Flowers in the Hall
by CJ
Feedback to nobodysfool0403@yahoo.com
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: The whole of "CSI" is owned by CBS and Alliance-Atlantis. Only marginal infringement intended. ;p
Notes: The idea for this story came to me during my exposition class last night.
The prof. was talking about telegraphic sentences and how they aren't
effective because the reader doesn't "see" anything. He used the example,
"There were flowers in the hall." He then told us to close our eyes, think
about the sentence and write down what we saw (what kind of flowers, how
many, where in the hall, what color, etc). This is what I saw...
Summary: She thinks it was romantic. She's wrong.
"So? How'd it go last night?" Sara bounds up behind you, accidentally hip-checking you in her enthusiasm. As the official matchmaker, she claims a vested interest in " how it went last night". She smiles eagerly, awaiting the details that usually come with girl talk. Somehow, you don't have the heart to disappoint her.
You pour a mug of coffee, buying time and collecting emotions. "The flowers ended up in the hall." You say it neutrally, evasively, but you see by her expression that she's picturing candlelight and kisses, love, promises, sex. Sara's so fucking naive sometimes. She thinks it was romantic. She's wrong.
Your eyes flutter closed, as if to guard you against the hurt. Instead, your eyelids serve as a movie screen for one. Last night rapid-fires in your brain, still life portraits of a has-been romance.
In intensely vivid warp speed, you watch again as he comes through the front door, flowers in hand. He smiles, you smile, thank him with a passionate kiss. You never do say the words aloud. Somehow, you both end up on the bed, quiet now so Lindsay doesn't wake, the bouquet still in your hand. He's doing wonderful things with his hands when the phone on the nightstand interrupts.
Don't answer it, he pleads, pulling your hand back. You give him a look that says he knows you have to and gasp out a hello. He pulls away and lies on the other side of the bed, starring at the ceiling. You listen to the voice on the line, then nudge him in the ribs, mouth "Grissom", put a finger to your lips. He nods curtly, a quick jerk of his chin. You listen absently as Grissom drones on "...bagged something, lifted a few latents off blah, blah, blah." Umhmm's and okay's are your only responses.
Eventually the gibberish spilling from his mouth ceases and you return the phone to its base. You turn to face him, walk your fingers enticingly up his chest, but he continues to stare at the ceiling. Finally, "Does Grissom know?"
About us, you query, confused by his line of thought. He does the chin thrust again as an answer. No, you say, and he's not going to. No one is, if you can help it. "Sara knows," he points out. Yeah, about tonight. She thinks she's on to something, that she's done well by you both, setting up two lonely colleagues. She doesn't know you two have been - what? together? seeing each other? fucking? - for months now.
The idea of being "together" scares you and not just in defense of your heart. Someone else would be one thing, but a co-worker, someone you could lose your job over... That's different and you tell him as much. "So they're never going to know? What about later, Cath? How are we gonna keep it a secret then?" You don't answer and you know he's reading your face, seeing that you won't give up this career that you have worked so goddamn hard to have for a later that may never be.
And suddenly you know that he's not thinking like that, that he's planning for the long haul - marriage, kids, a mortgage - and your heart freezes. The sudden stillness in your chest matches the immobility of his face. He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, putting his back to you.
"Warrick..." you begin and you're startled to find you hand on his shoulder. "No. Cath...No! I thought we were..." he struggles for words. Eventually, he shrugs. "I thought we were."
You are, you insist. Just because it's not public knowledge now doesn't mean it never will be. "Yes, it does. I'm sure. You're not. And you're not ever going to be." He pauses, sucks in a wavering breath. "Or maybe you are. Sure you don't want this. Sure you don't want me."
"I do!" you cry, then remember you sleeping daughter only a wall away. "I do," you say again, with less volume but no less intensity. "No you don't," he says, rising to his feet. "Not the way I want you." With that, he scoops his jacket off the floor, shrugging it on as he heads down the hall and out the front door. He doesn't look back and you can't look away.
You hear his car start and still you're motionless, sitting with your legs tucked under you in the middle of the bed. The bouquet, beautiful and pristine, holds its place at the foot. Suddenly something akin to grief washes over you. You reach forward and pick up the flowers. You stare down at them, take an intoxicating breath, then fling them through the doorway, out onto the floor. They scatter there, deep scarlet petals mirroring the depth of your sadness.
The internal movie runs out. You can almost hear the loose end of the film slap, slap, slapping around inside your head. You turn to Sara, your face impassive save the depreciative quirk of your mouth. "That's where it ends," you tell her. "Flowers in the hall."