Author: Cappuccino Girl
Pairing: Mallory/Cathy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Aaron Sorkin and no doubt many
others.
Notes: Written in response to the Wing Swing Challenge. I've dreaded writing
fics before, but I think this one takes the prize for being the one I've put
off the most. What a pairing, but looking back, it was rather fun.
Summary: You could have made up some fancy story about this allusive
stranger you had met.
Somewhere between college and failed relationships and the time when working
overtime stopped being seen as abnormal, you noticed the woman who marched
into your boss' office. She tossed her little head to the side when she
spoke. Her tone was clear, reminded you of Miss Collins from third grade. So
did her dancing eyes and presence. You'd watched her through the glass
window of Sam's office, and she'd caused you to write down 6 instead of 9
when the person on the other end of the telephone dictated a number.
You spoke with her a few times, properly spoke, not just hello, how are
you. Proper conversations, and you're sure you can remember every word
because she sounded like hope, and you're convinced she inspires young
people to go into teaching. She argued too, argued with Sam, and through the
thin walls that separated your desk from his, you could hear how her tone
altered before she stormed out. The door had slammed, and through her state
of rage, her eyes had focused on yours for a moment.
When you left the office two hours later, you saw a familiar figure in the
car parked next to yours. She never moved as she rolled down the window in
response to your cautious knocking.
"You okay?" you remember asking.
She just nodded, grabbed a half empty bottle of diet coke from among the
mess of folders on the passenger seat. After she'd taken a swing to clear
the sound of tears from her voice, she'd asked you, "Why don't I ever
learn?"
You think you tried not to laugh at the irony. You also knew it was over.
You didn't see her for a few months, and pictures of your boss and a hooker
made headlines across the Atlantic, so when you bumped into her one morning
while going for a run, you felt your tongue lodge in your throat.
"Hey Cathy," she said, slightly out of breath herself.
"Hey. How've you been?"
"Busy."
You shifted a little and stared at your sneakers because it all felt rather
awkward, like dancing around the inevitable.
"You seeing anyone?" she'd asked, and you'd looked up, quite startled.
"No," and you shook your head a little too.
"Me neither," she said, and five minutes later she asked you out
for a
drink.
At nine that evening, you walked out the door in your best pair of jeans and
strappy top, and no one asked where you were going. Not even Ginger. In a
way, you wish she had, because then you could have made up a fancy story
about some allusive stranger you had met. In a rather less than glamorous
reality, Mallory sat at the bar drinking a Martini. She turned her head when
you slipped onto the stool beside her.
She pointed to her glass. "You want one?"
"Sure."
And when she was on her fifth and you on your fourth, and the walls appeared
less clear than they were when you first sat down, your hand touched her
arm.
She looked up at you, and asked, "It was about this, wasn't it?"
You found meaning in words that meant nothing. You decided they were an over
simplification of feelings that had ricocheted around her brain for too
long. "Yes."
Her delicate hand moved to your leg before she said, "I should probably
get
back. Not that I'm really in a state to grade homework, but I really
should."
You made up an excuse of your own while you left ten dollars on the bar. She
took your hand as you walked out of the room togther, and you kissed her
cheek at the steps leading to her appartment.
Now she stirs among the white ocean of sheets, and you watch her auburn hair
peak out from beneath it. You wonder how you both ended up here.
~ the end ~
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