Pinning Ellen against a bathroom stall in a stranded airport feels like a small victory. The younger woman cannot look at Patty, cannot fix those troubled eyes to Patty's own, but her mouth still searches for the older woman's. Their kiss is brutal, a clash of teeth and tongues, and Patty delights in the desperation of Ellen's lips. She doubts that Ellen's yearning is entirely fueled by liquid courage; she can see it in every stolen glance, in every hate-skewed gaze, that Ellen still wants her despite everything.
She tastes like whiskey, the spoils of their impromptu crime, and something else. Something like longing not just for Patty's body but for answers, for truth. Patty cannot give Ellen everything that she wants -- there are things she will never give to Ellen -- but she grasps for the hem of Ellen's skirt and pulls it to her waist so that she can ease her palm inside the navy blue scrap of fabric covering Ellen's sex. She can give her this, at least.
Ellen tips her head back against the stall door, biting her lip as if to keep from muttering things she'll regret.
Why do you hurt me?
Why can't I stay away from you?
Why did you try to kill me?
Ellen is too stubborn to ask, and Patty is too stubborn to freely offer any explanation that she doesn't want to give. She will, instead, ghost the tips of her fingers against the protrusion of nerves between Ellen's legs until she is arching her hips for more.
"Goddammit, Patty, just do it."
Patty smirks. Victory is hers.