"Sheer pantyhose? Hold ups? Knee socks?"
Natasha's eyes are glazed, "I mean, they all sound great..." Sawyer smirks and stuffs a handful of various options in her bag.
Lastly, she fishes out the 'Sawyer' necklace that Kimberly made her at college. It's a pink, plastic monstrosity in a Martinez copyright breaching font. Sawyer tries to wear it as often as she can.
"Are you drinking tonight?" Sawyer asks. She asks Natasha this every time they go for a meal or a drink. The answer is the same.
"No, not tonight." Natasha is exploring Sawyer's well organized desk. There's lots of reasons why people choose not to drink, and Sawyer doesn't want to speculate on Natasha's.
"God," sighs Sawyer. "I was desperate for you last time. When you pulled my hair under the streetlamp, I was fucking throbbing."
"You clearly said you weren't up for it! You were all like 'oh, I'm on my period!'" Natasha imitates her voice, screws up her nose.
"I wasn't really on my period, and it wouldn't really put me off if I was. Surely you knew I was joking? I told you the truth when we were walking back to yours; I didn't want my perception to be distorted by the drink. But with the benefit of hindsight, I think I should have just asked you to take me home and take advantage of me."
Natasha shakes her head at her. "Oh, mama, no..."
Sawyer laughs, "You know you'd love me sloppy drunk and under your control,"
Natasha freezes, and Sawyer swears that she sees her nostrils twitch. Bingo, she thinks.
They head over to Natasha's place to get ready so they can walk to the club. Sawyer likes holding on to Natasha's muscular bicep with both of her hands like she's a sailor holding the mast of a ship. She squeezes it as they walk, curls her whole body into Natasha's smaller one. After being cooped up all day, Natasha is bounding along the street like a dog, pointing at street signs and graffiti and honking with laughter. Sawyer likes walking alongside Natasha, she likes her big scuffed boots and her big red lips. In the fading light of the day their shadows are tall and long, topped with big bouncy curls.
They make their way down the steps to the subway. As they get on the carriage she stops holding on to Natasha, winks at her. The carriage is packed, it's rush hour and commuters are engrossed in their newspapers or some sort of gadget. Already, the middle of the carriage is full of people holding on to the straps above their heads, managing to hold their phones with the other hand. Natasha and Sawyer are stuck by the door. Sawyer is stood next to a group of men in suits, all talking about some 'case' and running their eyes over her, conspicuously mentioning large sums of money. Natasha is pressed up against a man that looks like he smells of piss. The windows are so scratched up you can barely see out of them.
Sawyer steps into Natasha's personal space but doesn't make eye contact. She stares in the space beside Natasha's head. "Sorry," she mutters. She risks a glance at Natasha's face in the reflection of the window. Natasha gives Sawyer a long, slow look with her lashes fanned on her cheeks and her teeth bared. Sawyer takes another half step into Natasha's personal space. Sawyer's breath on her cheek makes Natasha shiver. She lets the movement of the train sway her. She's close enough that her breasts are bumping against Natasha's with the rocking movement of the train. They're big and heavy and she knows they make Natasha crazy. It's not just the train rocking her, she's leaning a little of her weight into Natasha too. Sawyer knocks their knees together, slides her thigh in between Natasha's legs. Sawyer fixes her eyes on the metal pole behind Natasha and they continue like that for the seven stops, until it's time to change at Huntington Avenue. By the time they get off the subway together, Sawyer can feel Natasha practically vibrating next to her.
When they get to JP it's dark, and Centre Street is just starting to get that weekend buzz. They stop at a 7-Eleven and buy a bottle of wine for Sawyer and some pop for Natasha, before making their way to Natasha's apartment.
Ever since she was a little girl, Sawyer has loved getting ready around other women. In High School she remembers the squabbles about who chose the music, and drinking vodka mixed with juice and water in big ugly glasses. They shared mascara because they didn't know any better and used that thick, matte foundation in the glass jars. In college she had loved getting ready with Kimberly and Mikaela, taking hours to get their make-up perfect and gossiping about which of the acting students were banging each other.
The light in Natasha's apartment is poor, but a little better in the bedroom. They sit cross-legged on Natasha's bed with all their make-up pooled between them. Sawyer has all her brushes in a pink roll up pouch, whereas all Natasha's eyeshadows have dirty fingerprints pressed into them. Sawyer brought her Bluetooth speaker in her bag and she's seeing how long she can get away with the West Side Story soundtrack.
"It's funny that we're going back to where we first met. Well not where we first met, but when I first met you when you weren't working," Sawyer says as she blends her contoured cheek in towards her mouth.
"I was so miserable that night, and so pleased to see you," Sawyer tries to speak without looking at Natasha. Her cheek
