Title: Nonchalance
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Rating: PG-13... hey! It's still fun for all!
Category: Angst/romance.
Disclaimer: This is one of those things I get annoyed of. Has anyone really been sued for this:resigns: OKAY:bows down to Zuiker and the CBS gods: Happy fuckers?
Notes: BNLXPhile12: Should Sara die...? DSUOphelia5: WHAT? DSUOphelia5: um, NO...
Yeah... that's all. Oh! And inspiration for this piece comes from Cold Play's 'The Scientist.' Fabby song. -D
Summary: He'd listened to her words, reminding himself that they were strictly mentor and student, that he wasn't thrown by the enthusiasm in her voice, by the actions that her hands would perform as she spoke.
-Nonchalance-
Truly, so very many unanswered why's. So many questions left unposed.
He sat on the dull leather reminiscing about the most awakening moments of his life.
Yes, he had met her and thought nothing of her, save for the fact that he couldn't recall when a person in his presence had smiled like that, quite like she had. When they had hung on his every word like she had. And he paid special attention to the way her brow scrunched when he posed a particularly difficult question. The way her eyes sparkled when her hand would shoot up and she would get the answer correct.
He deviated from thinking of her as a student, as a student at least fifteen years his younger. He began to think of her as a scientist, and almost resisted taking her under his wing. He almost resisted beginning the most intensive three weeks of his life.
Soon after the third meeting, a post-seminar question had prompted him to ask her for coffee. It was a cliché of a question but she had agreed, clutching her books to her chest, a blush creeping up onto her cheeks. He could only ponder as to what the rise in color meant. He could only hope. He found his heart freshening and blooming once more, waking up from a sleep-worthy spell it had been under. He felt as he did when he was in college, when he had been in high school... when he had been. He felt alive, but not, because he had been alive the entire time.
He had felt aware.
He was stunned when she ordered a mocha latte, somewhat selfishly thinking to himself that he had deciphered her so quickly. No, Sara Sidle was an enigma, but not because she wanted to be; because she was.
Three coffees in he had remembered to offer her the sugar that was hiding behind her bag. But she had responded with a slight smile that 'it was a bit late for that.' And she had finished her beverage while discussing latent prints. True, he berated himself for being so, but he was captivated by the way in which she held herself, how she was so confident and yet innocent. Unlike any woman he had met, even if she was teetering on the precipice of being called a woman. She seemed so very young to him, so delicate.
She had so much to learn. He almost had the nerve to think that he would be the one to teach her.
They had parted that night and although he wasn't plagued with thoughts of her that kept him from slumber, he was plagued with thoughts of her. He was reluctant to think anything of them, and even berated himself for thinking about her in any manner. It was quite likely that she was taken, what would make him think that she wasn't?
A fine specimen like her would be snatched up in an instant. And there he was again, back to the point where he was the scientist, regarding every being as a specimen, holding some key piece of evidence that would help him to unlock something. That would help him...
They had sat in the coffee shop until the perturbed staff had told them they were closing. They walked along the streets of Cambridge, coffee cups in hand, discussing random facts. Physics. History. Poetry.
They'd ended up on Storrow Drive, wondering just how they had got there. And they laughed as they walked along the Charles, neither really caring to speculate on how they had come to allow so much time to pass without acknowledging it.
The loss of time scared him and he steered them back in the direction that they had come.
The next few nights had been quite the same, except they had walked out to the river on purpose. At times they would sit on a bench, allowing the cups they held to warm their palms. Other times, they'd walk across the bridge and observe the BU students as they buzzed around, much like their peers did on the other side of the water.
Once, they found themselves at the Hatch Shell, speaking of fireworks and independence and more than once, swans. They joked about Duck Tours and joggers, and the bands that would occupy the stage some nights.
He'd listened to her words, reminding himself that they were strictly mentor and student, that he wasn't thrown by the enthusiasm in her voice, by the actions that her hands would perform as she spoke.
Often times, when he'd find himself lost, he'd pull the collar of his coat around his neck, protecting himself from what he pretended what the late autumn breeze.
When the city frosted over, he had accidentally allowed his hand to fall to small of her back as he guided her over a patch of black ice. Reluctant to pull his hand away, he'd let it settle there. Her eyes had turned upward and met his, indecision on her face. But it melted away when he smiled nervously at her. And for a moment he thought he was taking advantage of her, that she was scared, but she moved to remove his hand from her back and link his arm with hers. She flawlessly continued the conversation, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. If she had listened she would have known that his heart was beating a mile a minute.
A Friday night had presented them with the opportunity of staying out later. They'd jumped on the Red Line and taken it to Downtown Crossing. She'd laughed when he said that he'd never been to Fanueil Hall. She'd taken him past the Suffolk Law School, across City Hall Plaza, and introduced him into the colonial setting of Fanueil Hall and it's shops. The cobblestones proved difficult under her heels but he helped her navigate.
They'd eaten clam chowder and talked about Christmas and why they both hated shopping for gifts. She'd wanted to take his hand, he'd felt it brush against his and then pull away. He had wanted to take hers too but was afraid that something in him would be unleashed so they settled for sitting on a bench outside of Quincy Market and talking, bodies closer then they really had to be.
They'd ended up taking the last train back to Harvard and walking to her apartment. He found himself excited at the prospect of finding where she lived but rebuked himself for the indulgence.
Halfway there it had begun snowing, the scent of burning wood infiltrating his nostrils. The scent reminded of him of so many past memories; he was sure that in the future, the scent would remind him of her. Of the moment. It would remind him of the east coast, of New England, and of the woman who had innocently dared to pull on his heart strings.
When they had reached her door she had shyly said goodnight and bent to retrieve her keys from her schoolbag. He's acted on complete impulse-snow in his eyes and in his hair. He'd grabbed her hand and stared into her eyes.
His lips had descended on hers and she had been surprised but responsive. They had stood there, in the snow, for a time, just kissing. And when he had opened his eyes, he also opened his mouth, telling her that the winter term ended in two days and that he was headed home, back to the west coast.
She had feigned nonchalance, but the pain and loss stung in her eyes as she inserted the key into the lock. He'd reached out and slipped a piece of paper into her pocket: Gil Grissom-Las Vegas Crime Lab. It held all of his information, including his email address.
She didn't find it until days later, when she had actually decided to leave her apartment and face civilization. When she stepped over the threshold of her apartment, all she could smell was burning wood and Christmas.
-
No one had a fireplace in Vegas. He wished he had one, so that he could feel warmth, smell the fire, as the cold was seeping into his bones, making him feel alone.
-EnD-