Author's Note: And...chapter four.
You're kidding me, right? I'm a taxi service on the biggest case of the year?
Sara, I need one of us with that little girl.
I am not good with kids.
It's okay, Brenda. I'm not leaving you.
"So, still mad at me for making you a taxi service?" I leaned back against her couch, coffee clutched in one hand, the latest copy of the forensic science journal in my other. She walked slowly into the room from the kitchen, blowing steam off her own coffee mug.
"I'm not mad," she admitted. "Normally, kids and I are like oil and water—we don't mix, and it leaves a funny taste in my mouth. But something about that girl…"
"Abused children are one of my other major breaking points," I confessed. "Trust me, I wanted to stay with her, talk to her, make her feel safe. But I couldn't. You understand."
"Sure I do. But why me?" she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
"I told you. I needed one of us with her." She lifted an eyebrow, and I just returned her gaze for a moment. Finally, it clicked.
"You meant one of us, you or me. Not one of us, a member of the team."
"Yeah. I needed someone with a clear head in there, and Catherine or Nick would have gotten too emotionally involved. Probably Warrick would have, too. You were an obvious choice."
I watched her swallow hard, swivel her head away. "Sara?"
"I got emotionally involved," she whispered. "When the social worker came to take her away, Brenda grabbed at my jacket. She wanted me to stay with her. And I did. I refused to leave, even though I could have. Even though I could have come back to work the biggest case I've had here yet; even though I could have come back to work another case with you. I stayed with the little girl who was breaking my heart."
I set my mug down slowly. "Why are you telling me this?"
She turned to me, and I was startled to see tears glistening in her dark eyes. "Please don't think less of me because I care."
"Sara!" I felt a little shocked. "Of course I don't think less of you." I cleared my throat, reaching for honesty. "Differently, maybe, but not less."
"I'm a good scientist," she declared, shifting closer to me, resting her hand on my knee. I was startled by the physical contact, but she just kept talking. "I'm a good CSI. But I have a heart, and I don't think that makes me a bad scientist. I just don't want you to start lumping me in with everyone else—all the others that you wouldn't trust a traumatized little girl with."
Slowly, I placed my hand over hers on my knee. She looked a little startled, and I realized she probably had not even known she was touching me. "Sara, I asked you here in the first place because I trust you. Finding out that you care about your cases is not going to mitigate that trust."
"I just care about what you think of me," she murmured, gently pulling her hand away. "I want to impress you."
"You already have," I told her. "Stop trying so hard."
She reached for her coffee. "Not sure that I can."
There was a subtle shift in the room, a tension even I could feel. Sara had occasionally made teasing or suggestive comments during the years of our friendship, and I had always taken them in stride. Flirting was always a casual thing for me; my work absorbed my attention and my interest far too much for there to be anything left for a relationship. But this was not easy banter. The swell of something in the air made me uncomfortable, because it was as foreign as it was intense.
"I should probably go," I said lightly, striving to dissipate the tension. It did not dissipate, but thickened, as she lifted wide dark eyes to my face.
"If you want," she shrugged, keeping her tone light as well. "I'll never ask you to leave."
I cleared my throat. "It's nice to have a place where you feel welcome."
She smiled that smile that went straight to my head. "Isn't it?"
As I shut the door behind me, I shook my head slowly. Now what?