A/N: I don't know where this came from. The title, however, is a line from Hedda Gabler.
Life is already impossible without him and it's only been a month. Spending the day at the 2-7, interviewing a suspect in Lennie's case, she keeps expecting to see him walk around the corner, shooting her a crooked grin that holds promise for later. But that doesn't happen. She spends three hours interviewing the suspect, gives her report to Lennie and Anita, and leaves.
She is exhausted. She doesn't sleep well anymore, not when every night is plagued with dreams, the nightmares of the first few weeks without him giving way to erotic ones that wake her up and leave her gasping. It breaks her heart when she wakes up alone, but more than that, the tension has built to unbearable levels. The early summer heat only adds to her discomfort. When she unlocks her door and steps into her apartment, alone again, she knows she has to do something about it. The problem is, without him, she's not sure she can.
She takes off her shoes, leaves her purse on the bench in the hall, and heads for the kitchen. There's a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge; she takes a wine glass from an upper cabinet and pours herself a healthy measure. She needs the alcohol, needs something to help her relax. Wine in her hand, she makes her way to her bedroom.
His shirts, the three worn tshirts he left behind, have lost his scent. She's taken one to bed with her every night since he left, and perhaps if she hadn't they'd still smell like him. She's put away the framed photographs of him, of them, unable to look at times when they've been happy. She's taken the tape out of the answering machine with the messages he left prior to their last day. She wants to keep his voice, his voice when he loved her, preserved.
He's kept many things that were theirs, just as she has. A few clothes she'd left at his apartment-a sweater, a pair of jeans, underwear-and photographs, and… and the tape they'd made last summer. She blushes at the thought of it and wonders if he's watched it since it ended.
Thinking of the tape reminds her of her… dilemma, a warmth spreading low as she remembers making it, remembers his touch… she takes a large sip of wine in an attempt to cool off, although she knows she's just postponing the inevitable.
The thought of that tape reminds her of another one, one she hadn't thought of in months-something he'd recorded for her when she was at a conference in Atlanta last summer.
'For those lonely nights,' he told her with a wink, and she'd blushed when she pressed "play" on the tape recorder that first night without him. She'd only listened for maybe thirty seconds before calling him, but those thirty seconds…
The tape is in her nightstand drawer, she thinks, and she dumps out the contents, suddenly frantic, before finding it. It's a small tape and she finds the small tape recorder that goes with it, and suddenly all she wants is to press play and hear his voice.
But no, not yet.
She forces herself to take a shower, washing off the grime of the day, before checking her messages, responding to phone calls, and finishing up her written report from today's interview. She finishes her glass of wine, makes a light dinner of a salad, cheese, and crackers, and finally, finally, retires to her room.
The tape recorder is sitting on her nightstand, waiting for her.
She didn't get dressed after her shower, just slipped into a robe, remembering the beginning of the tape, and she feels herself blush as she draws the curtains before settling herself on the bed.
God, what is she doing? Is she really that desperate for him? Yes, she answers herself. She is. Oh, God, she is. She takes a deep breath before pressing play.
'I miss you, Lizzie,' he tells her from the tape recorder. 'Christ, I miss you.' She closes her eyes. It's almost as if he's right there with her.
'I'm assumin' you had a long day and just took a nice hot shower to relax,' he continues, his voice deepening. 'And you're missin' me. So you imagine me standin' in front of you, lookin' down at you, smilin'.'
She imagines him as he tells her to, his expression warm and intent, his lips curving into a grin. Her heart beats faster.
'And you're smilin' back up at me, with that playful little grin you get when you want to try somethin' new, and you push yourself up in bed, leaning back against the pillows.'
She does so, making sure the pillows are firm behind her, and closes her eyes again.
'You're only wearin' a robe, nothin' else, because it's summer and it's hot, especially down south, and you've just about had it with clothes. So you start to tease me, loosening the belt of your robe, pullin' down the neckline and runnin' your fingertips along your collarbone.'
The temperature of her skin rises several degrees at her deliberately light touch, nerve endings tingling as she traces her collarbone.
'And then they go lower,' he tells her, and she slips her hand lower, lower, feeling her nipples tighten under her caresses. Warmth turns to heat and her breathing quickens.
'You look up at me and grin, and you can tell I want to see more, so you loosen the belt of your robe further, then shrug out of it, tossin' it on the floor.'
Her hands are trembling as she somehow manages to get out of her robe. This is where she stopped last time; desperate for him, she called him and they'd…
'And you want me to watch, meeting my eyes as you trail your hand down your body, down your stomach, lower, lower…'
She gasps, hips rising involuntarily from the bed, as she obeys his command.
'You love to do this. You love to watch me watch you-'
She can't restrain a moan as she remembers the times that they've done this, that he's watched her, and how he looks now in her imagination, eyes dark, barely restraining himself from replacing her hands with his…
'Oh, Christ, Lizzie,' his voice says, rough now with arousal. Her hand moves faster as he continues, 'oh, Christ, you're so beautiful like this, the way you let yourself go-'
She moans again, back arching, her stomach clenching with tension that has to be relieved-
'And the way you look-you're close, so close, but you can't come yet, not until I say you can. But you're desperate, you're begging me to let you come-'
'Please,' she whimpers to no one.
'-but I don't want you to, not yet, not when you look so beautiful like this-'
She gasps, picturing him, imagining him watching her, smiling at her, loving her-
'-but you can't take it any more, you can't wait, you beg me-'
-so close, so close-
'And finally I say yes, come, Lizzie, come for me-'
She cries out, suddenly insensible to everything but the waves of pleasure filling her and the sound of his voice in the background. It goes on and on and she's sobbing, half in relief and half in sorrow, aware only of the pleasure she feels and the loss and still, always, the sound of his voice.
She slowly comes back to herself, still hearing his voice still but unable to follow the words. Finally she hears, 'I miss you already, y'know. Come home soon.'
And then, a long minute later, 'I love you, Lizzie. I love you so much.'
Her cheeks are damp with tears as she finally opens her eyes and stares up at the ceiling, alone.