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The new house feels so big and empty and echoey, and she knows the solution to that is to actually fucking unpack at least some of this endless ocean of boxes, but she suspects that even when that’s done it’s still going to feel weird and bare in here. It must be five times the size her flat in London was.
So Ruth texts Tosh, invites her round, and maybe Tosh can help her with a box or two and in return she’ll buy them dinner and a bottle of wine. She doesn’t dress up for it - just the jeans and jumper she’s been wearing all day, her hair a mess that she knows she used to care more about, but it was less of a losing battle to keep it straightened when she didn’t have Shetland’s weather against her.
There’s some part of her that’s surprised, still, by how this goes. How she’ll just invite Tosh over after work to help her out, and not really think twice about it.
Ruth doesn’t rely on many people. She learned very early in her life that all she needs for that is herself, and she’s very good at it, thank you very much.
But she texts Tosh, all the same.
Tosh turns up looking a bit harried, explains there’d been some last-minute nonsense with an attempted robbery that makes Ruth grateful not to have been there. She hands Tosh a large glass of dry white, and Tosh leans against the kitchen counter and gulps it gratefully while reeling off all the frustrations of her afternoon.
Ruth laughs and sympathises at the appropriate moments and unboxes some pizzas to chuck in the oven. She loves hearing about Tosh’s day - there’s an enthusiasm for the work, for doing well by people and getting things right, behind even this rant, and it’s incredibly refreshing.
It’s so easy. Tosh standing here in Ruth’s kitchen looking so at home.
And Tosh is beautiful, her fingers fidgeting with her wine glass, and her hair piled high behind her head, wispy strands plucked free by the wind outside, cheeks still stained pink from the cold, and her expression so animatedly indignant as she tells Ruth about the guy she was interviewing who didn’t take her seriously. Ruth can’t look away from her.
Ruth doesn’t know what she’s doing.
She’s not the sort, really, to have called Tosh over here on false pretences. And it’s not, really. She’s not actually stood here with nefarious motives. She didn’t, still doesn’t, intend anything of this evening other than food and boxes and some time in Tosh’s warm company.
But she’s seen how Tosh looks at her. She’d have to be completely oblivious not to by this point, or at the very least an incredibly shit detective. And in no world is Ruth Calder either of those things.
So she’s seen. The little lingering glances. The way Tosh watches Ruth’s mouth, her hands, when she thinks Ruth isn’t looking. The way she blushes and tries to hide it when Ruth is too nice to her.
If Ruth thinks about any of that any longer, there are a lot of things that are going to start to feel like a mistake, so she’s not going to do that. She’s going to take the pizzas out of the oven and have a nice dinner with her friend. She just hadn’t felt like being here on her own tonight, and that’s fine. Not a big deal.
And it’s not. They eat, and talk, and laugh, and Ruth pours them each another glass of wine, until eventually Tosh tilts her head and gives Ruth half a glare.
“Right, I know you don’t want to, but you have got to unpack. It’s been months, Ruth.” She stands up from the table and reaches out a hand to Ruth and Ruth takes it almost without thinking. Tosh’s hands are always warm and incredibly soft.
“Come on,” Tosh continues, tightening her grip and giving Ruth’s hand a tug. “You’re not getting out of it again. You’re going to pick a box, just one box, and you and me are going to unpack it, ok?” Tosh’s tone makes it very clear it’s not actually a question.
Anyone else. Literally anyone else in the world, and Ruth would have dug her heels in, said a polite (ok, maybe a terse) farewell, and sent them on their way.
Anyone else in the world.
Ruth follows Tosh into the sitting room, wine still in hand, and she doesn’t so much pick a box as nod half-heartedly at the one Tosh selects for her.
It’s mostly books, and some knickknacks that Ruth is actually quite pleased to see, though you’d have to hold her at gunpoint again to get her to admit that out loud.
“There,” says Tosh, and squashes the empty box down flat with an air of immense satisfaction. “Might as well do one more, yeah? We’re on a roll!” She sits on the floor in front of a second box, takes another sip of her wine, and gestures for Ruth to join her.
The next box is similar, but the one after that yields a battered photo album covered in band stickers and Tipp-ex scribbles, and Tosh has opened it up before Ruth has the sense to object.
“Look at you!” Tosh leafs through a couple pages of blurry, badly lit photographs of teenage Ruth and her friends, sprawled across chairs at the back of classrooms, hanging out on the beach with cans of cheap beer, laughing and hugging in a pile of limbs on someone’s messy bedroom floor. “Oh, you were adorable!”
“That might be the only time anyone has ever used that word about me.” Ruth laughs, and suspects she should feel more uncomfortable than she does. “I was a wee horror.”
Tosh doesn’t reply, though Ruth catches her shooting her a sideways glance.
“Is that Cal?” Tosh says after a moment, pointing at a photo of Ruth lolling in Cal’s arms, wearing one of his flannel shirts over her own outfit. They must have been in someone’s garden - Ruth doesn’t recognise the exact location but she remembers a hundred moments like it. She nods, absently.
“Sorry,” Tosh starts to say. “We don’t have to…”
“No, no,” Ruth interrupts. “It’s fine. It’s nice, seeing this. I forgot I had it, honestly.” She reaches out and touches the paper gently, with her fingertips.
She feels Tosh lean into her, the solid warmth of her resting gently against her arm. Ruth takes a long, slow breath.
“Wait… wait…” Tosh turns the album sideways and squints at one of the photos, a grin spreading across her face. “What were you doing here??”
“You know, I think we’re done with that,” Ruth snatches the book back from her, snapping it shut so fast she almost catches Tosh’s fingers in it, and then they’re both laughing. Ruth can feel Tosh’s laughter where their arms are still pressed together, her body shaking with it, and it sends a ripple of delight right through her.
It occurs to her how much she wants to kiss Tosh. Right now, in this exact moment.
She won’t. Of course she won’t. But she wants to so badly that she feels almost dizzy with it. Or maybe that’s the wine.
She turns her head to look at Tosh, to be caught in the brilliant light of her smile, and Tosh looks back at her, her eyes as wide and deep as the whole of the sea, and they stay like that, for a moment, absolutely still, and Ruth knows she has to be the first one to look away, but she just can’t do it.
And then Tosh kisses her.
Ruth freezes, just for a split second. Tosh’s lips pressed to hers are warmer and softer than her hands even. Ruth should pull back and she can’t, she can’t, she can’t.
Tosh pulls back, her eyes wider still, not like the sea, like a frightened animal. Fuck.
Tosh covers her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, starts to say, “I’m so…”
Ruth takes Tosh’s hand in hers, takes it away from her lovely mouth. She doesn’t think, she doesn’t decide, she holds onto Tosh’s hand between both of hers and leans in and kisses her.
She feels Tosh’s sharp breath in, feels her tense, and then her mouth relaxes against Ruth’s, her lips part, and she’s kissing Ruth back, and there’s still not a single thought in Ruth’s head, there’s nothing but Tosh, her soft lips and the heat of her mouth, the slide of her tongue against Ruth’s and the gentle nip of her teeth on Ruth’s bottom lip, and Ruth is utterly lost in it, lost in Tosh.
It’s Tosh who pulls back again, in the end, breathing heavily, and her eyes are softer now, less alarmed, though not entirely calm either. “What are we doing?” she asks, her voice unsteady.
Ruth feels like she’s coming back from a thousand miles away, drifting up to the surface of her mind almost involuntarily. She realises she’s still holding onto Tosh’s hand, and she doesn’t want to let it go. “I don’t know,” she says, honestly, and it comes out a little hoarse. She has to ask though she doesn’t want to. “Do you want to stop?”
Tosh’s lips are a little swollen from their kiss, slightly parted, and Ruth can’t stop watching them. Can’t stop the overwhelming feeling of want that’s swept any sense she might have had left clean out of her head.
“No,” Tosh says, shakily. “No… I don’t want to stop.”
Her fingers twitch against Ruth’s palm, and Ruth flinches and lets go of her hand, dropping it like she might have hurt her. Freed from her grasp, Tosh reaches up and cups Ruth’s chin, gently, slowly, like Ruth is the one who might be frightened away. She pulls Ruth’s face towards her own, catching her mouth for another kiss - this one is fleeting, light, but Ruth still feels like it’s knocked all the air out of her, all at once.
“I don’t want to stop,” she says again, low, her voice steadier and clearer, her mouth centimetres from Ruth’s own.
Ruth nods. Ok.
She doesn’t know, this time, if she starts kissing Tosh again or Tosh starts kissing her. She knows it’s good. She knows it’s everything. She’s known Tosh barely five minutes but also forever, and she’s wanted to do this for almost as long, and even before she knew that consciously, she’s just wanted to be near Tosh. To be around her, because it’s Tosh and how could she not.
Tosh’s hand at the nape of her neck, fingers tangling into her hair, and the little fizz of delight it sends right through her. Ruth’s hands finding their way under the hem of Tosh’s jumper, splaying her fingers out across Tosh’s lower back, luxuriating in the expanse of soft, smooth skin there, the warmth and movement of Tosh under her touch.
Ruth wants to pull her closer but they’re side by side and the angle is awkward, and before she knows it she’s up on her knees, facing Tosh, drawing her in, near as she can but it’s not near enough, knees and clothes in the way, the hard wooden floor beneath them, and Ruth has never met a problem she doesn’t immediately try to solve. Clothes first, that’s the easiest part, so Ruth breaks the kiss only long enough to tug Tosh’s jumper and shirt over her head, and even that’s a wrench. Tosh’s bra follows, but Ruth hasn’t had a chance to fully appreciate that when Tosh pulls away, breathing hard.
“Sofa,” Tosh manages, gesturing vaguely at it and at the two of them and at the floor, and she’s clearly been having the same set of thoughts Ruth has. That’s my girl, is not a thought Ruth is going to consider too carefully as it flashes past her brain, and then they’re both scrambling to their feet, and Ruth has a moment to admire Tosh in just her jeans before she can’t help but step forward and kiss her again, along the soft line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth where there are the beginnings of tiny, delicate smile lines.
They’re kissing as they sit, and for a moment they’re still side by side and while the seat is comfier, the angle isn’t any better, but then Tosh collapses backwards into the cushions, her arms around Ruth to pull her down with her, and Ruth can’t help but laugh as she ends up on top of Tosh.
“Very good,” she tells her, and Tosh smiles back up at her, and her expression would be guileless if Ruth didn’t know her so well.
She reaches out and brushes Tosh’s fringe out of her eyes with a sweep of her fingers, and she stills there, one hand resting on Tosh’s cheek, just watching her for a long moment, taking in the sight of her, flushed and disheveled and absolutely stunning, her bare breasts crushed against Ruth’s own clothed chest. She could happily look at Tosh like this forever, literally for the rest of her life.
She does, eventually, manage to gather herself enough to trail a path down Tosh’s neck, over her collarbone, to touch and explore and kiss, soft, full breasts and responsive nipples, Tosh’s breath catching in a gorgeous little moan when Ruth lowers her mouth to them. Her fingers indenting Tosh’s gorgeously curved belly and rounded hips.
She almost wants to stretch this out forever, to lavish attention over Tosh’s body for hours, but Tosh has other ideas, shifting against Ruth with increasingly purpose, her hands buried in Ruth’s hair, clenching with a delicious pull against Ruth’s scalp as Ruth scrapes her teeth over Tosh’s skin.
“Please,” Tosh gasps, pure desperation seeping into her voice and sending a wave of heat searing right through Ruth. “Ruth, please…” Tosh cants her hips, fumbling at the button of her own jeans with one hand until Ruth takes over and tugs jeans and knickers down around Tosh’s knees.
Heat. Fierce heat and wet and the delicious, heady scent of Tosh, and the little grateful, needy whimpers she makes when Ruth’s fingers sink though her soft thatch of damp, dark hair. She’s so, so wet, everything slick and swollen and so far beyond ready for Ruth’s touch.
It’s possible Tosh is perfect, Ruth finds herself thinking, wildly, as she slides one finger into her, then when it goes so easily, she follows it with another. She feels so good around Ruth’s fingers, and it’s genuinely possible that Tosh is the most perfect person Ruth has ever met, and she doesn’t know what to do with that at all.
“Ruth,” Tosh says, barely a word, almost a gasp, and Ruth looks at her, at her face, open and blissful, her eyes half closed, biting her lip. Still watching, Ruth curls her fingers inside her, and Tosh makes a long, low sound, her eyes snapping open wide to lock her gaze on Ruth’s. “There. Ruth.”
That’s not the kind of thing you ignore. Ruth does it again, curling her fingers forward, stroking deep into Tosh, the pad of her hand pressing down onto Tosh’s clit as she works. Tosh shivers and gasps, arching up to push into Ruth’s hand, and Ruth feels completely helpless in the face of it. She doesn’t remember when she last felt like this, last gave this much of a shit about anyone. Not for a very, very long time.
Fuck. This is going to be a problem, and she should have known it. She should have realised before they even started, before it ever got even close, that this, this couldn’t just be easy, couldn't be something she could do lightly and then go back to the way things were.
Ruth isn’t good at this. Not the sex, she’s good at that, and she’s had ample experience and feedback to prove it, thanks. But she ruins things, in the end. She’s too sharp, too abrasive, too closed, too difficult, all the things she’s heard again and again and she can’t do that to Tosh. Brilliant, lovely Tosh, who just needs to trust herself that little bit more and let herself truly soar to all the many heights she’s capable of.
Tosh who is shaking under Ruth’s touch now, a stream of moans and little nonsense sounds bubbling out of her as Ruth fucks her, her eyes closed and her muscles beginning to tense.
Ruth should stop, Ruth should have stopped this long ago, back the very first time she ever noticed Tosh glance at her that way, long, long, long before it ever came to this.
She should have stopped and she didn’t and she couldn’t and she can’t. She’s selfish and she’ll inevitably fuck this up beyond all repair but she couldn’t stop this before and she can’t. She can’t. Fuck, she can’t stop, the rhythmic movement of her hand inside Tosh, against Tosh, all sliding, blazing heat, wetter and wetter and so silky soft around her fingers, pressure building as Tosh clenches tight, and Ruth, watching, touching, forgets how to so much as breathe when Tosh clamps down on her fingers, eyes closing and a high-pitched cry escaping her as her orgasm rolls through her.
As it subsides, as Tosh’s body relaxes, strands of tension dissipating like mist, Ruth can feel all the little flutters of aftershocks around her fingers. She waits until they fade, and slips her fingers out, more than a bit reluctantly, before collapsing against Tosh. She feels almost as overwhelmed as if she’d come herself, but for the sticky, nagging heat between her own legs. Ruth wants.
She listens to Tosh’s breathing for a moment, hearing it begin to even out, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the sheen of sweat, one of Tosh’s hands idly twisting a strand of Ruth’s hair. It’s wonderful. Seductive. And she steels herself against it.
“I’m sorry,” she says, before she loses any remaining will to. “I don’t… we shouldn’t… no, I mean, I shouldn’t…” Her words are coming out all wrong and the urge is rising to cut and run. “I’m not good at this… stuff.”
There’s a moment’s silence, where she doesn’t dare to look up. She feels exposed, laid barer than if she was the one naked here.
Then there’s a snort. “You’re so stupid,” Tosh says, her hand not leaving off its movement in Ruth’s hair. There’s no hesitation in her tone - she sounds absolutely sure of herself. ”Do you know that? For someone so clever, you’re so, so stupid sometimes.”
Ruth can’t speak. She can’t get her voice out past the roar of her own pulse in her ears.
It’s all right though, Tosh has a lot to say to fill the silence, especially for someone who was insensible with pleasure not two minutes ago. “I know you, Ruth Calder. You think I don’t know what you’re like? You think I don’t know what you’re thinking, right? You think you know better than me, about this?“
Tosh sits up a bit, and looks straight at Ruth, and part of Ruth still wants to look away still but the intensity of Tosh’s gaze holds her like a vice.
“I’m a grown woman, Ruth. You don’t know the half of me yet. And I see you, and I want… you. I want this, whatever this is. Don’t you dare try to protect me, not from you.” Whatever anger was in Tosh’s voice fades and cracks open into something that sounds almost like a sob. “Don’t you dare.”
Ruth can’t bear it. She’s too far gone and there’s nothing else left in her, nothing to fight this, nothing that wants to.
“Trust me,” Tosh says, so very softly. “Trust me like I trust you.”
Tosh has good instincts. It was one of the first things Ruth noticed about her. She’s told Tosh to trust those instincts a dozen times if she has once.
“So,” Tosh says, and when Ruth looks at her her eyes are wide again, and deep enough to drown in. “Starting from where we were: That was great.” The corners of her mouth quirk upwards into something hopeful and lovely and just the right side of salacious. ”Let me return the favour?”
Ruth looks at Tosh, and sees a hundred thousand branching possibilities, all spiralling off from this single moment. The ones where she fucks all of this up and loses more than she knew she had, where she’s the one who ends up hurt, not Tosh at all, and also the ones where she somehow doesn’t do that. Where Tosh stands in her kitchen like she’s at home there and this is easy.
She takes a long, steadying breath, and says yes.