A/N: No beta, so all mistakes are my own.

You know you shouldn't be staring, but you are.

Strip clubs have never really been your choice of venue, and yet here you are. The rest of the room is a hazy, testosterone filled blur – your eyes are glued to the stage. A spotlight, a curtain and a blonde on a pole.

You jump awake, your eyes adjust to the light and you're back in the comfort of your bedroom. Dreams have never been your friend, making you relive the very darkest moments of your life over and over, every night, your heart pounding as you wake. As it does tonight, but for an altogether different reason. This wasn't a memory, and for that you're grateful, but the heat of the moment is clouding your brain and making you feel things that aren't real. Although this was preferable to your usual topic, when you lie back down you say a silent prayer for a dreamless sleep.

Work tonight was a bitch.

He ignored you, as usual. You had to work with him and Catherine, and anything he wanted to pass on to you was relayed through her.

Her.

That unfortunate dream wasn't a one-off occurrence. To make matters worse she's switched up the dynamics, instead of spiteful words you get glorious smiles.

Glorious? Really? Those dreams are frying your brain more than you realised.

So tonight, between the sting of his rejection and your embarrassment in her presence, has been unbearable.

You're broken from your reverie by the scent of coffee and hint of vanilla. You fight the desire to blush as blue eyes meet your own.

"You're extra distant tonight. I guessed you were tired, hence the coffee, but thought I'd make sure nothing else was bothering you."

You were hoping for a nasty remark, an argument, you need that familiarity. You also need to respond. She's waiting. Anything will do.

"Is that new perfume you're wearing?"

Anything but that. There's no stopping that blush now so you're staring at the floor, praying she doesn't notice.

Her surprise is evident.

"Well, no perfume for work, but I switched my shampoo. I'm pretty sure that that's not what's bothering you though. You need better diversion tactics Sidle, you suck at small talk."

You're better than she thinks.

He didn't pick you. You know it isn't personal, and yet it is. You've lost any shred of personal or professional approval you had from him, not that there was much in the first place, so why is it so devastating? The post no longer exists. You're being stupid. You know this. And then you kick yourself for being stupid. You're a Harvard graduate, you're a forensic expert, neither of these translates to the pathetic wreck you've become. You know it's stupid to get in the car when you've had so much to drink. You know it's stupid to click on the seatbelt, put the key in the ignition but hey, you're on a roll, why stop now? At least you have the sense to pull over after the blue flashes light up your rearview mirror.

Tonight was the first time in forever he looked at you. Maybe you should drink-drive more often. After endless promises of counselling and sobriety you're alone with your thoughts. He cared tonight, and that made this worth it. That realisation leads to another – you need help.

He still keeps his distance, but he's more present again.

You're healing. You're here. You're no longer drowning in a haze of drink and emotion. He's no longer your anchor and you're removing links from the chain day by day.

She's more present and more frustratingly nice than ever before. You know she's in his confidence, just how much you're uncertain of. Is it pity? Maybe she just likes you.

Your dreams have taken you to more interesting places with her. For a while it was impossible to look her in the eye. Now you embrace them and match her smile with yours, engage in small talk, enjoy the light she brings to a room and the ease of a conversation with her.

You fought with her and now you're suspended. He came, he held your hand, he was there physically, emotionally, and it feels wonderful but all is not well.

You relived it all, spilled your deepest darkest secrets, and he listened, he comforted, he consoled. But it's not enough. Part of you hates her, and part of you hates yourself for how you spoke to her. You want it to just be about the case but you were irrational for other reasons. You're getting what you wanted - you're getting him - and all you can think about is blonde hair, blue eyes and a hint of vanilla.

TBC