Who: Cal Masterson (the Gingerbread Man) and Cate Denisof (the Water of Life)
What: They attempt THE TALK. Nothing happens.
When: Immediately after the previous scene. Which I am too lazy to link to.
Status/Rating: Complete log/R for ~language~ and ~allusions~. Mostly language. Come on, it's Cal and Cate.

Up again. Three A.M. It was practically a ritual now, regardless when she actually had to be up for work or whatever errands she had that day, 3:00 A.M. always had her blinking awake to her stucco ceiling, scrabbling around in the dark for pants to go and dick around for a midnight snack before crawling back into bed with a book, or a movie if she was feeling especially lazy. She stared blearily up tonight, remarkably sore and sleepy, and scrubbed at her eyes. Thank God she'd avoided make-up at all yesterday; there had certainly been no chance to wash it off properly before being tossed into bed. Shit. That hit her like a ton of bricks. Not a particularly unpleasant ton of bricks, to be sure, but a ton of bricks nonetheless. Had that actually happened? I mean, that was the kind of shit you vaguely daydreamed about when shifts at the diner were slow. She stretched out, eyes still on the ceiling, hoping maybe the cracking of her spine would make sense of things--and kicked a leg. There was a Cal in her bed. Wow. "Shit," she said quietly, immediately inching away when she caught his eyes on her. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you." Cal was lying on his stomach. He wasn't just occupying space in her bed; he was with her. One of his legs slid off hers and over her ankles. His hand had no weight as it came off her hip. He crossed his arms beneath his head, deepening the shadows that lined the thick muscles in his back. "I was up." He smiled at her, something he didn't do often enough to make it anything less than startling. Cal was content and relaxed, a state she had never seen him in. "Don't sleep much." His eyes slid up her body (with plenty of admiration, even in the dark) and then past her to the clock on the stand. "You too, huh? Then he sat up, lifting his shoulders and turning to face her. Some of that contentment slipped. "Unless I woke you up." Cate grinned, quickly tempering it to a smirk. Even in the weird half-light from the window, it was hard not to notice that her lips kept quirking up when she wasn't paying attention. Her face right up to her hairline was so pink she looked like she'd been holding her breath while he spoke. "Nah. Always seem to get up this time. Not sure why." She flopped over on her side, one hand propping her head up, the other drawing vague lines on his hand and forearm. Ridges and bumps and veins and scars--they always fascinated her, the way they felt more so than where they came from. Fingers drifted up, over his waist, until they were drumming idly on his stomach. She was a little groggy still, but up. "What's got you up, hon?" she asked, pleasantly enough. If he started spewing friends vs. relationship shit, she was going to have a coronary and kick him the hell out of bed. Which neither of them wanted, really. In fact, she rather liked him there, and curled up a little closer to his bulk. God, she felt so small. He put his head back down when she did, again with every evidence of lazy comfort. One never realized how much tension he carried he was until he was abruptly without it. It was almost painful to see it return all at once as she flicked her fingers down his forearm. He didn't move or draw away, but instead waited to see if the dark was enough to hide the rough lines time hadn't erased. He relaxed again when her hand drew away. "Don't sleep much," he repeated. "Few hours every couple nights. Just how it is." For once, Cal answered a question about himself without those angry sharp-edged walls, without losing the comfortable set of his shoulders in the sheets. He put shifted closer to settle next to her again, still on his stomach but now with an arm over her middle. Her bare shoulder got a scratchy kiss. Comfort. "That's shit," she said vaguely. The tension she noticed, but said nothing; dealing with Cal sometimes meant sporadic bouts of it, and she was so pleasantly surprised at the lack of it now that a little relapse was hardly anything to note. She certainly wouldn't ask about them, unless he seemed willing to discuss, and as it was the story of them didn't matter. She just liked the way he felt. When he kissed her and adjusted, she did too, shifting onto her back to nestle a shoulder and half of her tiny self under him. The arm that had been supporting her head curved around his shoulders to rest idly touching fingers on his back--her fingers never seemed to stop moving once in bed, running over lines and bones and muscles, taking note of where things were and how he was put together, finding where she fit--and the other rested on top of his, possessively. This was hers for the time being, dammit. Then she actually took note of what he said. Few hours every couple of nights? Her head lifted slightly to glance over at the side of his face, confused. "Jesus. You haven't just been lying around watching me sleep, have you?" She flicked his shoulderblades with her dull nails. "'Least could've woken me up." Still, it didn't matter how brusque her voice was; she was clearly comfortable and content, and kissed the side of his forehead gently. This was good. "You want coffee or something?" It was bizarre how comfortable with her and himself he seemed to be in bed, as opposed to fully clothed in daylight. Bizarre but... reassuring. One brow quirked, as if she had said something ridiculous. "Like you twice as much without clothes as with." She hit some invisible spot on his back that made a ripple of tension move down his body. "Stop that, I can't concentrate." He sounded amused. The scars got thicker the closer she got to the inside of his elbow, warm ridges of old pain. His skin was nearly smooth an inch from his palm, and from there work callous on his knuckles and palms sculpted the wide hands into something real. More amusement: "You got decaf? I drink regular and I go from a few hours to nothing." His knuckles lifted under her fingers, one by one. Cue rising blush. Cate was used to all sorts of Cal-isms, but things like that, no matter who said them, always made her lose her footing. She scoffed and shoved him over, kicking off sheets and putting all her weight into rolling him off. Off the bed would have been fantastically hilarious, but she knew that was an impossibility; over to the other side so she could affect the proper indignation would have to do. And affect she did. There were arched eyebrows, tight-lips (or at least an attempt; it ended up more a barely contained grin than anything), and every haughty mannerism she could pull off without any clothes on. Cal's chest got a number of half-hearted shoves, with more than one "You are SUCH a dick"s to accompany it. She tugged on her clay-dusted shirt from earlier, in a heap next to her bed, and reached over Cal to the night stand to get some kind of hair thing. A scrunchie! Victory! And, of course, she wasn't about to be that close to his face without getting a kiss in. Or three. "Not bringing your sorry ass coffee," she said finally, and clambered out of bed. "Come on. I'll put the kettle on, you make your own cup." And then she was out of the room. This was how Cate worked. She only hoped he was used to it. Amused chuckles and thick sounds of contentment meant nearly every protest and all the kisses, like they were practically the same thing. Cal followed her out of the bedroom before long, a curious combination of his usual self in jeans and that long-sleeve white shirt, and a rumpled stranger without socks. He moved lazily, striding casually across the room toward the kitchen, where she was puttering around with the coffee stuff. He watched her from the doorway a minute, then came in, stretching. "I need a fucking smoke." The complaint was casual, sounding something like, 'by the way.' As yet, Cal hadn't ever spent very long in Cate's kitchen, and now that he was he took advantage of the situation to size it up. When he thought she wasn't looking he pulled open a drawer an inch just to see what was kept inside. He eyed the counters and the contents of the sink. It was all rather automatic, really. A smoke? Cate paused in scooping out the coffee crystals--decaf shit for Cal, some froofy French cappuccino powder for herself--to give the man a look. One eyebrow rose up, face scrunching up in distaste. "Figured I was enough of a distraction for at least one night," she said wryly, setting the kettle on the stove. Her eyes followed his around the kitchen, until she leaned against the counter with the sugar bowl in one hand, elbow propped on wrist, chin on hand, watching in silent amusement as he sized up the room. "Not exactly a chef's dream," she said after a moment. There was a slight note of apology there, a shrug of her shoulders, and then she pushed off the counter to push the sugar into his chest. "Don't do much cooking, unfortunately. You take milk?" She nudged him out of the way of the fridge, poking around on the shelf until the milk could be extricated. The cooking, of course, was a dropped subject on her end. Life-long dreams of opening a restaurant in Greenwich Village? Being absurdly jealous of Cal's kitchen abilities? Please. Not exactly post-coital coffee conversation. There were other things on her mind, anyway. Like the fact that she was carrying on post-coital conversation. With Cal. It still hadn't quite sunk in, and out of the bedroom, that lazy complacency was tinged with thoughtful awkwardness. Ah--there was the milk. She got an equally dry look in return. Cal's face was made for dry looks. Something in the way his mouth was set. "I can't want you and a smoke at the same time?" he asked, without apparent need for an answer. He looked up from his examination, and for once he had nothing cynical to respond with. "Not so bad. Good counter space. 'Lectric stove would be a bitch though. Won't heat even." He turned the knob and eyed it. His reply was absent-minded. "No, black. Damn stuff won't get much better no matter what you throw in it." She would find him in her way every time she turned around. He was bent down and looking into her stove now. Cal never could find a way to be in a room without making it his. He laughed at her when she bounced off his hip as he stood up. "Watch where you're going. I'm walking." Now he was totally in her way, and smug about it. "We're mutually exclusive," she said airily, lifting her chin. There was the matter, of course, of how the carcinogens in cigarettes interacted with her own tumors, the fact that her oncologists had strictly advised avoiding tobacco smoke if at all possible--which, really, had made Cal's announcement all the sweeter--but she brushed those particularly sensible reasons aside in favor of her entirely fictional one. The oven she had little to say about, though his preference in coffee earned a well disgusted look and an equally appalled "Ugh! Don't kow how you get it down black. Gross." She took the sugar from his hand and stood there waiting for him too move, milk in one hand, sugar in the other. "You're in my way," she corrected, and poked him with a free finger from either hand. "Same rules as the couch, buddy. My kitchen, you move." Another stern poke. "Or so help me I'll just pin you to a wall. And then you won't get any coffee at all." He took a step forward rather than back. "If it's you and no cigarettes, you damn well better make up for it," Cal said, still smirking. "And if you're gonna drink coffee, drink coffee. You want milk, drink milk." Another step forward. She was going to have to be careful not to spill with her hands full, since he was going to take advantage of the situation. "Who pinned who?" The kiss didn't have any of the hot impatience of earlier. Cal took his time, as if he preferred the taste of her more than coffee--black or not. "Mm," he said, straightening back up. "You talk too much. It's distracting." Should have seen that one coming. Cal was becoming perfectly predictable in these sorts of situations, which pleased her immensely, as she was having quite the time laying them out. It was a good thing the milk was closed, as only frantic scrabbling as his mouth came down on hers allowed her to drop the sugar bowl precariously on the countertop. And then it was kissing, which he was really very good at, and more kissing, and--then he was done. Damn. "Talk just enough," she said once the breath had gotten back into her. "Maybe I like you distracted." And then it was all rolled eyes, brisk movements to get the coffee ready and promptly ignore just how good of a kisser he was. For a good fifteen seconds, at least. Once the water was in the mugs, she was tugging him over from examining the contents of a cupboard and going in for a second round. Hot water be damned. Cal could pretend indifference if he wanted, but why? It was one thing to have something, and then another thing entirely to have it whenever you want it. It was a taste to be savored, and it tasted like Cate. And one never knew, with women, or life. You might not have it like that forever. He let himself be tugged and he would have had Cate up on that counter if one or the other of them hadn't knocked one of the mugs of hot water down, spilling steaming contents everywhere. He swore, jerking his arm back and belatedly realizing she did not do the same. "Goddamnit. Are you alright?" Maybe her kitchen was cursed, or something. He was about ready to take back what he said about the counters. "OW, FUCK, SHIT." No, no she was not all right. It was more shock than actual burn--Cate never let the water reach a full boil, and had received a fair amount of water burns and grease splatters working at the diner to desensitize her, somewhat, from liquid burns--but Cate still wrenched her arm back as the cup went spinning across the countertop, it's liquidy brown innards splashing out and over the edge. Cate swore several more times, slipping into a string of Russian curses at something or another, as she scurried over to the sink, examining the angry red marks popping up along the length of her forearm. "Ahh, shit," she said, turning on the cold tap and sticking her arm under. The rest of her was turning red too. "Shit, I'm sorry. Must've knocked it--fuck, ow--didn't get any on you, did I?" Yep. Screw that otherwise good mood. Cal glanced down. His sleeve was now coffee-colored, but that was all. "Nah. Fine." He shook his arm and pulled his sleeve up without thinking about it. Burns were par for the course in Cal's world. He kept up a steady stream of swearing under his breath just to undercurrent Cate's exclamations, and followed her over to the sink. A line deepened his brow as he stood at her shoulder with obvious concern. "No, I think I hit the damn thing. Wasn't paying attention. Sorry. Is it bad?" He flicked his fingers through the tap to make sure it was cold, or near enough. Vegas wasn't the best place to get decent tapwater, but home remedies like ice or butter only made burns worse. "Got a first aid kit or something around?" "You're fine, really," she said , wincing slightly and turning her arm over under the stream. Stung like a bitch. The fact that Cal was apologizing of his own free will went right over head; she merely nodded back off towards her bedroom, "Bathroom, second drawer down." Ow. Cate poked at her arm under the tap; it wasn't going to leave any blisters or anything, but it would still be violently red for at least a day or two. Fabulous. Explaining random wounds to the customers was always a treat. She tugged the dish cloth from its hook by the sink, flipped off the tap, and slid down against the under-sink cabinets with her arm wrapped in a towel. This was not exactly how she'd imagined the rest of the night going. When Cal came back, it was to a pouting Cate, curled up with her bare knees to her chest, prodding vaguely at her arm like a kid with a scab. But she smiled when he came back in, slid her legs down to grant him room, and presented her arm for treatment. There were little holes and lines on either of her elbows, barely noticeable until you caught them in direct light like that, but she didn't seem to notice. She was rather good at this playing patient thing. Ironically enough. Cal settled easily on his heels right next to her on the floor. He browsed through her First Aid kit with casual familiarity, pulling out a couple plastic pouches filled with an aloe-base made just for silly burns that cooks (and unwary lovers) acquired all the time. He pulled her hand toward him without asking permission further than what she'd already given by holding her arm out. "Happens all the time," he was muttering to himself rather viciously. "Usually when I'm not paying any fucking attention to what's hot and what's not." His fingers on her arm were gentle regardless of his impatient tone. If she wanted to watch his face change as he caught sight of the IV scars on the inside of her arm, she could neatly read recognition and some small trace of surprise. The concern took up most of his expression, however, and he didn't ask about it. It clearly reminded him of his own sleeve, for once he finished with the burns he shook it back down where it belonged. Hopelessly stained, of course. Cal was hard on his clothes. He sighed. "We gotta stay out of your goddamn kitchen." "Hey, I already said it wasn't your fault, Jesus," she said sternly, reaching over with her unharmed hand to give the side of his face an admonishing tap. It would probably have been a light slap on anyone else, but her hands were small and soft and his face was rough; she was banking on it didn't feel any worse than she intended it to be. "So we got a little heated and knocked over a mug. No big thing." She offered up a reassuring smile, but stayed silent while he tended to the burn. When his eyes flickered over her arm, she almost drew back, but waited for him to finish and pull his own sleeve down before she folded up her arms to look at the burn--and keep the IV scars out of sight. She'd completely forgotten about them. He finished and she tugged him down by the sleeve to sit properly. "False. You've gotta cook for me at some point. I'll just stay out. Seems I'm accident-prone." The fingers of her good hand rubbed up against his knuckles, incomprehensibly small against his large, square hand. Her voice changed, playfulness slipping away under necessary sincerity. Sincerity was an odd thing. She had never been able to get it down when she was thinking about it. "So." Nobody touched Cal's face. He blinked at her, more startled than anything, but he recovered quickly and scowled at her in his usual style. A reassuring scowl: who would have thought? He put his eyes somewhere else while she fixed her sleeves, which meant she didn't have any difficulty settling him down next to her on the tile. Cal was kind of bemused to have such a small little woman tug and push him different directions whenever it suited her. What's more, it amused him to let her, just to find out where he'd end up. He put his back up against a cupboard where hinge and handle wouldn't bother him, and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "Right, forgot about that. No big. Everybody eats something I made at some point, even if they're just passing." He let his heels slide out on the floor, and eyed one of the seams of the tattered gray socks, which were probably on the verge of falling apart, just like most of his clothing. He never remembered to get anything replaced before it was absolutely necessary. The brown eyes turned to look at her, mildly curious. "So?" Everybody? Well, that was rather the point, wasn't it? Cate could hardly qualify as everybody anymore, unless she was sorely mistaken and Cal got lucky more often than she had thought. She cast him a sidelong scowl to match his own, but once he had settled, her fingers slipped up under his hand to take it over into her lap, nudging knuckles, feeling out callouses and cuts and scars. A thumb slid up his wrist but made no notice of the smooth marks there. Mostly, it kept her hands busy. Something to do. "So," she said again. Scrunched her face up. "So is this. You know. Ok? Whatever it is. ...This, I mean." Babbling, man's most effective method of communication. Cate opened her mouth to try again, faltered, looked over at him helplessly, and went back to fidgeting with his hand. "Yeah," she finished lamely. Luck never had much to do with it when Cal spent the night with a woman. Before he had roots those nights tended to be bright points in an otherwise dull existence. Sex brought a false kind of closeness he could pretend with for a while. Cal was good at pretending, and just as good as walking out the door in the morning. He wondered if that's what she was asking. Cal watched her hands move over his, more puzzled than anything. He didn't understand the appeal, and he really didn't want to talk about his arms, so it made him uneasy when he allowed himself to think about it. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked her, completely lost. "Oh--" Cate faltered, fingers drumming on his palm for a second before she stretched them all out awkwardly. "Never mind. Not even sure what I was getting at." Another long pause. Cate shifted one ofher legs and sat up away from the cabiets, Cal's hand still in tow. "Want to watch a movie or something? Can't sleep." Segues, clearly, are her forte. The fact that she almost broached the let's-talk-about-it area was something to be ignored. She didn't wait for a reply before she was hauling herself to her feet, Cal coming whether he wanted to or not (and if he especially didn't, that would have been a particularly awkward and graceless fall on her part), and plodding over to the couch. The movies were still there, mostly, and Cate busied herself finding the manliest, most gruesome, most blessedly non-thought-provoking one of the bunch (some Jason Statham flick; she could at least laugh at the shitty dialogue if nothing else). Movies were easy. She liked easy. It was good.