Desolate
By: Shley; (CSI)
Because that was what you needed, what you were missing; the weight of another person.

AN: And thanks to MaryRose and Lindy for reading this over and telling me what you think.

It isn't like you thought it would be. No grand dramatic gestures. You don't yell. He doesn't turn and walk away; even though you wish he would. It would make things easier. Then you could blame him. He could be the bad guy.

Bad Cop/Careless Cop.

But he was surprisingly understanding. You wonder when that happened. It was never that he was an emotional cripple. No, you knew that he felt. You like to think that he just had a really bad case of being an unkind bastard. Although, you know that's not really true either.

You also know that he was more likely to hide from you than confront you. And most of the time, to be honest, you preferred it that way. You couldn't fuck it up by running your mouth too much and he couldn't stutter his way into a new topic; considering he couldn't find his way out of a paper bag with a map, where you were concerned.

Funny, he didn't really seem to have a hard time finding his way to your bed.

Maybe that's what really surprises you. That you even got to that point at all. Lost causes and all that. But then, you did have the law of averages on your side. Your life had vaguely resembled shit up until that point. You deserved something that bordered on happiness.

But this isn't happiness.

You wish you could say that this isn't like you; that you aren't the emotional type. But that would be a lie. It's just that more often than not your emotional state could accurately be categorized as irate. And half the time he was the one who had you all riled up. Turns out he likes you best that way.

The movies were never dates. Dinner was always just a meal. It didn't really seem to mean anything. But you were long past the point of trying to get him to fall in love with you. Which, you're mildly embarrassed to admit, was the case for half a decade. After standing in front of a box of free kittens for 45 minutes, picturing your apartment invaded by kittens but not a person, you reasoned friends was better than the alternative.

You never were a cat person.

When he kissed you, you feigned surprise. After all, you didn't want it to seem like you had planned that moment. Which you hadn't. God knows you would never have planned your first kiss to coincide with a twin peaks marathon. But for some reason, you now find it oddly fitting.

When he suggested taking it to your bedroom you weren't going to protest. You certainly didn't have any reason to. You were covered three was to Sunday. Well, two ways anyway. Not to mention that he was, surprisingly, an excellent kisser.

You're not sure exactly why it surprised you. Or why you had fantasized about a man who you assumed would only be mediocre at making out. Then again, you never were the type of woman to idealize her men of choice. You weren't naïve; just foolish.

Your first time together wasn't perfect. You didn't cry and he didn't hit all the right spots. There was a little fumbling and for a second you wondered if you shouldn't just quit while you were ahead and go back to the kissing part. You remembered him excelling at that.

So why was sex so damn difficult. You always heard the better the kisser the better the lover. Then again, you read it in an outdated issue of Cosmo while waiting at the dentist. And didn't they also say that all men secretly love anal?

Laughing during the preliminary run, you then found out, didn't help matters any.

He glared and you laughed harder and that's when you realized it wasn't working because you were nervous. You felt 17 again. You always hated that feeling; the uncertainty, the unfamiliarity. The same feeling you get when you smoke too many cigarettes. That your whole body is humming, that you're slightly detached from what's going on around you.

Slowly, the kinks worked themselves out and, while not the best you ever had, it was almost what you wanted. You weren't sure what you had expected to happen. By your very nature, you hadn't anticipated earth shaking, record breaking sex. But still, you felt just the slightest bit of disappointment.

You both went through the perfunctory post coital rituals; the ones that didn't involve intimacy. It was something you had gotten used to. But you were caught off guard when he laid back down next to you. When he rested his limbs over your own, that was when you thought your heart might actually stop beating. Because that was what you needed, what you were missing; the weight of another person.

Even if the sex is never great at least you know that if he only lays on top of you, you will be content.

You realize now, that was the moment when it stopped being movies and meals and sex. And you hate yourself a little because of that. If you had been strong enough to keep your resolve, had only kept some measurable amount of emotional distance… the rest of those thoughts die away because you know that it would have never worked out quite that simply. You would become attached to him no matter what you told yourself to think, to feel, to believe. That's also in your nature.

Looking around your living room, ardently avoiding his gaze, you see the attachment is mutual. He has already begun to invade your life: his shoes by the front door, his favorite scotch in the cabinet, his spare reading glasses on the coffee table. There are journals on the bedside table and his shampoo in the shower. You don't remember when they became fixtures and you absently wonder if you have anything at his apartment.

You know you left your favorite book and your grandmother's travel quilt and you can only hope it's been enough.

When did you become the emotional cripple in this relationship?

He's been standing next to the bathroom door staring at you for what feels like hours and still hasn't spoken a word. It comforted you at first, it was normal. It was what you were expecting. But his eyes softened, and while he was still silent, the gaze was tender; it still unnerves you. You'd feel more at ease if he mumbled a confused reply and left with out a backwards glance.

But as it stands, he's waiting patiently for you. Leave it to him to be patient and understanding when you want him to be unreasonable.

You suddenly remember your mother braiding your hair before school one morning, she called you her little miracle. From the kitchen table you could hear your father say 'accident more like.' Your mother had tugged softly on your braids, 'don't listen to your father, he's being a butt head.' You giggled, and again your mother had called you her little miracle and again your father said 'accident more like.' With a glare, your mother turned her attention to the kitchen, 'You're going to give her a complex, Richard.' Your father had snorted, 'As if she doesn't have one already.'

You take the final drag of your cigarette, blowing a steady stream of smoke through the crack in the window. You grind the butt into the ashtray next to the rest you've smoked. You check the pack; it's empty. You are suddenly irrationally angry. You throw the now crumpled pack at the trash can, missing greatly, and are tempted to throw the ashtray next. But you remember that wasn't your last pack.

You ask him to get you the pack from the freezer. The day he found out that you were the 'occasional' smoker, he told you he pictured you as a Marlboro Menthols smoker and that he was bizarrely pleased that he had been correct. You were also pleased, but you didn't tell him so. Instead you gave him a lopsided grin before lighting up.

He approaches you cautiously, packing the cigarettes as he makes his way across your apartment. He opens the box and you slide one out. You fumble with the lighter briefly before he takes it from you. With a swift fluid movement he brings the flame in front of you and you inhale deeply. Your lips barely make the form of a smile and he rubs a hand over your cheek.

He stands next to you with his hand on the back of your neck and you're unsure what to say or to do so you offer him a drag. Uncharacteristically, he accepts. Off of your disbelieving look, he shrugs. You hang your head; it feels like the weight of the world rolling around on your shoulders. He holds the cigarette out for you but you shake your head.

Your body's humming again.

He takes you by the hand, leading you to your bed room. You sit on the side of the bed next to his prone body. The effort to actually lie down seems too great. Luckily, you don't have to make the decision yourself, as he pulls you down next to him. Draping his body over yours, he presses a soft kiss to your temple. You finally feel something other than anger and you're hesitant to label it 'hollow,' but you can't think of a more accurate term.

"Good thing we didn't tell anyone." You find yourself saying, but you can't muster the energy to be as vehement as you felt the words deserved. You blink sleepily and you briefly wonder if this will be your downfall. His hand presses softly against the flesh of your stomach; you don't cry. Empty, hollow, lacking. They all mean the same thing.

AN2: Yes, I understand the vague-nes factor is at like mach 2000, but I prefer it that way. It would lose it's nuance if i was straight forward with the subject matter.

Thanks for reading!