MIKE

I read a while, and tried to settle in, but it was around three before I finally felt sleepy enough to go to bed. The green sheets looked slightly worn and I figured they must be spares from Ditmeyer or Catherine. When I climbed in, I could tell they'd been washed with fabric softener, so these had to have been Catherine's.

A nice thought. The mattress was firm--the way I like them--and it didn't take too long for me to drop off.

I dreamed. For three nights in the hospital I hadn't dreamed at all, but tonight everything rolled out again in full color as if making up for the lost time. Streets I knew, places I'd been, things I remembered all came to my sleeping mind.

There were two long dreams: in the first one I was back in Philly, heading to my partner Dan's place. I remembered seeing the kiddie pool in the front yard, and hearing him and his two sons somewhere in the area. I always liked Dan's place, and how he and Carrie made a good life there. When I pulled up there was a party going on—balloons and signs out, laughing. I got out and walked to the back yard, but nobody was there. The grass was nearly a foot high, and the whole place looked like nobody'd mowed or lived there for a year. I went to the back door and stepped inside.

The living room was filled with waffles. Hundreds of them, stacked up high. Round ones, square ones, Belgian, you name it. I've never seen so many of the damned things, and when I walked in, there was always a pathway through them, no matter what direction I turned.

When I went to the kitchen, it wasn't the kitchen anymore; it was an airport. I moved around still looking for Dan, but now there were gates and terminals and folks with luggage looking at me. I was feeling a little lost when I finally woke up, but grateful it wasn't one of the more disturbing dreams I was prone to.

Got up, used the bathroom, went back to bed.

Then the second dream began. I was back at the crime lab in Las Vegas, working in the Trace lab. It was dead quiet, I had the big light table in front of me, and it was empty.

I went to get the evidence pouch, and found it full of clarinet reeds. I dumped them out but they disappeared the minute they were out of the bag, even after I searched the countertop and the floor.

At this point, I was feeling a little frustrated, and when I looked back at the light table . . . Catherine was lying on it.

Naked.

Eating an ice cream cone.

I forgot all about the damned reeds and stared at her; she was on her stomach, lower legs waving playfully behind her in the air, propped up on her elbows. The way the light shone up from the table accentuated all those curves and bare skin. Sleek spine, tight rounded ass, curvy waist--

A part of me was panicking—what the hell was she doing? Anybody could walk into Trace and see her—and other parts of me just kept me staring.

Catherine kept licking the ice cream, making little happy noises, not a care in the world about being nude at work. I asked her what she was doing.

She didn't answer, but she did hold out the ice cream, giving me a great view of her gorgeous chest---

I woke up, not in the best shape, to put it mildly. Without even debating it I reached into my briefs and stroked myself out of my aching misery, feeling the thick hot splashes gush over my stomach in ropy strings a few minutes later as I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on the delicious image of Catherine.

And even though it had been a while since I'd resorted to self-gratification, it felt . . . incredible.

Afterwards, when I could breathe again, I tried to dismiss it. A quick clean-up in the bathroom helped, even as I avoided glancing at myself in the mirror. I climbed into fresh briefs and dropped back into bed, thinking it was damned ironic that Catherine Willows had certainly done more for me in a single night than I could ever thank her for.

I got up around eleven, showered, made the bed and had beef stew leftovers for breakfast. I looked around the place again and noticed it could use a little maintenance work—the living room needed some spackle and new paint, and the tub faucet leaked. I went next door.

Wally was in, and wearing yet another Hawaiian shirt; this one in grey with bright orange pineapples on it. He was doing a crossword puzzle. Weird kitchen—the whole thing was straight out of the Sixties, with car handle refrigerator and Formica table.

"What's an eight letter word for a female demon that comes in the night, Mike?"

"Succubus," I responded, trying not to assume anything by his question. He filled it in and looked up at me.

"Thanks. So, how you feeling today?"

"Not bad, but a little . . . bored."

He nodded in a commiserating way. "Know the feeling. Unfortunately, the paperwork takes at least a couple of weeks, so it's going to be a while. Got any hobbies you want to take up again? Build ships in a bottle?"

"I used to work on cars . . ." I grinned, "but I don't think you've got any around for repair. On the other hand, I was looking at your place—"

He glanced up from the crossword puzzle, a little wary and I shrugged, trying to be mild.

"Just thought I could do a few things over there while I was waiting, that's all."

"Like what?"

"A little painting maybe, if you supplied the materials. Some general around the place stuff—replace switches, fix leaks---" I offered. "Just to keep myself busy."

Ditmeyer squinted at me, finally setting his pen down. "You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Good. Because if your offer's genuine, then let's talk."

Twenty minutes later we were at a Home Depot and I began to wonder what I'd let myself in for. Ditmeyer had a cart loaded up with various drop cloths and paint and rollers.

"The whole living room—you're sure?" I asked him again. Wally nodded again, grinning under that big mustache of his.

"With my arthritis, getting up and down on a ladder all day was gonna kill me, but you're tall and cheap labor to boot," he crowed.

"You're enjoying this—" I accused, but it was weak. Truth to tell I was fine with the idea of painting. The symbolism wasn't lost on me that's for sure—new identity, new house—holes spackled up . . .

"Damn skippy, Mike. But I'm good for it. I'll let you use my car if you need to."

The offer sounded good to me. We were back around lunchtime, and Ditmeyer sprang for subs; afterwards he talked about work to do and left me to start with the spackling. Whoever had lived here before me must have had a lot of art on the walls—I counted at least seventeen nail holes. Most were easy to do, but one of them took some stretching, even for me, and I had another twinge hit me hard.

Not fun.

Once the holes were filled, I opened the back door to let some air in, and mixed up cleaner to wipe down the baseboards. I got down on my hands and knees, trying not to pull anything, and scrubbed. Not a hard job, but a little awkward. By the time I reached the first corner I stopped, feeling as if someone was watching me.

You know the feeling—that odd little paranoia that makes the hair on the back of your neck go up. Carefully I looked around and somehow it wasn't much of a shock to realize I wasn't alone.

He was eyeing my work critically, and then looked at me. I stared back.

"It's the best I can do, for the moment," I told him, then felt like an idiot for justifying myself to a dog.

He (definitely a he) wagged his tail a tiny bit in what I could only interpret as a faint apology. I'm not given to anthropomorphizing, but this was a case of clear communication. Moving slowly—both not to scare him, and because it kept me from hurting—I sat cross-legged on the brick floor and held out a hand, palm down to him.

CATHERINE

Work was busy. On top of the usual cases going on, it turned out that the big package that had been sitting on Grissom's desk during his sabbatical was another damned gift from the Miniature Killer, and that threw us all for a loop.

Ecklie called me in right before the shift was over and reminded me that I was going to be called to testify in the inquiry over Mike's death. I had a hard time looking properly distraught, and inwardly I was panicking over what I might be asked. It was going to be big—officials were flying in from Philadelphia and Trenton for this thing. By the time I got out of the Lab, I was less than happy.

Then once I got home, mom reminded me about the cheerleading Grand Canyon trip, and all the logistics therein. She and my baby girl would be off for five days to see a huge hole in the ground while I got stuck feeling the pet goldfish. The only good part was that I'd have the house to myself for a while. I considered that I might even have Mike over . . . cooking would be a lot easier with a few more tools at hand.

I slept and had a few weird dreams—nothing I could really remember later, but enough to keep me from getting a good rest. I got ready for work, and swung by the duplex first, feeling a little anxious and a little cranky.

When Mike answered the door the first thing I noticed was that he looked guilty; he had that shifty-eyed look a guy gives you when he's hiding something. I barged in. "Okay, let's have it, what's wrong?"

"Nothing—" he protested, and then I heard the toenails. I looked down and saw a black, white and brown dog looking up at me.

"You have a dog."

"I don't have a dog. I have a . . . visitor," Mike corrected. "He wandered in while I was washing the walls."

"You were washing the walls? Two bullet holes in you and you're washing the walls?" Okay I was getting a little shrill, but Mike found it funny because he had that lopsided grin on his face and even the dog was cocking his head.

"You have to wash the walls before you can paint them," he told me in what I'm sure he felt was a reasonable tone of voice, but I wasn't ready to be reasonable.

"Ditmeyer is making you paint the place? Okay, Justice Department or not, that guy is getting a piece of my mind—what the hell is he thinking, Mike? You're supposed to be recuperating, not . . ."

I didn't get to finish. Mike lightly gripped my upper arms and forced me to look up at him. He wasn't foolish enough to grin, but I could tell he was amused. He cleared his throat. "I volunteered."

"You . . . . volunteered." I could still sense the crafty hand of Wally Ditmeyer in this, but Mike shrugged.

"Catherine—I need something to do. Something more than just reading and eating."

"I could bring you Lindsey's Game Cube."

"Nice offer, but I'm not into videos. Besides—" he let me go and sighed, "Something physical helps me . . . sleep."

I heard something melancholy in that tone, but I wasn't going to push it. Instead, I looked at the dog, who'd been watching us. He wagged his tail and stepped forward. I glanced at Mike.

"Friendlier than the cat, anyway."

"Ted's a good listener," he agreed. "Fairly nonjudgmental."

I gently patted the dog, who snuffled into my hand and wagged a bit more enthusiastically. "So he's got a name now?"

Mike smirked, and squatted down, ruffling the dog's ears. "He looks like a Ted. Between the two of us we finished off the stew you made."

"I made the stew for you, not a dog—" I tried to grumble, but the sight of the dog, and more importantly the sight of how happy the dog made Mike stopped me from any further complaining. I shrugged instead, and moved to the sofa, sitting down on it. "—Whatever. So you've got a dog. Does Ditmeyer know?"

"Not yet."

"Joy. Listen Mike, sometime tomorrow I'm going to be called in to testify on what happened the night you were shot. It's going to be a pretty big inquest—" I filled him in on the details, as far as I knew them. Mike came over to plant himself beside me, listening gravely. When I was done, we both sat in silence for a while.

"So I'm really . . . dead, officially," Mike rumbled. I patted his knee gently.

"I cleaned out your locker, and picked up some of your things from your office . . . told Grissom I'd mail them to your next of kin—"

"—Beth. I think I still have her listed on all my official paperwork. She's in Philadelphia. Remarried now."

"Ah." I hadn't known there was an ex in the picture, but then again, Mike probably didn't know I was a widow, either. We still had a lot to learn about each other. "Is she your executrix?"

"Frank was—although Beth is still beneficiary for my insurance and pension . . . She knows I wanted to be cremated and scattered," he murmured thoughtfully. "I wonder how that's gonna work."

I shook my head. "I'm willing to bet Ditmeyer's done this before and he probably has it covered. Ashes to spare."

"Maybe." He looked at me and cocked his head a little. "Beth's a vice principal at an elementary school. Strong, firm, quiet—she deserved better than I could give her."

I didn't say anything to that; I mean what could I? This was probably one of the most personal insights I'd ever gotten from Mike, and it sounded like things had ended amicably. I tried to look sympathetic, but still, a part of me was seething with curiosity. Why had they split? Were there any kids? What was Mike like in bed?

That last one was definitely no-no land, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit I thought about it. I tried to push it out of my mind. "Will she fly out?"

He shook his head. "Probably not—she'll arrange for shipping, and drop my pseudo-ashes somewhere in New Jersey."

We were both quiet after that, just sort of sitting together, both of us lost in thought. Finally, Ted sneezed, and that broke the moment. Mike got up just as the door began to open.

Ditmeyer. He came in and Ted trotted over to him; without missing a beat the old guy sighed. "Great. A dog. If you were renting, Mike, I'd demand a pretty hefty deposit you know."

I did notice Wally was scratching Ted under the chin though. Mike sighed.

"He wandered in from the back yard . . . "

"Probably dumped," Ditmeyer sighed. "Happens a lot here next to the treatment plant. Ah well, I'll see if my girl Dusie's got room for him."

MIKE

So I ended up with a dog—for the moment. Neither Ditmeyer nor Catherine looked completely won over, but I had faith Ted would triumph. He'd listened to me unload a lot of personal crap earlier in the day and still wagged his tail at the end of it. I felt better, that was for certain—good enough not to be bitter about Beth anyway.

Beth. Good woman; put-upon wife. We tried; we really did. Met at a movie, dated, got engaged and married over a year. Beth was quiet and patient . . . up to a point. Even though I tried to put Amy out of mind and kept my contact with Frank to a minimum the damned nightmares wouldn't stop.

They never stopped.

Anyway, Beth wanted me to see a shrink, but I couldn't do that, for obvious reasons. She and I stopped sharing a bed the second year into our marriage, and the sex dwindled after that—it's pretty hard to be intimate if you're not sharing much space. When Beth finally asked for a divorce I didn't fight it; she had grounds and I had no reason to hang on to a relationship that wasn't doing either of us any good.

It was odd to think she'd probably cry once she got the call, and maybe think of me for the rest of the afternoon.

I came back to the here and now when Ditmeyer cleared his throat. "I need you to stay low, Mike. House arrest time, okay? Ms Willows and I have to go through the motions of checking into your death, and that means they'll be folks in from your old stomping grounds coming into Vegas. Call me a paranoid old fart, but the last thing any of us want is for you to run into one of them at the grocery store."

I nodded. Ditmeyer turned to Catherine. "And you—we're going to meet each other officially today, so don't blow it. Unofficially I'm there as a honorary rep of the Justice Department, but of course we both know better."

"You're there to make sure the loose ends get wrapped up," Catherine shot back and I had to grin at that; she's sharp. Ditmeyer nodded again.

"Bingo. So far everything's copacetic, but I never rest easy until the last file is closed. I'm gonna get going but I'll see you when you come in to work. And as for you Mike—just make sure your pooch is housebroken, okay?"

We watched Ditmeyer head out, and then Catherine touched my arm lightly.

"Hey. He's just worried for you. Come help me get some things out of the car."

"Yeah." I followed her out, and helped bring in a few paper bags, one of which had something that smelled good. Ted followed me when I set the bag on the kitchen table, and I pulled out a big Tupperware container of what looked like macaroni and cheese.

When I looked at Catherine she shrugged. "Easy to digest, usually goes over well with sliced hot dogs in it."

" Kraft and I are old friends," I assured her, and set it down. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Oh come on—Macaroni and cheese is not cooking," Catherine blurted and I watched her go a little pink in the face as she handed me one of the bags. I opened it up and blinked, knowing what I was seeing, but not quite believing it yet.

"Catherine—" I started, feeling a little choked up; this was beyond the call of duty. But she just crossed her arms and smiled at me, cocking her head the way she does.

"I managed to talk the guy into a sale price, and he threw in a beginner book too, although I'm not sure the reed in the case is any good—you might have to soak it first."

"It's too much—" I protested, even as I pulled it out and started examining it closely. Gorgeous piece of work, definitely a classic in terms of a clarinet. "I'll pay you back, count on it."

"Just-- play for me when you're up to it sometime. Now come on, I want to change those dressings before I go into work tonight," Catherine replied, but her grin was beautiful and for the first time in a long time I was aware of someone actually . . . caring . . . about me.

It felt good.

The bathroom was a little small, but I undid my shirt and pulled up the undershirt while Catherine made little noises and carefully pulled off the hospital bandages. She did the one on my back first. Peeling it off and examining the stitches.

"You'll have a little macho scar in about a year," came her assessment. I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing a little more grey at the temples.

"Yay," I grumbled with no enthusiasm.

"Hey, better a little scar and a live Mike Keller than any other option, in my book," she responded, right before she patted the area with disinfectant. It didn't sting but it was cold, and I flinched a little.

She hovered a bit more. "Take it easy and let me get it covered back up—"

"—okay, okay—"

The crowding was getting to me a little. Catherine was intent on taking care of business, and while the better part of me agreed with that agenda, there were some ticklish reactions going on that I wasn't all that enthused to have her . . . notice.

Then I remembered, a little too late that I had another bullet hole—

"Shirt up, Mike—" she ordered. Sheepishly I hiked my clothing higher and looked down at the gauze patch six inches diagonally above my navel. Catherine reached for a corner of the tape and looked up at me.

So close . . . just inside my personal space, right where my entire body was aware of her.

"You're . . . furry."

"Genetics. I get it from my mom," I quavered. It was a stupid line, but she grinned and tugged on the gauze. It peeled away a little more reluctantly, clinging to the hair that was growing back. I tried not to make faces, but Catherine laughed anyway and dabbed at the pink gash.

"It's healing up. Still aches?"

"Yeah, a little. But I haven't had any more nausea."

"Sleep all right?" she asked, and I steeled my expression.

"Good. I slept good, Doctor Willows."

Catherine arched an eyebrow at me, but finished taping me up without any more questions.

She declined the offer of a bottled water and checked her watch, looking a little nervous. "I've got to get going . . . but I'll come see you tomorrow, during the day if you're still serious about painting. I don't mind a Saturday on a ladder."

"It's a date," I told her, then blinked a little at my own words. She gave me a crooked grin and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Good. And if you do feed any of the mac and cheese to Ted there—don't tell me about it, okay?"

We chuckled to the front door and then came that hesitation again. She moved to hug me; I moved to do it too, and this time it was a little easier to get my arms around her.

I've never been big on hugging, even with my own family, but I realized I could get used to the feel of Catherine; light, strong-- in a word, vital.

Then she turned her head and the brush of her cheek against face felt sort of inevitable. The corner of her mouth touched mine, sending a jolt through me. I must have tightened my grip on her, but all my attention was on that soft little contact point between us.

Then she squeezed and let go; I knew I had to do the same, regretfully. Catherine turned and made her way out to her car without looking back, but watching her walk I knew she felt it too, and was handling it about as well as I was.

Ted came over and bumped my leg, taking me out of my reverie.

We went to go have some food.