You didn't sleep well.
You were up half the night pacing around the apartment, trying to avoid stepping on Sergio, who, like all cats, seems to tale great pleasure in winding around his owner's ankles in a dangerous dance that could lead to injury.
You picked up a pack of cigarettes. Something you only do when things have gotten really, really bad. Way beyond the point of no return and somehow one lone cigarette finds its way to the corner of your mouth, where it rests for a while. You don't light up immediately. You let it hang there. You give yourself the opportunity to put it back where it belongs. But you don't. Not this time. Not last night. Not when you just want to feel something filling you up inside.
Because you are so empty.
You're sitting at your desk, doing your best to ignore the pain writhing inside your head, scrambling your thoughts, making them incoherent and rendering your quick wit and intelligence useless. Besides, who are we in the face of such tremendous torture? Who are we mere mortals in the grip of our exquisite, self inflicted agony?
You see her. You see her exit the elevators and wave good morning to a passing colleague. And for a moment, nothing hurts, for she has the sun and the moon and the stars lighting her path inside.
You have never been one to entertain the overzealous, dramatic influence of religion. But when you see her you would be willing to slide to your knees before any god, maybe even the devil himself, and offer yourself to him if only you could have her.
There is a list of problems. Number one; you are a woman. A scarred, imperfect, ever-so-slightly-decision-making-impaired woman, but a woman nonetheless. Number two; she is straight. This might not have stopped you in the past, for don't we all live for challenges? For things we cannot have, but strive for anyway? If it weren't for Number three, Number two might have been a mere obstacle. And a small one at that.
Ah, but Number three is the real kicker. Number three; she is in a relationship with a man. A kind man. A handsome, brave, caring and understanding man who loves her.
Fuck.
She gazes around the room, her smile radiant, easy, natural. And then your eyes meet and you fear you might drop to the floor in a dead faint when she locks those stunning baby blue eyes solely on you. She waves, and somehow, god knows how, you raise a hand and wave back.
You have coffee for her. You watch, amused, engrossed, as she prises open the lid and inhales deeply. It is her favourite. You have had her memorised for so long, you know every favourite, nearly every hope, almost every dream, and many secrets.
Perhaps you know too much.
But that has always been both a curse and a blessing for you. You have always been able to get inside people's heads. It's one of the reasons you're such a damn good profiler. And such a damn good liar.
She asks you questions. You reply.
She makes jokes. You laugh.
And with every word shared, every blissfully unaware smile that graces her perfect lips, you fall just a little more in love with her. You die just a little more inside.
You wonder what it would be like to run your hands through her golden hair. You wonder what her lips would taste like. You wonder if her skin is as soft as it looks. You wonder, you wonder, you wonder...
You wonder a great deal of things. Forbidden thoughts that if ever discovered, would have the power to ruin you. To fracture this team that, despite its faults, and its secrets, and its fallen members, has become a family. Your family.
Maybe the only true family you have ever known.
You could never risk exposure. You could never admit your feelings. Forget the rejection, forget the embarrassment, forget the indescribable pain you would experience... You could simply never put her in that position.
She has suffered. You know this for a fine fact. She hides it well, but her eyes tell a thousand silent stories. She is the one who selects and discards cases. She is the one who effectively 'plays god,' for lack of a better expression. You know that it often starts to eat away at her, and for a while, she is not herself. You see it, even if no-one else does.
You see the pain. You feel her pain as if it were your own to bear.
Suddenly, she is pulling on your arm, mocking the fact you weren't paying any attention to your Boss when he asked for the team to gather at the round table.
You are aware of the poetic integrity of that fond nick name. The knights of the round table are about to do battle once more. You are about to don your sword and shield and walk forth into the fray.
You reflect on what may happen. You wonder if this time, you might not return.
Most of all, you just watch her. You draw comfort from the fact she is there with you. She will accompany you into battle.
And for that, you are thankful. For that, you would fight forever.