Title: I Saw Your Light
Author: StarrySkies
Pairing: Lindsay/Hawkes
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters of CSI:NY. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: Maybe there's still hope in this place. Somewhere.
A/N: From the prompt "Lindsay Monroe / Sheldon Hawkes / on the low" found in goddess-loki's "almost totally random pairing generator." Title from Lee Ann Womack.
Work has been brought home. Lindsay's sitting on her bed cross-legged in a spaghetti strap camisole and boy-shorts, going over a file folder. He comes in from the kitchen and sits his water glass atop a coaster on her nightstand. She barely lifts her head when he sits down beside her, the mattress dipping, causing some of her papers to slide away. They both reach out to catch them at the same moment. He interlocks his fingers with hers, and he leans in to kiss her neck slowly, meticulously as only he knows how.
"I'm trying to read," she announces, her voice a slightly higher tone than normal. He can't see the smile on her face, his head buried in the crook of her neck, beneath the dark blonde hair that's fallen from her ponytail. He's concentrating on her earlobe, and if he doesn't quit now, she's never going to finish those forms. She feels his teeth bite down slightly. "Okay, okay, okay!"
Hawkes stops, smiling as he reappears. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."
"Mm-hmm," she teases, loving the smug look on his face. "Sure."
"Can you blame me?"
"When Mac wants this paperwork, and I have to tell him why it isn't finished? Yeah, I'll totally blame you." She places a kiss on his nose and pulls back to fix the elastic band in her hair.
"You're really gonna tell him it was my fault for keeping you up all night?"
"No," she concedes, rolling her eyes. "You know I can't." Lindsay scribbles something with her pen.
"Exactly. So I can do anything I want? And you can't say a word? Oh, this could be good."
Sheldon leans in again, and she bats his shoulder playfully.
"Funny. Just give me a couple minutes. Please?" He forfeits and gives her a nod. She flips a page over and starts filling in blanks and boxes and signing initials.
Instinctively, she holds her folder still when he moves to stand up and wanders across the room to her chair by the window. He divides the curtains and looks out on the city, apartments and offices sporadically darkening one by one within his line of vision, the traffic backing up on the street below her building. He knows she likes to sit here and watch it whenever she can. As if working in the NYC crime lab for almost 9 months hasn't shaken her faith in this city. Still new. Nothing, not even the people closest to them going through the same type of tragedies they work around every day, has taken the sparkle out of her eyes yet. He hopes nothing ever will. But he knows he's being overly optimistic. Knows he ought to know better than to believe that the job won't change her if she plans to stay.
Having seen so much death here extinguished his spark a long time ago. So long, that he can't remember having one to begin with. The noises of the places around him don't really affect him. He'd grown up with the sights and sounds, thinking nothing much at all of passing the Empire State building, of seeing flashing marquees over Broadway. He wishes he had her fresh perspective, the ability to get caught up in everything, the feeling of being given a second chance. It's nice to see her come to life when she discovers something new, something maybe he'd long since forgotten even though it's been accessible to him the whole time. Somehow, she makes it new again for him too.
Maybe there is hope still left in this place, he thinks. Somewhere.
He turns his attention from the window. "How about… you let me cook you breakfast?"
She looks up. "At 10pm?"
"No…" The expression she's making isn't exactly the one he was hoping for, but then again, it isn't entirely unexpected either. "All right," he sighs. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
She tilts her head to the side and tries to smile as best she can. "You know it's not like that."
"Sure." And he knows. Wishing things were different gets him nowhere. Thinking of what it could be like without having to leave an hour or so before dawn, to go back to his apartment alone, get dressed for work alone, and walk into the lab without her. Even if they run into each other in the lobby, which has happened on occasion, he lets her go up the elevator first, hanging back for a few minutes, pretending to talk to the secretary at the front desk, waiting for the panel above the doors to read floor number 16 before he presses the button.
He once asked her if this, this thing, whatever it was, would ever be anything more than a secret. She had gotten real quiet, replied that she didn't know.
He doesn't know either. What he does know is that he likes the fact that there's something he can keep to himself, that they can keep to themselves. It doesn't have to be broadcasted or boasted about. It just… is. And maybe that's what they both need. Something to just be what it is. Not to be overanalyzed like evidence. Not to be interrogated like suspects.
An unquestionable truth.
He hears the folder close, and she tosses it to the floor, her pen landing on top of it and rolling away.
"All right. Come here."
He stands, closes the curtains and walks toward the bed, smiling. She's lying back on the pillow, returning the smile while he rids himself of his shirt and clicks off the lamp. The room is left in almost complete darkness. Still, a little of the outside world is filtering in through the drapes, leaving just enough glow to help him find her.
"Where were we?" He hovers over her, his arms supporting his weight.
"I think," she tilts her head back, "here."
"Oh. Right."
She hooks her fingers in his belt loops and pulls him down so he can continue from where he left off. "It's a good thing I don't live with Uncle Freddy anymore," she says, her heart rate beginning to escalate. "'Cause this would be kinda awkward."
He lifts his head and kisses her lips once before returning to his previous location. "Not to mention, his couch would've been far less accommodating."
"True," she laughs. She traces patterns in his hair with her fingernail, spirals and stars, sending a shiver down his spine. An "Mmm" escapes from his mouth, making her laugh a little, deviously.
"When Mac asks me why I look so tired tomorrow, I'm gonna tell him it's your fault I was up all night," he says.
"Shut up."
End.