FIC: More Than Words: Chapter 1 (Gil/Lady Heather)
Title: More Than Words
Author: laurelgardner
Rating: will go to NC-17
Pairing: Gil/Lady Heather
Kink(s): Let's see...standard BDSM, 24/7 D/s, spanking, pegging...maybe more, I'll list them as they happen.
Summary: Lady Heather's going to give him one more chance. But there are conditions...Takes place post Grave Danger.
Author's Note/Warnings: This will probably have to go AU when they bring back LH during season 6.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Lady Heather's Dominion was quite a welcoming place to look at, when all was said and done. There was something cheery and welcoming about the architecture, the ivy trellises, the warm light that glowed around it in the evening. Right now, however, it was morning and not evening, and the bright Nevada sun shone on the beige stone walls.
A girl of about twenty-something stood on the front porch of the mansion, dressed in black slacks and a jacket. Her hair was spiky and hot pink, and her nose was pierced with a diamond stud. On her back, she carried a trombone in a gig bag, the case's battered texture standing out against the sleeker black leather of her coat. In her right hand, she held a suitcase.
She was admiring the brass knocker, sculpted in the shape of a lion's head. It was new, she realized, at least since her last visit. She knew every inch of the dominion with an intimacy beyond that of even the people who worked here.
Smiling, she used the brass lion to knock. She didn't have long to wait before the door was answered by a tall, sinewy blond woman dressed in flowing black silk.
"Welcome to Lady Heather's Dominion," the woman purred, "please come inside." She turned and motioned the girl inside. The girl raised a single eyebrow, then followed.
"Is this your first visit?" the woman asked, closing the door behind the girl.
"You must be new," the girl replied, hoisting the trombone from her shoulders.
"I beg your pardon," the woman said.
"Ah, nothin'," said the girl. She removed her jacket, next, and placed it, with the suitcase and trombone, in a heap by the wall. "Where's Heather?"
The woman looked affronted. "Lady Heather is unavailable right now. I would happy to attend to your needs..."
"She's sleeping, huh? Okay." The girl started up the stairs.
"Lady Heather's personal area is off-limits to clients!" the woman called, following her.
"It sure is," said the girl.
"Miss, you can't go up there!" The woman had completely lost her cool, now, and was nearly panicked. Unmoved, the girl spun around on the staircase to face her.
"What's your name?" she asked.
The woman stiffened. "Sophie."
The girl nodded. "Here's some free advice, Soph: platinum is not your color, silk needs ironing on a daily basis, the black eye shadow is just way too much, and those nice pretty fake nails are going to snap right off the first time you get your hands on a real bullwhip. Now, if you would be so kind, you have your business, and I have mine, so please leave me to it."
For a moment, the woman stared at her, speechless. Then the doorbell rang, and she reluctantly went to answer the door, turning back once more to stare at the girl on the stairs.
The girl shook her head and continued up. She knew exactly where she was going. Sophie hadn't needed to warn her away, really; Lady Heather's personal area was locked at all times, and no one without a key could get inside. That had been a lesson hard-learned, the girl reflected as she pulled out her key.
She let herself in and locked the door behind her. Inside was a small apartment; bedroom, bathroom, living area and kitchenette. It was to the latter that the girl went first, opening a cupboard and pulling out a glass, which she filled at the tap and then drained. She left the glass on the counter, with her keys, and proceeded to the bedroom.
Just as she'd suspected, she found a dark-haired woman sleeping there, curled into a small ball. She looked both peaceful and impossibly elegant. Smiling, the girl crept quietly to the bed and sat on the edge. She leaned in and kissed the woman's cheek.
The woman's eyes fluttered open at the sensation. For a moment, they held a look of dazed confusion as they peered up at the girl. Then, her face burst into an expression of pure joy.
"Zoe!" she cried, embracing the girl.
"Heather Wacowzki" was the name on her driver's license, but her clients knew her simply as Lady Heather. Owner and mistress of Lady Heather's Dominion, entrepreneur and businesswoman, highly schooled Dominant and respected leader in the alternative community both here in Vegas and beyond.
But to Zoe Wacowzki, she was simply "Mom."
"I wasn't expecting you for another three days," said Heather, blinking the last remnants of sleep from her eyes.
"I got to take that last final early, so I thought I'd surprise you," said Zoe. "I had to sit in an airport for fifteen hours in order to get a standby flight."
"How terrible for you," said Heather, sitting fully up and yawning.
"Yeah," said Zoe, "I finished the only book I brought with me, and there was nothing on the TVs except the news. " Her eyes suddenly got wide as she remembered something. "But that did get pretty wild. That forensics guy that got kidnapped, did you hear about that?"
"I did," said Heather flatly, reaching under her bed for her slippers.
"It even made the news in Boston. Bet it's all over the place here, though. I was glad they didn't let any reporters near it until they'd actually saved the guy. That would have been awful to watch."
"Mmm," said Heather, standing up and heading to her closet. Zoe stayed seated on the bed.
"Did you watch the news at all?" she asked.
"I did," said Heather, her voice still betraying no emotion.
Zoe sat thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, gently. "Was he the one?"
"Him?" Heather scoffed. "No. No, he wasn't."
"I didn't think so," said Zoe.
"I did meet him, though," said Heather, emerging from her closet dressed in a fluffy white robe. Zoe seemed not to hear her. "The first time. He was quiet, though. "
"I know who it was," Zoe said.
"I didn't even catch his name, then," Heather continued. "What did you say, honey?"
"I said I know who it was," repeated Zoe. "It was the older guy...with the beard." She motioned to her own face, describing. "Wasn't it?"
Heather turned away from her daughter, peering out her window. "I'm surprised you noticed him," she said softly. "He wouldn't talk to the reporters."
"Looked kinda like he couldn't," observed Zoe. "Had a look on his face like he'd just accidentally murdered his best friend. Which is funny, 'cuz they saved the guy, and wasn't he in charge of that?"
"Yes," said Heather. "He would have been."
"Huh." Zoe rubbed her nose. "Hey, you ever think about calling him?"
Heather turned around, then. She appeared to be giving the question careful consideration. For a moment, there was a flash of pain, there, a vulnerable look that mixed with longing. But then it vanished, and her eyes were cold and shrewd again.
"Not unless someone else dies," she said. "Come one. Let's have breakfast. I got your favorite chai."
She lead the way to the kitchen. But Zoe sat on her own, thoughtfully chewing her lip. It was a moment before she followed her mother.
* * * *
Gil Grissom always did his best to rise above knee-jerk reactions, but for all his best efforts, the anonymous letter made him very, very nervous. Especially since the events of last week...
He sat at his desk, in his office, and stared at the small, creamy envelope between his fingers. "To Gil Grissom," it said simply, with the lab's address listed below. It was written beautifully in green ink, but not from a ballpoint; a quill pen.
He held the letter up to his desk lamp, where the light made it almost transparent enough to read the letter inside. He could see nothing potentially threatening inside, just small slip of paper, probably 3''x4''. Still, he was a little afraid to open it. He was almost tempted to bring it to Trace, but he knew Hodges was on duty, and well....the letter was addressed to him, and the thought of fielding David's questions about it was not a pleasant one.
He opened it. The letter inside was brief:
Tea, Sunday. The usual time. I'll be expecting you.
There was no salutation, and no signature. But before Gil could wrap his head around the meaning of the message, he was hit by the scent of it.
Smell, of course, is the most evocative of the senses, as anyone with a working nose can attest to. As a scientist, Gil had a richer understanding of the phenomenon than most people; he knew that it was because the sense had the most connections with the brain's memory registers. And it was visceral, emotional memory that always got hit first, not anything connected with analyzing or objective identification.
It was for precisely this reason that his first thought was Lady Heather. The perfume, which he knew to be l'Air du Temps, was a distant second thought.
He was by no means an expert on women's cosmetics, but he knew this one. Gentle but richly intoxicating, it was a classic that had been around for a long time, long enough that Hannibal Lecter had observed Clarice wearing it in The Silence of the Lambs. Not cheap. And judging by the strength of it, Heather had sprayed the letter directly. If indeed, the letter was from her.
Which brought him to the handwriting. Something about it had niggled at his memory when he'd first glanced at it, but since handwriting is connected to very few emotional memory registers, he'd missed it at first. But that was hers, wasn't it? And who else would write him such a message?
He'd confirm it for certain once his shift was over. There were Consent to Search forms that she'd filled out, forms that would still be sitting in the appropriate closed case file. He could use one of those to discover if the invitation was genuine.
Only then would he think about whether or not he wanted to accept it.