So…this idea occurred to me rather randomly, and then was built upon with another crazy idea and a bit of help from "Watching Airplanes" by Gary Allan. It's almost told in reverse, but not entirely, so this is kind of like when they show you what happens and then do the whole "48 hours earlier" kind of thing in a way… Anyways…I think I've done enough confusing you, so I best shut up and get typing the actual story then…

"I'm just sittin' out here watching airplanes take off and fly…"

He sighed softly, eyes to the dark New York sky. Rural New York was quite different from the city, and for that, he was grateful.

Away from the noise, the chaos, the constantly ringing cell phone calling him out to a crime scene.

But there was one number he would miss. The number of Angie Newark. Angelina, actually. He closed his eyes and heard the distant roar of engines as a plane took off to the stars, bound on a journey to somewhere…

He'd almost go anywhere at the moment. It was better than lying at home in bed, alone, wrestling with a deepened and worsened Insomnia that he thought he'd managed to keep locked in the closet for the most part and it was probably better than sitting here on the hood of his Avalanche, which was now a bit dusty from the off-roading journey to the middle of this field.

He didn't even know where exactly he was. He just couldn't get the image of her throwing the pillows at him that one night and him barely dodging the incoming attack out of his mind.

He actually smiled at that. She had been so amazing.

And then finding her in that alley…

And his eyes flew open again, once again open to the soothing scenery around him. The softly glowing stars were clearly visible and not blocked by the harshly bright lights of Manhattan out here, and the wind whispered through the nearby woods at the edge of the field. He could barely make out the road to the west as the night made visibility without headlights, or any type of lights, rather difficult.

He shook his head as the question came to him again. "Why her?" he muttered, looking down at the ground with a slight frown. He bit as his lip in a rough attempt to keep his emotions in check. Damn it, he missed her.

They'd been seeing each other for three months and he'd trusted her like…like he hadn't trusted someone since his last wife, Claire. Claire had always had a special power over his personality. Around Claire he hadn't been such a pain in the ass.

Ok…maybe that wasn't entirely true, but it had been in a different manner. He'd been able to crack a joke or two without a second thought around her.

And Angie had offered him this light, easy relationship just like Claire. She would've never taken Claire's place, and Angie had the wonderful gift of understanding that, but she had done one hell of a job at making him smile.

Another memory made him smile and look up at the landscape around him. This one was of the time when they'd went to the movies together to see some supposedly scary movie together and she'd ended up almost literally on top of him as he kept an arm around her, holding their popcorn with the other hand. He'd had this somewhat silly looking smirk on his face for almost the entire movie.

Guess being a CSI would make some things like that. Some of it had been so fake he found it comical. He thought he even remembered a quip he'd made after the movie, "You can't get any of that by me! Did you see what that killer did? Like, come on! Let's at least attempt some realism, for Pete's sake!"

That had made her laugh. Oh, how he'd miss that.

And he distinctly remembered the look of shock on Don's face when he named her at the crime scene.

"That's…That's Angie," he stumbled with the idea and words at first. There were no words to describe his absolute shock and horror at how the dark red dried blood had stained her somewhat pale skin and the bruising that had cloaked her wrists in a dark purple, almost black, shadow.

He shook his head and watched the headlights of a vehicle cruise down the road off to the west, jolted back to the present one more time.

He believed he'd just missed another call. Most likely from Stella. He didn't exactly care. Right now, the rural setting around him was his coping mechanism. And one of his more famous statements came to mind for him,

"People grieve in different ways."

And the truth of that was so evident to him. He just didn't care now. He couldn't have dealt with hearing the concerned voice of Stella that moment anyways. He'd come out here alone for the very reason he didn't answer the phone calls he'd been getting since four hours earlier:

He had been on the verge of a very real mental break down. The drive had helped him, and sitting on the hood of the truck in the middle of that field did wonders. More than you'd think, actually.

It was amazing what you could accomplish with time on your hands and a mind that needed that time. Time to think. He valued time that let him do that. It helped him solve a lot, and this situation was no exception.

One day he'd have to accept what had happened. This was just the first step towards that recovery. And if anyone knew it was a long road, it was him.

This was not the first time he had to recover after the end of a relationship.

First Claire. Then Peyton. Now Angie. But Peyton almost didn't count. He'd long since forgiven her in one way or another. He liked to think he and Peyton were still friends, but he couldn't be certain with her living back in London and all.

That brought back a memory of racing through the airport to try and catch the flight back to New York. And he'd wished Peyton had been with him. But she had a reason, and he accepted her choice on family. What had he said? She couldn't leave London no more than he could leave New York.

Something along those lines.

Either way. Here he was. Alone again, thoughts on a runaway train with no brakes. It was just one of those things. Time would tell, right? That's how that saying goes, isn't it? That time heals all wounds?

He frowned just slightly. Time didn't really heal all wounds. It healed some, and bandaged others. And there was a few that it just simply helped to heal only a bit. Those wounds never fully healed, but time helped those dealing with those wounds to learn to live with them.

And that was something he was very, very accustomed to.