Who: Cate Denisof (the Water of Life) and Cal Masterson (the Gingerbread Man).
What: IT HAPPENS.
Where: Cate's place.
When: A few days ago, after this conversation.
Status/Rating: Complete log/R for language. And uh. Implied things. And language.

Why was it that he forgot how it felt to quit until he tried it again? Cal could just feel the impatient strangle of a craving coming on as he went up the metal steps to Cate's second floor apartment. He'd never felt particularly comfortable being in anybody's space but his own--an anonymous space was second best--but he was surprised to find he didn't want to leave the second he got there. Cal leaned against Cate's doorframe and pounded on it. He could have brought more than just the two bottles in his right hand, but that would have required stopping at a store--a store that would inevitably have cigarettes he wasn't supposed to buy. Cal was abruptly irritated he couldn't even buy beer without wanting a damn smoke. As a matter of fact, Cal was abruptly irritated and impatient at everything. Was she going to answer the damn door? Cate, on the other hand, had never picked up smoking to quit, so outside of pushing her brother through it last year, the whole process was completly unfamiliar territory for her. But she was prepared for the irritatability and the grumpiness, if only because it was Cal, and that just came with the territory; it would just have to be handled slightly more delicately this time. Not that Cal was to be handled delicately in the first place, she knew that much. At least, she thought so. Sometimes she wasn't sure, and other times--well. Not the moment to be dwelling on that, just then. There was a guy going through withdrawal on her doorstep, beer to be drunk, and a slew of distracting action films (she had raided Jimmy the Neighbor's stash before Cal got there) to be watched. She was still in a grotty old tee-shirt and jeans from when she'd been throwing earlier, bits of clay and glaze all over the over-stretched cotton; she put on something decent once he'd been settled and she'd gotten the obligatory mocking of something or another in. Maybe he'd be especially grumpy, and she could employ the slew of cutesy nicknames she'd given Alexsey when he was being a particularly stubborn ass. "Hey," she said easily when he came in, and reached up to give him his customary hug. He was warm; but then again, Cal was always warm. Somehow. It was nice. "Only two beers? Dissapointing effort, baby." The irritability skidded into a bizarre kind of familiarity. Cal had known Cate several months now, and she'd fallen into the category of tales that no longer startled him when they came around the corner. It wasn't quite Cate he was unfamiliar with, or her doorstep, but stability in general. Coming back to the same place every day, day after day. Talking with somebody about seasons like he would be there to see them. Having somebody recognize him and call him by name. Cate was a bizarre one. The hugs had really been rather jarring to begin with. Something inside him automatically pulled away from the combination of a smile and the kind of hug that came with a greeting, but something else enjoyed it. Being welcomed was a strange experience. He stopped being shocked after the first couple times, and a couple times after that he hugged her back with an awkward one armed squeeze around the waist. It wasn't habit, but it was getting there. Her house smelled sweet, like she did, only with something earthy under it. Probably that clay. Which was now all over his shirt. For some reason, he wasn't irritated about it. He was looking down at her, and he hadn't let her go in what might have been a vaguely threatening manner if he hadn't raised both eyebrows in an expression he acquired when the two of them started bickering about nothing. "Hey, I'll take my beers and walk back out the door if you're going to bitch about it." He was in a grumpy mood. The kind that was just too easy to let go. She'd apologize for the clay profusely when she noticed it. Cate had a nasty habit of forgetting she was covered in the stuff, and more than one friend's shirt had been accordingly ruined on a surprise visit during prime potting hours. For the moment, the smushed clay on Cal's shirt would have to wait. She was far too busy snarking at him now, which was considerably more enjoyable than apologizing anyway, especially when they fought about nothing at all. Cate thrived on these kinds of things. "Please!" she scoffed, giving his chest a flick with the back ofher hand. The fact that he hadn't let go of her certainly hadn't gone unnoticed, though she carefully chose not to acknowledge it. Either he was adjusting to her hugs, which was the preferred option, or withdrawal was making him do strange things. The first was definitely her hope; halfway hugs weren't nearly as nice as proper ones. "You like me too much. Downright companionable. PLUS I'm providing you with movies and nicotine distraction." She latched her fingers around the necks of the bottles and slid out of his arms with an odd squirmy feeling in the pit of her stomach (one she refused to recognize, thank you), padding on stockinged feet over towards the kitchen. "Have a seat," she added, nodding towards the squishy burgundy couch. It was old and faded, and more than one mismatched path covered up a popped spring, but the thing was absolutely fantastic for veging out, which was exactly what she intended to do. Pop, pop. Bottle caps off, popcorn (butter-free; half a stick was melted in a bowl already to go, thanks to Cal's insistence on the stuff) in the microwave, and Cate scurried over to the couch, plopping down cross-legged in front of the stack of films. "Make room, Jesus," she said, budging Cal over with her elbow. "And pick a movie." Something was different. His arch look down at her suddenly became speculative. He was totally unimpressed by the flick of her hand, and in fact he had the presence of mind to even be amused by it... before he was distracted by something else. "You're the only one who doesn't have a fuzzy animal of some kind trying to eat my popcorn when I come over," he told her gruffly, letting her go several moments too late. Cal had watched Cate walk away several times. He'd even been to the cafe a couple times, where he watched her move without thinking any time she came near. This time, though, he was ignoring the insistent tug that told him he wanted a smoke and concentrated on the one that told him he wanted something else. He should have been a lot more reluctant about it, considering how things with the Cat turned out... but no. Cate was a different woman. Bizarrely open. She acted like she could actually stand his company--and she expected him to enjoy hers without thinking. It wasn't much a risk, when he thought about it like that. Not much of a decision to think about, really. And when she moved like that he didn't think about much at all. Cal blinked, shook his head, and headed over to the couch. Just have to see if she was interested, then. He was pulling his boots off by the time she plopped down. He gave her a look--the irritated one, not the other one--and kicked off the steel-toe hard enough to make it drop with a thunk. "You make room. What are you, fifty pounds of nothing? Stop complaining." He took his beer out of her hand without asking, moved over to completely dominate the couch with not an inch between his hip and hers, and leaned forward to examine the movie selection. "You're kidding, right?" he poked one disdainfully. "I'd probably kill it," she said once she'd squished herself into the couch. "Couldn't even keep a goldfish alive." The beer grab earned a squinty-eyed glare and a shove of his formidable shoulder--ineffectual, naturally, but the point remained. And then he was all over the damn couch, when whose couch was it? He could move the hell over, THANKS. She put her weight into one side (as much as she was loath to admit it, she really wasn't much heavier than he teased her about) and shoved into his arm. It was much like a child trying to push open a sliding door. The fact that she was halfway to grinning probably didn't help her resolve, but them's the breaks. "My couch--" shove-- "you move." Shove. And another shove for good measure, until she heaved an exasperated sigh and flopped into the space between shoulder and chest with a muttered 'FINE.' It was familiar; she'd been nestled in half a dozen or more, tart that she was, and was well acquainted with how to get her head in the right place. It was Cal's fault if he didn't like it, and he could move if he wanted to. Besides. She kind of liked it there. The fact she was having to physically quash that weird twitching in her stomach by keeping her hands busy--with the hem of her shirt, the beer bottle, a hole in the knee of Cal's pants, the remote--was, of course, inconsequential. Of course. But now there was the matter of being pressed up against him, even back to front as she was. And there was his sprawling all over her sitting space, and his keeping the distances short and minimal, and a heavy silence, and she hadn't realized she'd let her hand stay at the hole in his jeans that long-- "Fuck you, 'course I'm not," she said shortly, readjusting with both hands around the beer bottle this time. "Pick a movie before the popcorn's done so I don't have to wait on your sorry ass to watch one." It was more like trying to shove a cement statue. Cal was six foot two, maybe three, and sitting he still had shoulders that was probably two Cate-s going across. If he didn't want to be moved, there was no moving him. In fact, he just grinned and showed no other sign of even acknowledging she was shoving at him. He even had his heels stretched forward under her table and he dominated that space, too. Cal was going to say something, but he forgot what it was. His eyes were on his knee and her fingers pulling on the thread of his jeans, and he had this small little smile tucked up in the corner of his mouth. He left his beer and the movies on the table and sat back into the couch, which shifted slightly under them both. Cate got a short sideways look, in which his expression become unreadable. In one easy movement Cal reached forward and closed his hand over hers around the beer bottle, pulling her toward him. His voice went low. "Haven't you seen all those?" Holy shit. Holy shit. This was not exactly what Cate had been expecting. Sure, she had bandied around the idea of being hauled off to Cal's bedroom once or twice (or thrice)--it was difficult not to think that when you looked at him for more than five seconds--but she had never really thought it would actually happen. And yet lo and behold, here they were, on her couch, and it seemed in the cards that that very thing was going to happen. Fuck yes. Of course, Cate had never been one to simply go diving into things. Not even making out on the couch with her painfully attractive friend. Curling into him was a matter of careful measurement, of baiting, of coyness. She had never done coy particularly well, but the intent was the same. "Once or twice," she said easily, as if this were the most normal question under the current circumstances, and replaced the beer bottle in his hand with her own so she could get a drink. "But I got them out to keep you busy, not me. I'm totally capable of managing myself." Which, considering their position, was clearly not what either of them had in mind. The microwave beeped in the background. Cate ignored it for a second--she was busy--until it beeped peevishly again. There was the smell of smoke. "Oh, FUCK--" And then it was a quick kiss dashed across Cal's mouth and clambering over him to get off the couch, like a cat without any of the feline grace. She half-fell off the arm onto the rug, skidding into the kitchen. "Goddamn microwave--fucking burns shit--" And RUINING THINGS. For his part, Cal hadn't been interested in anything or anyone since he'd come back from the east. He hadn't really been in any condition to. He and Tess hadn't settled in Vegas for kicks. More because Cal couldn't leave once they'd found someplace to hole up. For the first time in a while Cal felt like being with someone else. And thank God, somebody was here. Cal had his hand on Cate's knee and he was pulling her into him when whatever it was beeped in the background. He didn't even have time to enjoy the kiss before she pushed him out of the way and practically turned a somersault getting off the couch. "Leave the fucking thing--" he began, lunging over the couch arm to make a swipe for her. Too late, she got away. "Goddamn fucking piece of--" Cal swore. He got upright and headed after her into the kitchen, banging his shin into the damn table as he went. He followed her into the kitchen, where she was jerking the microwave door open. Smoke was billowing out of the little machine, making Cal's eyes water. "--ing stupid electronic shit never fucking works," he finished. Cal stalked through the smoke to where Cate was fanning the air. He shoved past her roughly, still swearing, and slammed the kitchen window open so hard the whole building shook. Then he turned around and pulled her in again for a real kiss. No fucking microwave was more important than him. The kiss was designed to tell her that she was his, goddamnit. Let the fucking building burn.