Disclaimer; I don't own a thing, unfortunately. CSI Miami and the characters therein are the property of their respective people.
Ghost Of You
It's funny, Speed muses. Some say that the dead don't care for the living. That they don't care for love... or for vengeance. Some say that such things are matters of those that are alive, those that are left behind to deal with the aftermath. At this, Speed finds himself disagreeing.
His incorporeal body feels nothing, not the gentle hush of the wind, or the warmth emanating from the sleeping form resting in bed, burrowed beneath the duvet on which Tim is sitting on. Or, at least attempting to. He's used to such insensitivity, for he has no body to speak of, and it's almost a punishment of a sort, for not moving on when he had the chance to. Instead, he lingers, watching over those that he loves.
Talking of loved ones...
His lover -- or former lover, as the case may be, as Tim's death now separates them –- frowns in his sleep, as if some part of him senses that something isn't quite right. He finds the sight of it heart wrenching. Once, when he was alive, he would silently wrap his arms around that lithe body to offer comfort, for words were never his forte and still aren't. But, that's all his lover would need.
That's all he wants to do right now. He wants to hold Ryan's body close, eradicate the sketchy lines of agony that still line his face, even though they are currently lessened by sleep. He wants to press his lips to Ryan's temples, wants to smell that scent of the sun and the sea. He wants to hold him. Love him.
He never did get the chance to tell him that.
But he does remember the first words he ever said to Ryan Wolfe.
***
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't compromise the crime scene." Such snappiness is worthy of the 'gator that had made lunch out of their vic, and Speed is decidedly agitated by the press' lack of remorse for the girls fate. Some part of him might feel bad if it wasn't for this, and the gut-wrenching smell or the corpse. But right now, he isn't too bothered by niceties.
The officer on the receiving end of his anger, however, looks decidedly unabashed, blinking once, and then twice, before an attractive flush comes to his cheeks. He has the good grace to duck his head and murmur an apology, resigned, before retreating a good few metres past the yellow tape.
Speed watches him leave, huffs, and returns to his work.
***
But then, death has a way of changing people. Sometimes for the better.
Sometimes for worse.
***
First dates are always awkward, but this... this just takes the cake. Ryan stares at the bunch of flowers –- can he actually be sure that they're flowers? –- before glancing back up at the rather gruff male that had practically shoved them into his face. Not that he's complaining, it's the thought that counts, after all, and Tim Speedle, though rough around the edges, is certainly thoughtful.
Though how the hell this came about, he'll never really know.
Two weeks after their first meeting, at a crime scene where Ryan had the unfortunate job of keeping the press at bay, he'd received an unlikely apology... if you can even call it that. And he'd found himself accepting the suggestion of dinner.
"So... you like them, right?"
Ryan's lips twitch into a half smirk, amused. "Yeah... I like them."
***
In sleep, Ryan turns as if seeking out the warmth of a body. His nimble fingers quest, coming to rest on the downy pillow beside his head... and coincidentally passing through the ghostly flesh of his watcher.
Speed... feels warm.
It's a sensation he's not used to, and if his heart still beat in his chest, it would've swelled to bursting.
"Ryan..." His voice, merely a soft exhalation, stirs Ryan's sleep momentarily, those eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, crease forming on the brow. A touch to his cheek soothes it, much to Speed's pleasure. The kiss that he presses to his lover's lips is unlikely to be felt, barely even there. It is as cool and gentle as rainfall... or so it would feel to Ryan.
The swell of regret isn't surprising, however.
***
The apartment is empty, though Ryan expected otherwise. He'd hoped that his lover would be home before him, to wrap him up in his arms and kiss him after a shitty day at work. Figures. He's barely two feet inside the door when the phone rings, its shrill cry almost like a bad omen.
The person on the other end –- Speed's mother –- is the bearer of bad news.
At first, Ryan doesn't think it's true.
In shock, he gives his apologies. He hangs up the phone. He changes into something more comfortable than his uniform. And he does this, with the shock heavy on his shoulders, with the numbness heavy in his gut.
It's only that night, when he is curled up in their bed, does Ryan finally allow himself to cry.
And he doesn't stop til dawn.
***
Speed... has few regrets. One is that he never cleaned his gun, even at the insistence of his OCD boyfriend. One is that he'll never get to feel the Miami sun on his face. Another is that he'll never kiss Ryan's lips, never hold him close.
But most of all, Speed regrets not telling Ryan how much he loves him.