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=XF= Sal's Ranch
DESCRIPTION FOR SAL'S RANCH GOES HERE.
There is a lot of land, and a two-story house with a wraparound porch at the end of a long and graveled drive, and a barn nearly as big set back a little farther. It houses cats, as well as the ranch's compliment of horseflesh. At any given time there are horses out to pasture, or being worked, and other generally ranch-like things going on.
The sun has just started to set when the plain, well-tended sedan pulls carefully up the drive. It pokes around, finds a place to park, and eventually turns off. There's another moment before the door opens, revealing a certain be-coated redhead. She hesitates again after she closes the door, then opens the rear door to grab a duffel. She treks up to the front door of the house, takes a breath, and knocks.
The lights that come to life as the sun begins to set are on a timer: they twinkle from the trees that dot the property and not-quite line the drive, from the trellis that scales the western face of the two-story house, around the columns that rise up from the low wall surrounding the porch and support the gabled roof above it. It is not quite enough to turn the small ranch in the Saratoga Foothills into a fairyland of light, but it adds an extra touch of class.
That touch is somewhat lacking elsewhere: "Goddamnit, Joe, I swear to fucking god I am going to /shoot/ you in the /face/, I told you I'm not takin' another holiday with that lot--" is loud enough to be heard through the door the instant before it opens inward. True to her words, Sal is framed in the doorway with a shotgun leveled, but the muzzle tips up and her expression shifts from frustration-anger to surprise-pleasure as she says, "Shit. McGee," and steps back a step and jerks her head toward the inside. "Get the hell inside."
"Jesus, Peanut!" Kelsey twists to the side, out of the immediate sights of the shotgun--at least before it's tipped up and away from her. She looks a little dubious of the offer, but eventually shifts the strap of her bag on her shoulder and steps through the doorway. "Neighbors harassing you?" she asks dryly.
There is one last visual sweep of her property before Sal closes the door behind them with a hrrrmph, and sets the shotgun above the door. She has to tip up onto her toes and stretch more than she would have, once, to compensate for the shifted center of gravity and extra bulk lent her lean frame by one James *mumbledy* Harper, -*mumbledy* months. "Worse," she responds, just as dry, "family threatened to descend. Counter-threatened, but--" Her shrug is as eloquent as she chooses not to be, but she runs a critical eye over Kelsey as they stand in the foyer.
Kelsey glances back at the door as Sal lingers, possibly looking for bandits outside. "Some people are happy when their families want to spend time together," she points out, lifting her chin under Sal's inspection. SHOWING UP UNANNOUNCED IS NORMAL, OKAY? Oh, fine. "Shitty breakup. Want non-familial company for Christmas?"
"They came for Thanksgiving," Sal counters, "which is enough to last me the rest of the damn year, thanks." Apparently Kelsey's explanation is enough, because she reaches out to catch the younger woman by the shoulder and propel her -- not ungently, especially considering the strength at Sal's disposal -- inward. "Upstairs, end of the hall, on the left," is apparently a yes, and it is followed up by, "unless this is the turn you loose on a bottle of scotch and steer you at an empty stall until you crawl out of it kind of breakup, in which case--" She stops to think, shifts uneasily and presses a hand against the side of her stomach as if that will smush the brains back into her head, "third one on the right's empty, don't scare the horses." Unexpected holiday visitor thus accepted, she moves toward the kitchen.
"Not /that/ bad. I don't think." Kelsey wrinkles her nose and sighs. Her eyes drop to Sal's middle--how big /is/ it, now?--and then she treks up the stairs as directed. She returns soon enough, finding her way back to the kitchen. "I appreciate it," she says sincerely as she tracks down Sal.
It's pretty big. While Sal is not at the point in pregnancy where people start eying her askance and acting like she will explode baby and goo all over them if she sneezes wrong, the location and identity of her feet have long escaped a visual assessment. Some of the bulk is masked by the drape of an otherwise overlarge black sweater (accented by an outrageously gaudy red enamel-and-sequin poinsettia pin), but it is very definitely there. They way she carries has shifted, too, but there is still enough grace in her movement that she does not /waddle/.
The kitchen is homey but not tiny, with a sink set underneath a curtained window that looks out onto the ranch proper along one wall, a normal assortment of kitchen appliances, and a small table just big enough for two or three people to sit around comfortably. There is a television set in a corner above it, attached to the wall. (It is not a huge flatscreen: it features a remote, universal, and painstakingly-explained DVR capabilities.) By the time Kelsey returns, Sal is ensconced at the table; there is a pot of coffee brewing, and a beer set out in front of an empty seat. A bottle-opener sits beside it.
Kelsey slips into the empty seat and opens the beer. She does not use the bottle-opener. Instead, she sets the lip of the cap on the table and taps at the right angle with the heel of her hand. "Do you know if it's a girl or a boy yet?" she asks, before tipping her beer back and taking a sip.
Sal nods her approval, and settles back in her seat. It is not quite her familiar sprawl, but she still manages to take up more space than even her currently-gravid state should allow. "Boy," she says, and there is something odd and slightly fond underneath the gruff edge of her voice as, "James," is then followed a moment later by, "Jimmy."
"Jimmy," Kelsey echoes, gaze lingering on the not-quite-ready-to-pop belly. "He started to kick and all that, yet?"
"Jimmy," Sal re-confirms, then snorts a laugh. "Yeah. Started a few months back feeling like someone'd let loose a butterfly in there. Sure as shit isn't butterflies /anymore/, let me tell you." There is a contemplative look across the table, but whatever Sal is thinking, she doesn't give voice to.
"He kicking now?" Kelsey asks curiously, taking another drink. Her eyebrows lift slightly at Sal's look.
"Yes." After a moment, Sal amends this to: "Or hitting. It's a little hard to tell a hand from a foot and a head from an ass, at this point."
Kelsey slips out of her seat, padding over to Sal and reaching--slowly enough to be stopped--to try and place a hand on the woman's rounded belly. "Maybe he has your talent," she says.
Sal reaches for Kelsey's hand, but not to stop her -- there's a slow inhale of breath as she fits her fingers around Kelsey's wrist, a moment's concentration before she guides the hand -- there. The thump is somewhat muted by the fabric of Sal's sweater, but it is definitely there. There is another thump, then a steady pressure and a slide slightly downward, then it is gone. "Won't be surprised one of you lot has him picking locks before he's talking," she says, affection she won't admit to rich in her voice.
The curve of Kelsey's smile pulls wider at the evidence of little life inside Sal's body. "Wow," she murmurs, keeping her eyes on the curve of her hand. Something inscrutable passes in the back of her expression.
It's Kelsey's face that Sal watches, and her eyebrows lift slightly at the subtle shift in the agent's expression. "It's a bit intense," she agrees, releasing Kelsey's wrist after another moment and reaching out to prod the other woman away so she can gain her feet. Coffee's done.
"Yeah," Kelsey agrees in turn, something tight in her voice. She blinks several times and allows herself to be prodded away, back to her empty seat, and takes another drink.
When Sal pours coffee, she pours two cups; she rattles around in a little pot on the counter and then briefly in the ice box, and when she comes back to the table she sets one steaming mug in front of her place, then shifts to bring the other one to bear in front of Kelsey. When she leans to set it down, it is with one hand on Kelsey's shoulder -- though from the very slight squeeze, it is more to support Kelsey than herself.
"I just thought--I don't know." Kelsey finishes off the beer with a bitter edge. "The usual things. 'Hey, maybe this'll last.' And then the other usual thing. It doesn't." She glares at the coffee.
"No," Sal says simply, with another brief squeeze before she returns to her seat and settles in. "It doesn't. It's decaf."
"So you being nice and making new friends?" Kelsey asks, shifting the subject with a quick, dry edge as she pulls the coffee towards her.
"The mailman refuses to come closer than the end of the drive," Sal says, smugly pleased over her cup of fake coffee. "And the paperboy always gets it on the porch."
"Sal." Kelsey levels a look on her. It is a familiar look. "Are you just sitting here with your horses and no friends?"
"LeBeau sent a Turkeygram on Thanksgiving," Sal retorts with a lift of her chin, equally familiar.
"That doesn't count," Kelsey says firmly. "I mean friends /here/."
"I got Ely," Sal says, lifting her mug again and settling back in her chair, free hand curled around its base, the whole thing set atop the baby bump. "He's forgotten more about this business than I ever learned."
"Employees aren't the same as real friends." Kelsey is obnoxiously persistent. "I mean. Are you going to have someone to at least give you a /little/ help when the baby comes?" Just the tiniest bit?
"I imagine there'll be family in and out," Sal counters, "what with the whole miracle of life going on." She lifts her mug and sips, then quirks her eyebrows at Kelsey. "So you and what's his, then. Swifte, that's it." It is unlikely that Sal has actually forgotten Andrew's name. "Called it quits."
Finding herself countered with the promise of family and distracted by the new subject, Kelsey sighs in a well-worn kind of way that suggests she's been talking about this a lot lately. "Aye. We did."
With the subject of her (complete and utter lack of) a social life neatly countered, Sal continues with: "Which of you did the calling?"
"Me. I guess." Kelsey looks down at her undrunk coffee.
Sal makes a noise. It could be acceptance. It could be prompting. It could be phlegm.
Kelsey sighs again. LONG-SUFFERING. "I ended up snogging someone else and when I told Andrew I realized I didn't really /want/ him to forgive me."
This time, the sound Sal makes is "Ah." In spite of its brevity, there is something unfinished about it -- an 'and' or a 'but' just waiting for her to breathe life into it. Because she's a jerk like that, she remains silent save for a slurp of coffee.
"I know that 'ah,'" Kelsey grumbles, finally taking a sip of her coffee. She waits.
"Mhm." Sal waits in counter-measure, and slurps her coffee again. It is entirely possible the noise is on purpose.
"If you're going to say something, just say it," Kelsey says, frowning.
"McGee, snogging someone else and then realizing that maybe, just maybe, you're not happy where you are -- doesn't generally wind up with a body turning up on someone else's doorstep. On Christmas Eve." Unannounced: the fact that Sal doesn't mention this probably says as much about her friends (what few in number they are) as it does about herself. "Pretty sure it's closer to unpleasant or uncomfortable or /awkward/ than it is shitty, on the break-up scale."
Kelsey frowns at her coffee. Fiercely. "Well, we had a nasty fight after. I wound up saying that I'd gotten bored, he accused me of wanting to be with a guy who'd knock me around. And I guess that inspired him enough to go shag my friend that day."
"Christ," is Sal's eloquent summation. "That's a bit farther up the scale. Idiot." It isn't entirely clear which one of them she's referring to, but considering Kelsey is the one sitting in her kitchen drinking her fake coffee, it might be surmised. (Then again: Sal.)
"God," Kelsey groans, pinching her nose. "And then she gave me all this crap about how I should have been better to him, as if that excuses what she did. And I just got so /angry/. I was so damn angry I was breaking shit. Now I'm just tired."
It is moments before Sal speaks, and when she does her voice is steady, but there is a very /small/ hint of amusement, more self-directed that outwardly aimed. "That's complete bullshit, and you know it. She probably knows it, too. Sometimes a good thing just isn't-- it isn't what you need, or what he needs, or what either of you need /right now/, or maybe ever. There's no being /better/ unless you were deliberately screwing with his head, which it doesn't sound like you were." Sal snorts, and leans forward to rest her elbows on the table. "Sounds more like you were tryin' to be honest with yourself, and honest with him, and you got screwed. Now." She pauses, to make sure Kelsey is paying attention. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Brood," Kelsey answers promptly. "Maybe drink excessively for a few nights. Shag some random strangers."
"And then?"
"And then get over it," Kelsey says, shifting uncomfortably. "Or not. Whatever."
Sal makes a noise, low in her throat. It is very much a wrong-answer noise. "You're half right, McGee, because you're not stupid and you're not weak."
"I'm pretty stupid," Kelsey deadpans.
Sal lifts her eyebrows in counter. If nothing else, it draws pointed attention to herself.
"I'm stupid and self-sabotaging and can't appreciate a good thing." Kelsey takes another drink of coffee, sharper this time. "God, I need a drink."
"Finish your coffee," Sal says sharply, and where someone else may have softened the words or the tone with a smile or reassurance after, she does not.
Kelsey looks back down at the dark liquid like a child receiving the start of a lecture. And expecting worse. She sips obediently.
The silence between them stretches, but the expected lecture never comes. Eventually, Sal says, "Being bored isn't a /crime/, for fuck's sake."
"No, it's not," Kelsey acquiesces grudgingly, accepting the logic in her head if not her heart.
Sal settles back in her seat again, and works her fingers under the hem of her sweater to scratch a stubborn and persistent itch. "Neither is not being compatible for the long haul. Neither is not being built for it, no matter how much you want to be."
"Maybe if--I dinna ken." Kelsey's accent thickens to light dancing on her words. Her fingers tap lightly on the side of her mug. "I felt like I wasna just in charge 24:7."
Sal makes another one of her noises, not-quite-prompt and not-quite-agreement.
Sal makes lots of noises. "There's no point dating someone who just agrees with you all the time," Kelsey says, hooking her foot on the rung of her chair. "Course, as soon as we broke up, he had plenty to yell about."
Sal is good at noises. "Half the life of any relationship is being able to get into it with each other," is not stated as fact, but put out there as opinion -- though it is occasionally hard to tell which is which. "And finding the balance in being able to fight it out an' then work to a point where you're both happy." She pulls her hand out from under her sweater, finally, and splays it out over the broad bump of her midsection. "I'm sure he did."
"And he just--I'm trying to /tell/ him this, aye? That I wanted--/conflict/. And he just equates this with wanting a black eye or something." Kelsey makes a frustrated noise and finishes her coffee.
"Oh, for fuck's /sake/," is Sal's answer to that, coming in on the heels of a sharp-edged snort.
"'s fucking stupid," Kelsey agrees, twisting her empty mug around.
"Come on," is abrupt; as abrupt is Sal's rise to her feet, her lean -- with one hand planted against the table for balance -- to collect Kelsey's empty mug (out of her hands) and bottle, then her straighten as she collects her own. "You'll be wanting to see the nursery, I'm sure."
"Aye," Kelsey says, gathering her spirits to something heading in the vague direction of perkiness. She straightens to her feet and hovers around Sal. "Absolutely."
Like some vast and stately ship, Sal sails into the lead as they head out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "In the morning, I'll introduce you to the horses," she says over her shoulder once they are halfway up; then her breath is saved for the rest of the climb, and the eventual tour of the house proper. (Starting with the nursery at the end of the hall.)
Backdated to Christmas Eve.