in the wake of incomplete time (river | chrissie/rosa, chrissie~stevie)

[fiachairecht]

in the wake of incomplete time. river, chrissie/rosa, chrissie~stevie. on missed calls and mended things. 1.1k words, rated t. for fanchonmoreau in femslashex 2018.

The voicemail light is blinking on Chrissie's phone when she gets back to her office after her fifth meeting of the day. For a long moment - a long hour? - she simply watches, caught in the accusing glare of the phone's single green eye.

Hiya, Chrissie, it's me, I was just wondering if - I wanted to talk to you about -

Chrissie, please call me back -

She's tried to be better about picking up her phone since ... then.

She hasn't deleted a single voicemail since then.

Chrissie breathes in. Blink. Breathes out. Blink. Breathes in.

It's not from Stevie. She hasn't seen Stevie - any Stevie - for weeks, hasn't gotten up the courage to ask John if he's seen her. There's only so many ways in which one can be brave at once. And whatever Stevie is now doesn't need a phone to call for her. Doesn't need to wait for her to answer.

So why can't she pick up her phone?

Probably, Chrissie thinks as she makes her way over to her chair, carefully, without breaking eye contact with the light, because it's always the things one least expects that end up the most connected to grief. Fall out of the after part of one's life path and lie in wait, a loose cobblestone that could easily be stepped over or skirted around but that nevertheless manages to stick in one's shoe and refuse to be dislodged.

Hiya, Chrissie, just wanted to hear your voice.

I wanted to talk about -

Breathe out. Blink. Breathe in. Blink.

"Oh, good, you're still here!"

Chrissie turns. Fast, too fast, and her hip catches on the jutting edge of the desk, sending a sharp jolt of pain down her leg and a manila folder cascading to the floor. The phone clicks, jumps. Doesn't stop blinking.

"Sorry," Chrissie says automatically. Rosa's crouched down amidst the scatter of photos, trying to sort them back together. "Startled me. Sorry. Long day, is all."

If she apologises to Rosa for this, she can keep her traitorous tongue from tripping over other reasons, other admissions. I thought you were - I thought, on the phone -

Hoping isn't expecting, even if she could admit to herself that she hoped for another glimpse of Stevie, another whisper of her voice shaped around words she had never had to put together in life.

"My fault," Rosa says, as she gathers up the photos, seemingly unconcerned. "This building at night, I know it gets ... well, creepy, sometimes, doesn't it?"

"Lonely," Chrissie corrects automatically as she bends to help. It gets lonely, in the December twilights that stretch past Ira's leaving, and even John's. Lonely, when there's no one with a fag or a light who just wants to talk.

Now there's just Rosa, an intangible blue shape that's startlingly vibrant even under the half-off lights, even as the accusing green of the phone glints off her shining eyes.

Chrissie breathes in. Blink. Breathes out. Blink.

She can, she thinks somewhat nonsensically, from this perspective, see the plain black edge of Rosa's bra peeking up from under her gaping blouse.

The thought is real, real as the glossy paper in her hands, and it almost makes her want to laugh, what with how out of place it is. Of course, now everything's gone tits-up, of course now is when she ends up frozen on her office floor staring at - well, at Rosa's tits.

"Lonely," Rosa echoes, but it's not quite disbelieving, and something about that - something about being heard, being considered, it warms something deep in Chrissie's belly that she'd thought herself well done with.

Still, she braces herself for an inevitable question, and it's only once Rosa's fluidly gotten to her feet and offered Chrissie her hand to help her up that she realises it's not coming.

"Good I stopped by, then," Rosa says, even though Chrissie waits a moment too long to take her hand. Funny, the things you forget without having realised you've lost them. Even something as simple as touch. "I was wondering if, um. If you wanted to come down to the pub with me."

And then, of course, she has to remember again how to let go, which is unaccountably even harder, especially while Rosa's waiting, half-expectant and all kind.

"Don't -" Chrissie flounders, momentarily, searching for the reason to say no that she knows must be lurking somewhere close. "You and Marcus, shouldn't -"

"Me and Marcus," Rosa says, and her laugh isn't all kind now. "No, it's not like that. He's not important like that." Her hand slides up to Chrissie's shoulder, fingertips dipping under the collar of her suit jacket. Everything about her seems to have narrowed down to focus on Chrissie, looking past her glasses into the very heart of her where something else Chrissie's long forgotten lies, and Chrissie's been useless at a lot of things lately but she didn't make DCI by being completely useless at reading people.

Not important like you are.

She couldn't miss it even if she wanted to, so plainly is it written across Rosa's face, and for half a moment she forgets breathing, too, as she becomes aware again of the green, still watching. Still waiting.

Chrissie breathes. The voicemail light blinks.

Rosa follows her gaze, shrugs one shoulder. "I tried to call you earlier. Got your voicemail. Decided to hang around, after I realised you were probably still in meetings. Some things are better in person, aren't they?"

It's staggering in a way it shouldn't be, that someone would have waited for her. Chrissie's spent so long waiting - for Tom to come home, for Stevie to finish talking, to say -

"I like you," she says, without really meaning to. It spills out, all of a sudden, because it's December and Tom is gone and Stevie's said everything she's ever going to say and because Rosa waited.

Rosa turns back, raises an eyebrow. "Okay," she says slowly, and she doesn't ask why and she doesn't take a step back, and those both mean the same thing. "That's a yes to the pub, then?"

It is, in the moment, the most important and least necessary clarification she's ever heard. "Yeah, okay," she says, and she can feel the hint of a smile that doesn't seem entirely hers pulling at the corner of her mouth. "I don't - I'm so tired of waiting."

When she looks to the corner Stevie's there, saluting her with the bottle loosely clasped in her right hand. Go, she says, or maybe, come with me.

Chrissie, despite the past few months, can only do one of those things.

Rosa's hand in hers is so very alive, and Stevie's still smiling as they leave the office.