable writer again, have a piece of IWST Chapter 3!

It happened without him realizing it, and only when the bastard was finally out of his head could Casey figure out how he’d done it.

He and Miranda couldn’t have kids, but not for lack of trying, especially in the first few years of their marriage. Casey suspected it was a him problem, but by the time he started forming that hypothesis, there was no point in testing it–their other problems had intensified to the point that bringing children into the mix would have been downright cruel to everyone involved.

Casey invited Saga out for coffee when they first started working together. Saga had been late–only by about five minutes, but she still blew into the coffee shop like it was thirty minutes after her shift started and she was on her last warning before she got fired.

“This is Logan,” Saga had said, indicating the preschooler in her arms. “The sitter got sick and my husband’s at a conference out of state.” To Logan, she said, “Can you say hello to Mr. Casey?”

The little girl turned her face from where it was tucked into her mother’s shoulder and looked calmly at him. Then, as matter-of-factly as a three-year-old was capable of, she held her arms out and pitched herself forward, confident that Casey would catch her.

Which he did.

Something clicked into place then.

He’s graceful in a way Saga doesn’t think she’s seen, or at least noticed, before. The lines of his arms and back as he leans on the pool table and lines up a shot after wordlessly pointing his pool cue at a pocket to call it are straight and sharp like a fencer. His face, still serious, has lost some of its tension as he studies the table.

This is what he looks like relaxed.

Saga sees the young woman in her peripheral vision. also admiring Casey’s form.

“I call winner,” the young woman says, staring directly at Casey.

It is jealousy rising in Saga’s throat, white-hot and childish. She has no right, no right at all, but she grips the pool cue in her hand and raises an eyebrow as the woman bends over the table and looks back over her shoulder suggestively at Casey before taking her shot.

It’s a nice ego stroke, Casey thinks, and he’d be lying if he said the thought of taking her up on her very obvious offer hadn’t crossed his mind, but she is clearly no older than twenty-five. Beyond what he acknowledges as his baser instincts, he’s not terribly interested in pursuing that course of action.

He throws Saga the wry look that cues her entrance in the mini-play they’ve staged countless times in situations like this, when it would be more prudent to let someone down easy.

Casey unlocks the door to his apartment but doesn’t open it. He should stop now, tell her this isn’t how they should be dealing with everything that they’ve been through, that it’s just going to cause more problems than it’ll solve, that he’s…well he’s not sorry he suggested it, because he still wants to–Jesus Christ he still wants to–but maybe they should let it stay a mutual fantasy instead of making it a reality.

He turns and his mind says he’s going to take her by the shoulders and gently put an arm’s length of distance between them. If she’s good to drive, he’s going to walk her down to her car and say good night and he’ll see her on Monday. If not, he’s going to offer to call her a cab and they’ll figure out the car situation later.

But his hands decide to go north of where he thought they would. He cups Saga’s face in his hands, runs his thumbs over her cheekbones.

“Your hands are cold,” she whispers, staring at his lips.

Casey: And another one. This is getting old real fast.

Saga: How many has it been now?

Casey: Too many. You want to take the lead this time, Anderson?