Author:
Beta: kattahj
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Francesca/Stella.
Rating: NC17.
Setting: Post-"Call of the Wild."
Words: 1321.
Summary: Stella needed another drink after fighting with Vecchio over the destination for their belated honeymoon.
Stella needed another drink. She needed to get away from anyone ever named Ray, anyone pretending to be a Vecchio, or anyone who was actually a Vecchio. And definitely anyone who worked with a Mountie, whom she suspected was just an overly developed Boy Scout. Stella hated Boy Scouts. That was why she'd picked Ray (the first one): his high strung, street punk, leather-wearing ways. Of course, then he'd wanted to have kids, play house, and be Mr. and Mrs. S. Raymond Kowalski. Goddamn, kids.
Vecchio (the real one) had been a godsend: a way to escape the Ray and Fraser Freak Show. Until Stella realized just how close Vecchio and Fraser still were and she was seeing red serge everywhere. She was fucking dreaming of red serge. And when Vecchio had suggested a honeymoon in Inuvik to visit Fraser and that stupid, so-not-deaf wolf (and Ray, even if Vecchio claimed to still hate him), Stella had stormed out the door and propped herself down on a barstool.
Stella hated beer, almost as much as she hated Ray(s). Instead, she drank Coke with rum and ordered up another. She didn't care if the boys thought it was girly shit.
"Thank God, I found you," a very familiar voice said. Too familiar, another Vecchio.
Stella pivoted on her barstool and faced Francesca. Francesca panted loudly and held her hand close to her heart. Her tacked on red nails stood out against her blue police shirt. She was wearing her ridiculous hiked up shirt and pants that belonged in a Jazzercise class. Fucking Vecchios.
"Is there something you want?" Stella asked.
"Ray, my brother, my real brother, not the one impersonating him." Francesca was still panting and Stella waved her hand at her. She knew which one Francesca was talking about. "Your current husband called me in a panic, saying that you'd got in a fight and you might need some female company."
Stella rolled her eyes. Ray (hers) was definitely punishing her by sending Francesca. He didn't even like to stay in a room with her; at least not any longer than it took his entire family to inhale enough food to feed a small country.
Francesca had already sat down. "I get it. Men are nothing but hogs. You know, I was married once to a complete and utter hog."
Stella rolled her eyes. She'd heard the twelve versions of Francesca's bad marriage and she still couldn't tell if he'd been a mob hit man or just had a wandering eye. She could never tell with Vecchio stories, which were, by and large, much better than Inuit stories. If she heard another Inuit story, Stella swore she was going to smother Fraser with his own hat and blame it on the wolf.
Even when he was in Canada, Fraser annoyed Stella.
"Ray's really sorry," Francesca finished. "You should go talk to him." As the bartender placed a drink in front of her, Francesca gave him one of her patented I-Need-A-Man-Any-Man smile. Pathetic.
Stella drank the remainder of her third rum and Coke. "You don't need him," she said. Yep, the buzz of anger and alcohol had led her down a truly dark path: the temptation to give Francesca dating advice.
"Of course I don't. But bartenders are helpful for the alcohol." Francesca laughed nervously and sipped her drink. She crossed her legs in the same way that Stella bet she'd been doing since parochial school. A little plaid skirt definitely would've been more flattering than those shorts.
"Come on, what did men ever do for you?" Stella asked. She saw the breaking corners in Francesca's composure. The way that Francesca hadn't immediately called her brother once she found Stella. There was a reason why Stella was a top rated D.A.
Francesca shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. Since she hadn't opened her mouth to defend men - to talk about Fraser or those ruggedly handsome pirate men who rescue maidens from their evil fathers in the romance books that lined the Vecchio family bookshelves - Stella figured that she'd finally hit a nerve.
Perhaps too much of a nerve as Francesca looked down into her drink and started to cry.
Stella thought about leaving the bartender a generous pile of cash and running to the nearest taxi. To flee the scene of the crime. But, no doubt, Detective Vecchio would discover just who had committed the crime.
Sighing, Stella placed her hand on Francesca's arm. "Come on."
Francesca looked up at her with the same eyes that puppies gave their abused masters - a don't hit me again; except that Francesca's mascara had pooled around her eyes, reminding Stella of the goth girl she'd dated before Kowalski.
By the time they made it to the women's restroom, which was cleaner than Stella expected, Francesca was clinging to her like a scared koala bear. Her nails dug into Stella's arm.
"Let's get you cleaned up." Stella moved away enough to wet a paper towel and start dabbing under Francesca's eyes. She wished she had another drink.
The more makeup Stella removed from Francesca the prettier she looked. The ruddiness from her tears made her look younger and more refined, less like someone trying to fit a mold.
And maybe the alcohol had gotten to Stella. Maybe she missed the girl she once was, the one who'd bought her first dyke boots so her feet weren't trampled on in the mosh pit. Or maybe she'd always had a soft spot for Rays and Vecchios and that was how she'd ended up here anyway.
Stella placed her hands on both sides of Francesca's face and kissed her. Part of her expected Francesca to squawk. To protest that Stella was married, married to Francesca's brother.
But she didn't. Instead her lips responded to Stella's kiss. Her hand also went to Stella's breast. Stella knew this was cheating; somewhere between the alcohol and lust, she remembered being the cheater, being cheated on, and being the other woman. Fuck morals.
Stella moaned, giving herself completely over to what she'd started. The lawyer had argued and won. Francesca tasted sweet, like the perfect strawberry in the middle of summer. Now Stella pushed Francesca against the wall and those god-awful shorts out of the way.
Francesca moved against Stella as if no one had ever touched her like this. And Stella didn't think about how that might've been true. Her finger just flicked over Francesca's clit.
While her movements were slower, Francesca inched her hand up Stella's skirt. Stella wanted to reach out and force Francesca. But she needed to learn. No matter how Stella's body begged.
Stella's patience paid off. Francesca's hand felt like fire on her body and her nose nuzzled against Francesca's neck. "God, yes," she muttered. Her hand started to slow, until Francesca made a low, slightly annoyed grunt.
Stella's body vibrated and the hot rush ran through it as she came before Francesca. But Stella kept fingering Francesca. Ray, the first, had always wanted her to come before him, and she'd learned to keep her body in motion instead of stopping to bath in post-orgasmic sunshine.
Francesca gave off a moan, which sounded to Stella more like begging Rosary prayers than pleasure.
And she shirked Stella's hand and then her away. Francesca's cheeks were flushed; she looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be." Stella straightened her clothing and washed her hands. "Don't be." Damn Ray and damn the Vecchios. She thought that the fluorescent light sparkled a little too brightly off her wedding ring.
"I need air and a cigarette," Stella said as she opened the door. "Tell Ray. No, don't tell Ray anything. I'll be home, eventually."
And eventually, she'd be spending her belated honeymoon in Inuvik with two Rays, a Mountie, and a wolf. She'd wear her plum ski jacket and promise Vecchio that he was a better lover than Kowalski. Which might've been a lie, but Stella wouldn't remember. She'd only remember the running mascara and the strawberries.