A/N: For some strange reason, what started as a one-shot ended up in a two-parter (anyone out there really surprised?). And it seems that I've spoiled my kind readers into assuming that if the title includes a number, that's the number of chapters the story is going to be! Oh well…
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She had been avoiding him and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. She could find a million reasons to justify what she was doing and he couldn't find but one to stop his actions. Her days were filled with million strategies to anticipate his every move, his every answer, his every thought. His nights were filled with million images derived from the few precious memories of the past weekend, of her taste, of her voice… she wanted nothing more than to put that incident in the past and continue as if nothing had happened; all he wanted was for it to happen again.
What she had had weeks, months, even years to assimilate and accept, he had done in merely days. She wondered how he could be so dense and clueless; he wondered how he could have been such a fool. She congratulated her self for having such self-control, for being able to keep her feelings so guarded, for having been able to keep the charade going on for so long. He scolded himself for being so blind, for allowing fantasy to take over reality, for not listening to the quiet voice in the back of his head.
Just friends, they had told themselves, and they both had believed the lie; for him it was easier to remain oblivious, for her it was less painful to ignore the obvious. Just friends had worked so fine so far.
When reality finally caught up with them, neither one was fully prepared for it. Multiple homicides called for multiple detectives and when each one reached the scene of the crime and realized the other one was there it had been too late to do anything about it. To those around them, nothing was out of the ordinary, the rapport between the dark haired duo still intact, the years of working together instantly settling into the ease of knowing what was expected of the other.
Deep inside, however, things were quite different. She was extremely aware of his every move, he was fully attentive to her every word. Both playing a game of hide and seek: look while the other is distracted; look away when the other turned their way. She tried not to squirm under his piercing blue gaze; he tried not to tremble when her hand touched his arm. She did everything in her power not too look for too long into his eyes, for she knew she'd end up doing the unthinkable: confessing her feelings for him. He tried his best not to stare at her mouth, for he knew he'd end up doing the inadequate: giving into the temptation of kissing her once more.
She had to know, he had to make sure. But taking the first step would require more than any of them was willing to admit, and fear paralyzed their actions, but not their thoughts. Denial was the easiest way out and they both took that road: she started believing that her secret was safe and that he was none the wiser; he started to believe that his gut had been wrong, that it had been his imagination and that she didn't have feelings for him other than the long-time friend and coworker.
Denial may seem like a peaceful river to navigate, but its depth is unknown and the undercurrents could lead them to places they'd both rather not go. How could she explain the tremor that ran down her back when he looked at her a certain way, his eyes questioning her motives, digging deep into her very soul? How could he explain the simmering in his temper when she laughed at the joke of another man, when a witness flirted with her, when she smiled for no apparent reason? How long could they go about fooling themselves into thinking they were fooling each other?
For a while it seemed they were drifting apart, and they both chose to believe it was for the best anyway.
She began spending more lunch hours with Roberts from Vice, short chubby blond Roberts from Vice, and more late-late-late dinners with the doctor turned ME turned CSI. When dinners started to include drinks and movie theaters, the tall blue-eyed detective wanted to be happy for her, as Hawkes was a good man, an educated man, and she deserved the best. At the very least, she deserved more than a third grade homicide detective, or so he told himself.
He tried rekindling his fantasy with Stella, arranging things in such way that he spent 3 out of every 5 cases working with her. They shared drinks after long shifts and he walked her home at least once a week, saying good bye at the doorstep of her building, waiting on the sidewalk until he saw the lights of her apartment go on before heading home. He was also walking home a blond typist from the secretarial pool at Headquarters and a redheaded sales clerk that had been a witness in a case he had long closed, and sometimes he went upstairs with them instead of going home. The fact that the three women had curly hair didn't fail to go unnoticed by the dark haired woman who had seen him out and about with the other three. And she was happy for him. She knew the other two were just stand-ins for Stella, and she hoped he'd soon decide to make a move and settle down with the detective. He was a good man, and he deserved to be happy.
Make believe lasted only a couple of months. Roberts was more into sex than into friendship and had soon lost interest after her third refusal to sleep with him. Hawkes was a darling man, but try as she might, their life experience simply didn't mesh all that well: he was all about books, she was all about streets and soon they found themselves trying to figure out how to fill in the silent gaps that got bigger and more uncomfortable with each passing date. The fact that she had ducked her head the two times he had tried to kiss her had only proved to be another nail in the coffin of their might have been.
As for him, the redhead had wanted marriage, the blonde had wanted kids, and Stella had wanted to know when he was going to settle down with either one of them. He had refused to give in to any one of them, and soon enough he found himself sleeping alone once more.
He started questioning his motives; she started questioning her choices. He knew he wanted to immerse himself into everything that reminded him of Stella, and since he couldn't have the original he had tried to settle with the copy cats. He chose not to acknowledge the fact that he had chosen them as different in coloring as possible from the woman that actually haunted his dreams late at night. His only regret was that he had allowed both women into thinking this was the real thing and he felt guilty about that. But he rather wallow in guilt than face the feeling he had tried to push away.
She knew she was trying to avoid anything that reminded her of him: physical characteristics, personality traits, origin-wise… she knew she had chosen based on how different the other two men had been from him, and she knew she had failed miserably. Her only consolation was that she had been honest with both guys, telling them she wasn't looking for romantic relationship just then; Roberts had chosen to interpret that as an open invite for a sex-only fling, and Hawkes had seen it as a challenge of sorts to see if he could persuade her otherwise. Fortunately, neither one of them had been too keen in achieving their objective and had parted ways with her in more less amicable terms. She only wished she had been able to forget about the feelings she harbored for her tall friend.
He found himself dining more and more often at a deli merely three blocks away from her place. He always chose a booth near the corner window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the department's car passing by. He was honest enough with himself to accept the fact that he also hoped to see her walking by, preferably alone, so he could watch her without worrying about being caught. And if he was daring enough to dream, in his mind he'd already set up the scenario of what he'd do if he came face to face with her: what he'd do, what he'd say… what her reaction would be. Over and over he toyed with the idea, tweaking it here, adding a detail there... he felt like a stalker, but anything was better than the misery of sitting at his desk, pretending to be working, when she knew she was sitting merely 15 feet away and he wasn't allowed to even turn his head her way.
She found herself taking the subway more and more often; staying for two stops past hers, getting off merely a block away from his place, and slowly making her way back to her own. She had found a million excuses to do so: the dry cleaner there charged two dollars less than the one in her neighborhood, the little Italian place in the other block was every pasta lover's dream come true, the grocery store in this corner had more variety when it came to fresh produce than the one in the corner of her house… It was lame, it was desperate, but she had even stopped going up to the CSI lab in order to avoid bumping into him… she knew the moment their eyes met she was going to be doomed and her careful façade would come tumbling down. She could deal with a broken heart, but she couldn't face the idea of loosing his friendship… she firmly believed that all she needed was a bit of more time to set things back on track.
The inevitable was bound to happen sooner of later, and when it did neither one f them was prepared for it. She was coming home from a 15 hour shift, thinking all she wanted was some food, a shower and 12 hours of sleep. He had been sitting in court for the past three days, bored beyond belief, hating this high profile case, hating the press, hating the pompous DA that seemingly believed he had nothing better to do than wait around to be called back into the court room. She had forgone her daily ritual of two more stops, heading straight home; he hadn't even noticed he had headed for the deli until he looked up and saw it.
He had barely reached the counter when he saw her coming out of the washroom, still drying her hands. She looked up to see him gazing intently at her, and panic set in. He knew her well enough to know that she was going to bolt as soon as she grabbed the neatly packaged meal that was waiting for her at the counter. She thought she could get away with merely a friendly nod, and was hoping she could outrun him. He was quicker than her and caught her before she had a chance to reach the door. His hand on her arm was all it took. She looked up to see his pleading eyes and she was lost. He murmured just a simple word:
"Please…"
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A/N: A slightly different tone from the other two, but an efficient way to prolong the agony, so to speak.
