hey gang. i'm posting a new story, my first greg/catherine fic (to me, the greg/cath ship should be called "Swallows" - so that's what i'm calling it, haha!) this fic takes place post-fannysmackin.
all the usual disclaimers apply, i.e., i don't own jack. this will become nc17 at some point. no other warnings beyond if you don't get off on , or are at least intrigued by, greg/catherine, then don't read it! otherwise - enjoy.
Catherine Willows looked at herself in her locker room mirror. She touched up her lipstick, brushed her hair, and regarded her face critically in the harsh light. Not getting any younger. At least she could still take pride in her figure: the product of years of hard work, dance classes at her mother's studio, jazz, tap, ballet, you name it - and then her career as an exotic dancer. She still had the body of a 21 year old. But the face of a 43 year old, she grumbled to herself. Shame she still had the libido of a 21 year old, but try getting laid in this town? It was a joke. Catherine shook her head. Another first date last night, which had turned into a last date when the guy had assumed the agenda included a complimentary lap dance. Too many jerks, too many one night stands. Chivalry was deader than Elvis, and although Vegas was full of blondes, there was a distinct lack of gentlemen. Catherine was sick of the whole thing. "Face it, Willows, the bloom is off the rose," Catherine muttered to the mirror, and slammed the locker door shut.
"Hey, Cath, you okay?" A cheerful voice cut into Catherine's thoughts, and she jumped a mile.
"Geez, Greg, you wanna give a girl a heart attack?" Cath held her chest in mock alarm. Greg just grinned and shook his head.
"Sorry. I should really wear a cowbell, or something," said Greg as he opened his locker. Catherine wandered towards him.
"I'm not getting any younger, you know," Catherine said. "You shouldn't sneak up on older women."
Greg shot her a look, and his mouth curled in a coy grin. "You always look great to me, Cath," he said. Something about Greg's voice always made Catherine shiver deep inside. She slapped herself inwardly.
"Thanks, Greg, you're sweet," she said. "How are you, anyway? Your bruises are almost gone now."
"Yeah, I'm okay," Greg lied. "Thanks for asking. At least I can walk down the street without feeling like people are considering an intervention." Greg sighed and gazed into his locker. He still had the glossy autographed 8 x 10 of Lois O'Neill taped to his locker door. He felt Catherine staring at it, and hastily pushed it closed.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Greg. If you ever need to talk ... you know where I am." Catherine smiled, that radiant blue-eyed smile that always made Greg's knees turn to mush.
"Thanks, Cath," Greg said, simply. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair as she walked away, perfect hips swinging, perfect legs striding purposefully down the corridor. Catherine always made Greg think of that song, how did it go? 'She's so high, high above me, she's so lovely, she's so high, like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Aphrodite'. So high above me. He could never tell her about the terrible nightmares, about the stabbing pain behind his right eye, about the constant headaches that kept him awake at night. He couldn't tell her about the grief, and the guilt, and the fear; how he looked over his shoulder every step of the way from his car to his apartment door, how he was afraid to walk down the street alone after dark, how empty his place had felt ever since that dreadful night when he'd killed another human being. Greg closed his eyes and inhaled the remnants of Catherine's perfume as it hovered around his locker. Then he let out a weary sigh, popped another couple of pain pills and headed for home.
Catherine watched mesmerized as the microwave span slowly round and round. Her five-minute broccoli and cheese manicotti sizzled, spat and burst through its styrofoam lid before the insistent ping-ping-ping roused Catherine from her daze.
"Dammit!" She'd been thinking about Greg. Catherine recognized that look - and she knew he was hiding the truth; maybe even from himself. It was tough to come to terms with taking a life - even when it was completely justified and one of those split-second decisions that law enforcement officers have to make on practically a daily basis. Greg hadn't been out in the field long enough to become enured to such things. Plus, Greg went against type for police work: he was a gentle, caring person - he didn't even carry a gun, for crying out loud. Of all the people this had to happen to ... Catherine glared at her over-cooked pasta dinner. Greg. She just wanted to put her arms around him and hold him tight. She closed her eyes and remembered the scent of his cologne. Then she shook herself angrily, scooped out the best parts of the manicotti onto two plates, and called Lindsey in to dinner.
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