Work Text:
When Jenny returns from work Katrina is doing it again, circling the room, trailing light fingers along the walls with a faraway look in her eyes. She is somewhere, sometime else and it takes her a few moments and the click of the door to notice Jenny’s arrival. She has just finished toeing off her shoes when Katrina’s gaze meets hers.
A flicker of some darkness Jenny can’t quite name passes over Katrina’s eyes before the woman’s face brightens and she rushes across the room faster than it seems that her long skirts should allow. She clasps Jenny’s hands, not quite managing to envelop them. People tend to look at Jenny like she's a loaded gun and God knows she’s used that to her advantage, but this is nice. Nice to have someone be glad to see her with no ulterior reasoning.
“Oh, I am thankful your safe return, Ms. Jenny. The hour grew late and I feared the worst!” Katrina releases her hands only to embrace her firmly, arms thrown around Jenny’s shoulders. Jenny tenses then tentatively returns the embrace.
She wasn’t sure if Katrina had been like this before, this prone to bursts of affection. Still, with all the shit that is going down, it is the last thing she was going to complain about. Besides, how could she bring that up? Awkward didn’t begin to describe asking Crane if his wife had always been a hugger.
Katrina has cooked for her, again, and she hustles Jenny to the table, pausing to hang up the jacket from where Jenny had haphazardly stuck it on a hook. If Jenny’s honest with herself, she can admit that this still makes her little uncomfortable, being picked up after and cooked for. She’s tried explaining to Katrina about womanhood in the 21st century, that she doesn’t owe Jenny a damn thing. Katrina insists there’s no shame in doing something she enjoys and is skilled at, that she’d go stir crazy if she had nothing else to do. Jenny supposes the library and her cramped apartment don't offer much in the way of excitement to a woman used to serving near a battlefield.
When Jenny sits down, she’s glad she’s given up arguing. The table is set and in the center is some sort of savory pie. The scent of it is reminding Jenny that she hasn’t had anything to eat since she grabbed a banana on her way out the door. Katrina serves both of them before she sits and looks at Jenny expectantly. Katrina likes to listen to her talk about her day, as boring as it is. Jenny think she’s just glad of hearing another coherent human voice and launches into a slightly embellished story about the racist jackass she had to kick out of the bar today. She tells a few other, less infuriating stories about the time she spent treking the globe, leaving out some of the more unsavory aspects. Before she knows it she’s finished eating and Katrina’s gathering both their plates.
Jenny heads to the sink and dries while Katrina washes with efficient, practiced movements. Jenny can easily imagine those hands stitching up a wounded man, administering soft caring touches. She can imagine those hands upon her, tentative on the skin of her neck.
“I am sorry for that man’s vulgar comments. No one deserves such, especially not one as honorable as you.” It’s then that Jenny realizes that the soft hand isn’t part of her imaginings. The sink has been off for some time and she’s not quite sure how long she’s been drying the same plate.
She shrugs and Katrina removes her hand. She can still feel the heat of it on her neck as she sets down the plate and towel with undue care. Jenny turns and Katrina brushes a tendril of hair off her face. The gesture unsettles Jenny more than something so innocent should. Jenny knows she is touching upon delicate things here and it feels as if everything could break if she takes the wrong step.
Katrina looks so earnest and anything but otherworldly in that moment, her brow slightly sweaty from the heat of the water, her eyes fixed on Jenny with a singular focus. In that moment there is nothing more natural in the world than kissing her. Jenny may not be meant to save the world like Abbie, but it feels like this was predestined.
She’s rougher than she means to be, Katrina’s back hitting the counter with a harshness she didn’t intend. If Jenny has learned anything it's that good things are fleeting and Katrina’s a very, very good thing. Her mouth opens so sweetly for Jenny’s tongue, her thighs soon mirroring when Jenny presses a firm thigh between them. Katrina moans and Jenny feels her own cunt clench before she breaks the kiss, breathless.
Katrina’s flushed, breathing harder than when they had to out run a hell hound and it takes every ounce of Jenny’s hard honed self-control to step back from her, to restrain herself from devouring Katrina completely. Jenny breaks what she touches and while she knows, hell she's seen, that Katrina's stronger than she may appear, this is the last thing she wants to break.
“I’m not fucking you in my kitchen while I smell like stale beer and sweat.” Jenny says in answer to the question so far unasked. Jenny smiles at her, a real smile, not the one she uses to disarm or mock. Katrina returns it hesitantly.
“I think I can do a little better than that.” Jenny yawns. “Preferably when I’m feeling less dead.” She freezes. Shit, was that an insensitive thing to say? Katrina laughs at her stricken look. Jenny’s guessing if it was offensive it was pretty low on the scale. Katrina brushes her fingers across her kiss bruised lips and then walks purposefully to Jenny’s bedroom, where she keeps most of her clothing.
Unlike most nights, by the time Jenny’s finished in the bathroom, Katrina hasn’t left to make her bed on the couch. Instead, she is sat crosslegged on Jenny’s bed, fingers working her hair into one long braid. She finishes it with a ribbon and Jenny debates informing her of the merits of elastic bands.
In the ivory shift she insists on sleeping in even after acquiescing to some slightly more modern clothing, Katrina looks a little bit like the women on the covers of the romance novels Jenny most definitely did not read in middle school. This is better though, because right now Jenny is not mildly frustrated by never seeing herself on those covers. She’s coping with a different frustration, one she’s far too tired to deal with properly.
“I would sleep here, if it would not be an imposition.” Katrina ventures.
Jenny flops gracelessly on the bed, pulling Katrina to her. She buries her face in the curve of Katrina’s neck, muttering against her skin, “Baby, you can impose all you like.”
“Then I will stay.” Jenny can feel Katrina smile against her hair.
Jenny wakes silently from a nightmare of gouged flesh, bloodied red hair and lost children. She reaches out to touch her gun, willing her heart to stop its frantic pounding. Her dreams are a mixture of the worst events of her life blended seamlessly with things that have never happened. Lately they feature Katrina far too often for comfort.
The nightmares are nothing new, but what is new is Katrina lightly stroking the tense curve of her shoulder while she hums some likely long dead tune. Some of her tension eases, although Jenny's never entirely unguarded.
This is new and this is good and Jenny knows, as she presses a kiss to Katrina’s palm, that she’d take on Hell itself to keep it.