"Just Another Moment - II"
By Midnight Caller
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd be very rich, and in good company with the team of CSI writers. But, I don't own them, so instead I'm quite not rich, and I keep company with my suicidal computer.
Rating: Strong PG-13/R, leaning more toward R for one part.
Summary: Picks up just after "Just Another Moment," and sort of goes from there. I... am not good with summaries. I'm also terrified of writing WIPs because I fear I'll never finish them, so instead this is simply part two. There will most likely be a part three, but I'd rather just have them as separate entities.
Thanks: To Meg and Alison, for the beta-licious comments and advice, and to Dev & Andi for creating the amazing site and message board. This fandom rocks.
Archive: Just tell me where
*****
I'm moments from waking; the dream starts to fade, and I feel sensations on my skin - the sheets, a pillow. Oh, God, one more moment, please... just give me one more moment. Now that's I've tasted her for real, the dream has manifested into a delicious tease of what I hope is to come. But I want it now.
I sigh as our lips part, and as my eyes open I wonder if I will miraculously wake to the real version of my dream; Sara's lips on mine, my hands on her body. Instead, I realize I am alone, my arms wrapped around the pillow she slept on last night. Or did she? Was she even here? I quickly cover my eyes, far too close to a rush of humiliation I never wanted to feel. My other arm flops over, grabbing the nearest clump of material. Not sheets... not blanket... it's my sweatshirt, neatly folded next to the pillow. So she was here, I almost announce to the room, feeling relieved until it dawns on me; she is gone. For real. Something must have changed her mind. We didn't even make love, but yet a suffocating, thick oil of guilt suddenly washes over me. Somehow I have done something wrong. Somehow this is my fault. I'm a fool to think I could ever make her happy.
The rest of my day seems insignificant. I read the paper, frowning as I witness the collapse of humanity as we know it. Not even the science page holds my interest: holes in the ozone layer; planets that are no longer planets; cloned animals. I've never felt so utterly... alone. No, this goes deeper than loneliness, I think. Despite spending the night with the one person who holds any real, tactile meaning for me, the emptiness consumes me at a staggering rate. Never before have I simply wanted to just ... share my life with someone. So the world is engaged in self-massacre - somehow she could bring hope to it all. She could make anything bearable. Even if I couldn't ... hear her, I know she could. She could even, perhaps... love me.
I shake my head at the absurdity of the thought, and try to lose my pain in the comforting mystery of the crossword puzzle. Six letters. Cryptic. Hard to define. Unknowable. I fill in the blanks, a strange firmness forming over my lips. E-n-i-g-m-a.
Work the following day is uneventful for the most part. I had hoped it would be busy, to keep my mind off the strange cloud of emotions floating around in my head. I take advantage of the unusual lull to lessen the load of paperwork on my desk; status reports, time sheets, month-old phone messages from people I don't even know and don't care about calling back.
It seems everything has something to do with her. Every time I come across her name it takes me a few moments to recover and continue with my work. The very sight of it causes my eyes to run over the letters, trying to find meaning in the curve of the S, the slope of the A, the complicated rhythm of the R. One paper has her handwritten name, and I involuntarily glide my fingers over the ink, willing her to materialize in my office... in my bed. I'm lost in the marks now. It's just her name, but I've gone beyond that, it seems. I've transcended the artificial trappings of being intrigued by how it looks; it's come to my attention that my infatuation has reached a level where just the very knowledge that she touched this paper and wrote these letters leaves me irrationally and ridiculously ... spellbound.
I finally see her in the breakroom. She comes in for some coffee, and my presence catches her off-guard. Glancing around, she offers a tiny smirk, and I can't help but echo the sentiment. Just when I'm about to ask her how she managed to slip out before I woke up, Catherine comes in. Sara pours her coffee and leans against the counter, stealing glances at me every few seconds. I try to concentrate on my crossword, but Catherine's raised eyebrows don't escape my notice. She looks at me, and then at Sara, and then heads for the coffee, a smirk of her own now forming on her lips. Sara takes one more look, bites her lip, and then walks out the door. 48 Down: five letters. Midpoint. Dividing line. Intermediate state. I sigh and write the answer. L-i-m-b-o.
That night I go through the motions. Drive. Dinner. Some TV. A little reading.
Later, in my room, I stare at my bed. I raise an eyebrow, and then strip the linens from the mattress. Pulling a new set from my closet, I take a quick sniff to reaffirm their freshness, and then make the bed. Afterwards, I again stare at the layers of blankets and sheets, trying to imagine myself lying there next to her.
I head to the bathroom, peeling off my shirt in the process. I stare in the mirror for a few moments, not to disapprove of what I see, but to look at my eyes. I scootch forward, lean over the sink, and stare right into my pupils. The nearness is quite alarming, but as I gaze into the black and surrounding blue, I wonder if she can see how I feel when she looks at me. Do my eyes give me away? Do I want them to?
I turn off the bathroom light, and in the semi-darkness of my room, I suddenly find myself at the dresser, pulling out the sweatshirt she wore. It still smells like her. I place it on the top of the bureau, and find my way to the bed, sliding under the covers with an audible groan. I've found that a groan seems to accompany nearly every one of my physical activities of late; bending over, getting up, reaching into the refrigerator. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me - I've just now discovered I'm turning into my parents? This has been happening for quite some time, and I know it. Perhaps it's that I'm just being re-reminded by ... circumstances. I'll admit; I was fairly self-conscious the first time she slipped beneath my covers and ran her fingers over my skin. But the moment she let me touch her back, I somehow realized it didn't matter. And now, as I lay here, hands under my head, staring at the ceiling, I have to wonder if I will ever have the pleasure of sharing my bed with her again. I turn my head to the side, press my nose against my arm, and close my eyes, trying to recreate that moment as I feel myself drifting off.
I don't know how much time has passed, but somewhere in the murky world of semi-sleep, I sense movement next to me. Maybe it's just the jerk of my body as it pulls itself back into consciousness, but after the bed shakes again, I know it's something else. Someone else.
Even though it's my bed, my room, I stay very still, just waiting. This is all still so new to me. Sara has come into my bed twice in one week. What does this make us? Anything? I wonder if this even means as much to her as it does to me.
It only takes a few more breaths before I feel her heat through the fleece of the sweatshirt. I love that she wants to wear it, and that she saw it in the first place. Her arm falls over my chest, and her hair falls on my shoulder. I wrap one arm around her, hugging the skin beneath the sweatshirt, and with my other hand, I gently finger the end of a strand of her hair.
Should I say something? Staring out into the darkness, I don't feel a strong urge to speak, but maybe she wants me to. My mouth opens, and I know the first word to emerge will be her name, but just as my vocal chords begin their vibration, I feel her cheek on my chest. Her breath tickles my skin, escaping from her mouth as tiny sighs, and I recognize the steady rise and fall of her body as a indication that she's fallen asleep. After a few moments of listening to her breathe, I follow her cue, and slide my finger along her hair one more time before my hand falls to her shoulder and I slowly return to my dream.
The buzzing of the alarm wakes me with a start, interrupting my usual pleasantries, and I sigh heavily. I turn my head to where Sara slept last night, then let out a long, slow, bewildered exhale; I am alone with the sweatshirt again. I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the fleece. One more sigh fills the room, and then I force myself to the shower.
This work week was made to torture me. I didn't think it was possible for things to be any less uneventful. I spent the first three hours of shift signing reports, and now the thought of my own initials makes me cross-eyed. For the past two hours I've sat in my chair, staring at my spider. The baboon tarantula. He's moved around the same cubic foot of aquarium at least three dozen times, but continues to make each step with extreme caution. Once in a while, when someone passes by my door, his tiny hairs will stand on edge. Slowly, they retract, and he continues on his cyclical quest.
I'm entranced by the movement of his legs, slow and methodical, lightly feeling out the area before planting a step. Watching him distracts me so much I don't even hear the knock at my door.
"Grissom."
My head shoots up and I blink to free myself from the trance. Sara stands in my doorway, leaning against the frame. She smiles at my expression: a twelve year-old boy with his first chemistry set.
She steps into the room, lowering her voice. I strain foward to hear her.
"About this morning... I... I just wanted to get an early start."
I nod, unconsciously twisting my mouth, and awkwardly bite my lip. Words are not my speciality.
"I have some housework to do tonight... laundry, some cleaning... so... I'm not sure I'll be by later."
I wait, to make sure she's finished. "Okay." That's all I manage to say, despite the infinite other things floating around in my head. Come. Stay. Don't ever leave. I smile, though, so hopefully that says what I can't.
She nods. "I'm going to get dinner..." she says, and maybe I take too long to take her up on the offer, because she continues, "So I'll be back in half an hour." She backs out of the room, leaving me to my spider.
After I take an extended dinner break, I return to my office and whip out the crossword I was working on before. 38 Across. Ten letters. Bewilderment. Bafflement. Confusion. P-e-r-p-l-e-x-i-t-y.
That night, I set out the sweatshirt again, but my anxiety gets the better of me. I can't seem to concentrate on a single thought, and, worse than that, I can't purge my mind completely so I can sleep. I stare at the ceiling for what seems like eternity, waiting... listening... hoping. When the alarm wakes me in the morning I don't even remember dreaming. The sweatshirt is still on the bureau.
We actually have a case today, thank God. Catherine, Sara and I work a jumper down on the south end of the strip. A Mandalay Bay base-jumper, to be more precise. Apparently his parachute didn't open. I know how he feels. The surrounding crowd of onlookers prevents me from talking at length with Sara, but we manage to exchange a few meaningful glances. I love sleeping next to her too much to want to bring up how confused I am, or why I want to know where she was last night. Just when I think the vibes will go unnoticed, I swear I catch Catherine staring at me, her eyes shifting back and forth, mind working, processing. I try to hide my eyes from her as much as possible.
As I brush my teeth that night, I find myself entranced by my reflection again. I frown. My ears have already betrayed me, and now my eyes threaten to give away everything I need to feel safe. Dammit. I feel a slight sting on my upper right gum. I must have been brushing my teeth too hard again; that always happens when I'm not paying attention. I spit into the sink, watching as a small amount of blood washes down the drain with my toothpaste.
A few moments later, I find myself at the dresser again, holding the sweatshirt in my hand. I stare at it, and swallow hard, closing my eyes. What if she never comes again? I exhale through my nose, and then leave the sweatshirt on the bureau. I fall asleep almost immediately. I'm exhausted.
I manage to dream that night, more vividly than ever before. Maybe it's the deepness of my slumber. Not surprisingly, I dream of Sara. Normally I float in and out of my dream, entering it somewhere in the midst of a kiss, and tonight is no different. However, this time, I sleep so soundly that the dream seems to extend forever. The one kiss blends into another, and fairly soon Sara and I lie in my bed, much like we've done in the past week, only our hands and mouths seem to be everywhere, traveling over each other's bodies, exploring, discovering.
For the remainder of the dream, I make love to her, slowly, passionately, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her, her moans and whispers. As she starts to stir beneath me, clawing at my back, I feel a sudden rush of energy, and I know I'm not far from release. Oh... God... Sara... I call out her name, and all at once the rush passes through me to her with an urgency and electricity I never knew existed until this moment. And as I nearly pass out from the overwhelming sensation, I'm suddenly awake. And I'm not alone.
I blink, staring at the body next to mine. Her shoulder rises, then falls, and then all of a sudden I'm staring into her wide-open eyes.
She stayed.
Work has certainly become more interesting, if not dangerous. Our glances are more frequent, our smiles less subtle, and I brush against her far too often for someone else not to notice. Our random nocturnal ritual still defies my sense of logic, but maybe that's what I like about it. And tonight, more than ever, I hope she comes to my bed again. But more than that, I hope she stays. I know I'll need her. We're all on trial today, the entire lab. My mentor has returned with an armful of ammo, cocked and set to explode in our faces.
I find her examining the sheets, blood-stained with splatters of anger, confusion, pure, blind rage. I doubt Tom Haviland has ever awakened clutching empty sheets. I watch Sara defy Gerard the way I wanted to all those years ago. He seems unshaken, and hands me a folder. Photos of a bra. I nod. Nothing new. And then, I hear the word, and it stuns me. Please... no. Tell me it's my hearing this time. I've never wished I was deaf more than this very moment, right here, right now. Twelve letters. Association. Connection. Link. R-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p.
After the trial, I run into her in the locker room, stuffing some work clothes into a bag. I can't help but take in the sight of her in that suit one more time. She looks up at me, and stands up as straight as she can.
"You did well up there," she finally offers.
I stare at the floor. "Yeah."
When I don't continue, she zips up her bag, and brushes past me to the doorway. Then she stops, turns around.
"I'll see you tonight, maybe..." she asks, looking back over her shoulder.
I purse my lips, wondering if it will just continue to make everything that much more difficult. Finally, I nod. "Sure."
I set out the sweatshirt, half-expecting a visit. She's busy nowadays. Laundry. Cleaning. *Him.* I shake the image from my mind, and crawl under the sheets. All too soon, the alarm wakes me, and I sit up in bed, staring at the untouched sweatshirt.
Two hours. That's how long ago I paged her. Two hours of Nick and Warrick and Catherine and... no Sara. I miss her more than I thought I would, and I didn't sleep well. She finally shows up, apologetic, but I know... I know where she was. Who was with her. *Him.*
She looks so utterly disappointed in me, so... angry. I'm being an ass, I suppose, but she needs to work away from me right now, work her own case.
"Solo?" she asks again, in disbelief that I don't need her on this.
"You're on your own." I clench my jaw and watch her storm off.
The case closes nicely, all the angles coming together, all of us working together... well, almost all of us. Sara solves hers, of course. I never had my doubts about that. I do have my doubts about why I sent her and not Warrick. Or Nick. She was late. She didn't answer her page.
She was with *him.*
I go back to my paperwork, remembering why I don't normally bother with living people. It's all just too ... hard.
"G'nite," I hear.
She has on more makeup than usual, and a nice leather jacket covers the shirt clinging to her form. Looks like she's ready for a night out with... someone else.
"Good night, Sara." Before I make a bigger fool out of myself, she walks away. Please don't go, I want to shout. "Hey!" is all I can manage. She actually turns back to me. "Nice work on the high school case," I continue, and offer a slight smile.
She smiles back, bigger than I expected. And then I realize I'm still smiling. I suddenly look down at my desk.
"I'm sorry I missed your page," she suddenly says, leaning against the door frame. I want to say I accept the apology, but I don't expect her to continue. "It's just... you tell me to get a life, so I get one... and then you expect me to be there at a moment's notice. It's..." Not fair? Not what you want? "...Confusing."
Struck by her words, I suddenly want her to know that I care, know that I... love her. I take off my glasses and swallow, and then lick my lips. I try and form a response in my head as quickly as possible. What I meant was... what I was trying to say was... I... don't ever ... I need ... I lo-- and then I raise my head, and she's gone. For real. I can't even go back to my paperwork, and I just sit there, thinking. I feel like it's 4th down and goal, and the ball's just been thrust into my arms.
[fin for now...]
By Midnight Caller
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd be very rich, and in good company with the team of CSI writers. But, I don't own them, so instead I'm quite not rich, and I keep company with my suicidal computer.
Rating: Strong PG-13/R, leaning more toward R for one part.
Summary: Picks up just after "Just Another Moment," and sort of goes from there. I... am not good with summaries. I'm also terrified of writing WIPs because I fear I'll never finish them, so instead this is simply part two. There will most likely be a part three, but I'd rather just have them as separate entities.
Thanks: To Meg and Alison, for the beta-licious comments and advice, and to Dev & Andi for creating the amazing site and message board. This fandom rocks.
Archive: Just tell me where
*****
I'm moments from waking; the dream starts to fade, and I feel sensations on my skin - the sheets, a pillow. Oh, God, one more moment, please... just give me one more moment. Now that's I've tasted her for real, the dream has manifested into a delicious tease of what I hope is to come. But I want it now.
I sigh as our lips part, and as my eyes open I wonder if I will miraculously wake to the real version of my dream; Sara's lips on mine, my hands on her body. Instead, I realize I am alone, my arms wrapped around the pillow she slept on last night. Or did she? Was she even here? I quickly cover my eyes, far too close to a rush of humiliation I never wanted to feel. My other arm flops over, grabbing the nearest clump of material. Not sheets... not blanket... it's my sweatshirt, neatly folded next to the pillow. So she was here, I almost announce to the room, feeling relieved until it dawns on me; she is gone. For real. Something must have changed her mind. We didn't even make love, but yet a suffocating, thick oil of guilt suddenly washes over me. Somehow I have done something wrong. Somehow this is my fault. I'm a fool to think I could ever make her happy.
The rest of my day seems insignificant. I read the paper, frowning as I witness the collapse of humanity as we know it. Not even the science page holds my interest: holes in the ozone layer; planets that are no longer planets; cloned animals. I've never felt so utterly... alone. No, this goes deeper than loneliness, I think. Despite spending the night with the one person who holds any real, tactile meaning for me, the emptiness consumes me at a staggering rate. Never before have I simply wanted to just ... share my life with someone. So the world is engaged in self-massacre - somehow she could bring hope to it all. She could make anything bearable. Even if I couldn't ... hear her, I know she could. She could even, perhaps... love me.
I shake my head at the absurdity of the thought, and try to lose my pain in the comforting mystery of the crossword puzzle. Six letters. Cryptic. Hard to define. Unknowable. I fill in the blanks, a strange firmness forming over my lips. E-n-i-g-m-a.
Work the following day is uneventful for the most part. I had hoped it would be busy, to keep my mind off the strange cloud of emotions floating around in my head. I take advantage of the unusual lull to lessen the load of paperwork on my desk; status reports, time sheets, month-old phone messages from people I don't even know and don't care about calling back.
It seems everything has something to do with her. Every time I come across her name it takes me a few moments to recover and continue with my work. The very sight of it causes my eyes to run over the letters, trying to find meaning in the curve of the S, the slope of the A, the complicated rhythm of the R. One paper has her handwritten name, and I involuntarily glide my fingers over the ink, willing her to materialize in my office... in my bed. I'm lost in the marks now. It's just her name, but I've gone beyond that, it seems. I've transcended the artificial trappings of being intrigued by how it looks; it's come to my attention that my infatuation has reached a level where just the very knowledge that she touched this paper and wrote these letters leaves me irrationally and ridiculously ... spellbound.
I finally see her in the breakroom. She comes in for some coffee, and my presence catches her off-guard. Glancing around, she offers a tiny smirk, and I can't help but echo the sentiment. Just when I'm about to ask her how she managed to slip out before I woke up, Catherine comes in. Sara pours her coffee and leans against the counter, stealing glances at me every few seconds. I try to concentrate on my crossword, but Catherine's raised eyebrows don't escape my notice. She looks at me, and then at Sara, and then heads for the coffee, a smirk of her own now forming on her lips. Sara takes one more look, bites her lip, and then walks out the door. 48 Down: five letters. Midpoint. Dividing line. Intermediate state. I sigh and write the answer. L-i-m-b-o.
That night I go through the motions. Drive. Dinner. Some TV. A little reading.
Later, in my room, I stare at my bed. I raise an eyebrow, and then strip the linens from the mattress. Pulling a new set from my closet, I take a quick sniff to reaffirm their freshness, and then make the bed. Afterwards, I again stare at the layers of blankets and sheets, trying to imagine myself lying there next to her.
I head to the bathroom, peeling off my shirt in the process. I stare in the mirror for a few moments, not to disapprove of what I see, but to look at my eyes. I scootch forward, lean over the sink, and stare right into my pupils. The nearness is quite alarming, but as I gaze into the black and surrounding blue, I wonder if she can see how I feel when she looks at me. Do my eyes give me away? Do I want them to?
I turn off the bathroom light, and in the semi-darkness of my room, I suddenly find myself at the dresser, pulling out the sweatshirt she wore. It still smells like her. I place it on the top of the bureau, and find my way to the bed, sliding under the covers with an audible groan. I've found that a groan seems to accompany nearly every one of my physical activities of late; bending over, getting up, reaching into the refrigerator. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me - I've just now discovered I'm turning into my parents? This has been happening for quite some time, and I know it. Perhaps it's that I'm just being re-reminded by ... circumstances. I'll admit; I was fairly self-conscious the first time she slipped beneath my covers and ran her fingers over my skin. But the moment she let me touch her back, I somehow realized it didn't matter. And now, as I lay here, hands under my head, staring at the ceiling, I have to wonder if I will ever have the pleasure of sharing my bed with her again. I turn my head to the side, press my nose against my arm, and close my eyes, trying to recreate that moment as I feel myself drifting off.
I don't know how much time has passed, but somewhere in the murky world of semi-sleep, I sense movement next to me. Maybe it's just the jerk of my body as it pulls itself back into consciousness, but after the bed shakes again, I know it's something else. Someone else.
Even though it's my bed, my room, I stay very still, just waiting. This is all still so new to me. Sara has come into my bed twice in one week. What does this make us? Anything? I wonder if this even means as much to her as it does to me.
It only takes a few more breaths before I feel her heat through the fleece of the sweatshirt. I love that she wants to wear it, and that she saw it in the first place. Her arm falls over my chest, and her hair falls on my shoulder. I wrap one arm around her, hugging the skin beneath the sweatshirt, and with my other hand, I gently finger the end of a strand of her hair.
Should I say something? Staring out into the darkness, I don't feel a strong urge to speak, but maybe she wants me to. My mouth opens, and I know the first word to emerge will be her name, but just as my vocal chords begin their vibration, I feel her cheek on my chest. Her breath tickles my skin, escaping from her mouth as tiny sighs, and I recognize the steady rise and fall of her body as a indication that she's fallen asleep. After a few moments of listening to her breathe, I follow her cue, and slide my finger along her hair one more time before my hand falls to her shoulder and I slowly return to my dream.
The buzzing of the alarm wakes me with a start, interrupting my usual pleasantries, and I sigh heavily. I turn my head to where Sara slept last night, then let out a long, slow, bewildered exhale; I am alone with the sweatshirt again. I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the fleece. One more sigh fills the room, and then I force myself to the shower.
This work week was made to torture me. I didn't think it was possible for things to be any less uneventful. I spent the first three hours of shift signing reports, and now the thought of my own initials makes me cross-eyed. For the past two hours I've sat in my chair, staring at my spider. The baboon tarantula. He's moved around the same cubic foot of aquarium at least three dozen times, but continues to make each step with extreme caution. Once in a while, when someone passes by my door, his tiny hairs will stand on edge. Slowly, they retract, and he continues on his cyclical quest.
I'm entranced by the movement of his legs, slow and methodical, lightly feeling out the area before planting a step. Watching him distracts me so much I don't even hear the knock at my door.
"Grissom."
My head shoots up and I blink to free myself from the trance. Sara stands in my doorway, leaning against the frame. She smiles at my expression: a twelve year-old boy with his first chemistry set.
She steps into the room, lowering her voice. I strain foward to hear her.
"About this morning... I... I just wanted to get an early start."
I nod, unconsciously twisting my mouth, and awkwardly bite my lip. Words are not my speciality.
"I have some housework to do tonight... laundry, some cleaning... so... I'm not sure I'll be by later."
I wait, to make sure she's finished. "Okay." That's all I manage to say, despite the infinite other things floating around in my head. Come. Stay. Don't ever leave. I smile, though, so hopefully that says what I can't.
She nods. "I'm going to get dinner..." she says, and maybe I take too long to take her up on the offer, because she continues, "So I'll be back in half an hour." She backs out of the room, leaving me to my spider.
After I take an extended dinner break, I return to my office and whip out the crossword I was working on before. 38 Across. Ten letters. Bewilderment. Bafflement. Confusion. P-e-r-p-l-e-x-i-t-y.
That night, I set out the sweatshirt again, but my anxiety gets the better of me. I can't seem to concentrate on a single thought, and, worse than that, I can't purge my mind completely so I can sleep. I stare at the ceiling for what seems like eternity, waiting... listening... hoping. When the alarm wakes me in the morning I don't even remember dreaming. The sweatshirt is still on the bureau.
We actually have a case today, thank God. Catherine, Sara and I work a jumper down on the south end of the strip. A Mandalay Bay base-jumper, to be more precise. Apparently his parachute didn't open. I know how he feels. The surrounding crowd of onlookers prevents me from talking at length with Sara, but we manage to exchange a few meaningful glances. I love sleeping next to her too much to want to bring up how confused I am, or why I want to know where she was last night. Just when I think the vibes will go unnoticed, I swear I catch Catherine staring at me, her eyes shifting back and forth, mind working, processing. I try to hide my eyes from her as much as possible.
As I brush my teeth that night, I find myself entranced by my reflection again. I frown. My ears have already betrayed me, and now my eyes threaten to give away everything I need to feel safe. Dammit. I feel a slight sting on my upper right gum. I must have been brushing my teeth too hard again; that always happens when I'm not paying attention. I spit into the sink, watching as a small amount of blood washes down the drain with my toothpaste.
A few moments later, I find myself at the dresser again, holding the sweatshirt in my hand. I stare at it, and swallow hard, closing my eyes. What if she never comes again? I exhale through my nose, and then leave the sweatshirt on the bureau. I fall asleep almost immediately. I'm exhausted.
I manage to dream that night, more vividly than ever before. Maybe it's the deepness of my slumber. Not surprisingly, I dream of Sara. Normally I float in and out of my dream, entering it somewhere in the midst of a kiss, and tonight is no different. However, this time, I sleep so soundly that the dream seems to extend forever. The one kiss blends into another, and fairly soon Sara and I lie in my bed, much like we've done in the past week, only our hands and mouths seem to be everywhere, traveling over each other's bodies, exploring, discovering.
For the remainder of the dream, I make love to her, slowly, passionately, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her, her moans and whispers. As she starts to stir beneath me, clawing at my back, I feel a sudden rush of energy, and I know I'm not far from release. Oh... God... Sara... I call out her name, and all at once the rush passes through me to her with an urgency and electricity I never knew existed until this moment. And as I nearly pass out from the overwhelming sensation, I'm suddenly awake. And I'm not alone.
I blink, staring at the body next to mine. Her shoulder rises, then falls, and then all of a sudden I'm staring into her wide-open eyes.
She stayed.
Work has certainly become more interesting, if not dangerous. Our glances are more frequent, our smiles less subtle, and I brush against her far too often for someone else not to notice. Our random nocturnal ritual still defies my sense of logic, but maybe that's what I like about it. And tonight, more than ever, I hope she comes to my bed again. But more than that, I hope she stays. I know I'll need her. We're all on trial today, the entire lab. My mentor has returned with an armful of ammo, cocked and set to explode in our faces.
I find her examining the sheets, blood-stained with splatters of anger, confusion, pure, blind rage. I doubt Tom Haviland has ever awakened clutching empty sheets. I watch Sara defy Gerard the way I wanted to all those years ago. He seems unshaken, and hands me a folder. Photos of a bra. I nod. Nothing new. And then, I hear the word, and it stuns me. Please... no. Tell me it's my hearing this time. I've never wished I was deaf more than this very moment, right here, right now. Twelve letters. Association. Connection. Link. R-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p.
After the trial, I run into her in the locker room, stuffing some work clothes into a bag. I can't help but take in the sight of her in that suit one more time. She looks up at me, and stands up as straight as she can.
"You did well up there," she finally offers.
I stare at the floor. "Yeah."
When I don't continue, she zips up her bag, and brushes past me to the doorway. Then she stops, turns around.
"I'll see you tonight, maybe..." she asks, looking back over her shoulder.
I purse my lips, wondering if it will just continue to make everything that much more difficult. Finally, I nod. "Sure."
I set out the sweatshirt, half-expecting a visit. She's busy nowadays. Laundry. Cleaning. *Him.* I shake the image from my mind, and crawl under the sheets. All too soon, the alarm wakes me, and I sit up in bed, staring at the untouched sweatshirt.
Two hours. That's how long ago I paged her. Two hours of Nick and Warrick and Catherine and... no Sara. I miss her more than I thought I would, and I didn't sleep well. She finally shows up, apologetic, but I know... I know where she was. Who was with her. *Him.*
She looks so utterly disappointed in me, so... angry. I'm being an ass, I suppose, but she needs to work away from me right now, work her own case.
"Solo?" she asks again, in disbelief that I don't need her on this.
"You're on your own." I clench my jaw and watch her storm off.
The case closes nicely, all the angles coming together, all of us working together... well, almost all of us. Sara solves hers, of course. I never had my doubts about that. I do have my doubts about why I sent her and not Warrick. Or Nick. She was late. She didn't answer her page.
She was with *him.*
I go back to my paperwork, remembering why I don't normally bother with living people. It's all just too ... hard.
"G'nite," I hear.
She has on more makeup than usual, and a nice leather jacket covers the shirt clinging to her form. Looks like she's ready for a night out with... someone else.
"Good night, Sara." Before I make a bigger fool out of myself, she walks away. Please don't go, I want to shout. "Hey!" is all I can manage. She actually turns back to me. "Nice work on the high school case," I continue, and offer a slight smile.
She smiles back, bigger than I expected. And then I realize I'm still smiling. I suddenly look down at my desk.
"I'm sorry I missed your page," she suddenly says, leaning against the door frame. I want to say I accept the apology, but I don't expect her to continue. "It's just... you tell me to get a life, so I get one... and then you expect me to be there at a moment's notice. It's..." Not fair? Not what you want? "...Confusing."
Struck by her words, I suddenly want her to know that I care, know that I... love her. I take off my glasses and swallow, and then lick my lips. I try and form a response in my head as quickly as possible. What I meant was... what I was trying to say was... I... don't ever ... I need ... I lo-- and then I raise my head, and she's gone. For real. I can't even go back to my paperwork, and I just sit there, thinking. I feel like it's 4th down and goal, and the ball's just been thrust into my arms.
[fin for now...]