Eccentric Seeming Emotions Chapter 5: Fall, a csi fanfic

Disclaimer: It's been a year; hopefully by now everybody knows: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation does not belong to me.

Author's Note: For Mr. Hathaway; for b8kworm and Sun Mee who give me nothing but support. For Mark, I count everyday of my life with you in it as a blessing; always remember that. For the people who do or ought to belong to nagging.com - Angie, Manda, Marianne, and Rita. Will you ever cut me some slack? Thanks, Mena, for the song. Many, many thanks to Beth for permission to use Bleak; we did it! Thank you for inspiring me. There is no chronological order to these chapters; consider it a stream-of-thought.

Summary: Tonight, something had changed and he sincerely cursed the near perfect memory that made his job easier while his heart became a wrenched mess.

Rating: PG-13

Archives: the Graveyard, mine. Anybody else, email me.

Pairing(s): G/C

Spoiler(s): None.

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Title: Eccentric Seeming Emotions

Author: Laeta
Email: ladylaetayahoo.com

Chapter 5: Fall

Bleak and lonely, the depths of one's soul.
The deep abyss of emotion shattered before them in one explosive cry for help.
The screams - love is life; love is lost.
The reckless tumble of eccentric-seeming emotions quake as they erupt to the surface.
We fall.

He found her through two glass walls where she leaned over the lighted table of the layout room. She was intent on the evidence strewn before her, oblivious to his own concentrated scrutiny as though glass really does diffuse intensity. Ever the scientist, he noted her casual outfit with some amused sense of detachment, committing the colors and style to memory. He noticed with more wariness the tiredness no amount of skillful makeup application can hide.

Then, he wondered what interrupted her slumber. On a whimsical breath, he ignored the tug that her culprit was the same creator of his dreams. With a ruthlessness that still shocked him, he took an imaginary weed whacker and cut the train of thought right to its roots. Wanting simply to stop thinking, he aimed for something that would occupy a full one hundred percent of his considerable mental capacity - paperwork.

Yet, even mentally fatigued, it did not stop the dreams nor the whisper of sensations so real that he wakes expecting her warmth. Why would tonight be any different anyway? Physical exhaustion does absolutely nothing to fight them, dulled senses by other means serves only to heighten the dreams' reality.

So why exactly does he not do the single thing guaranteed to stop the dreams? It is because he cannot find himself worthy of her. She is his goddess of vibrancy, warmth, grace, and perfection; Gil learned his lessons well: only pain is delivered for touching such elevated creatures. He also refused to completely stop the dreams because they were the solitary times he was with her, and as much as he wanted her in reality, he would join her any way he could.

This being the case, he arrived at the precipice where he longed for sleep to arrive and the false realities it promised. He dreaded closing his eyes since the time would come to open them again and face the knowledge within his heart. Waking alone every evening and realizing his subconscious images were merely that - images - he would vow never to sleep again. Still, he always granted its arrival.

Another night, this time he watched her from the corner of his eye. Keeping her in his peripheral vision was a skill nurtured and perfected over the many years. It was as simple as breathing now and aided by the fact that red has the widest field of vision of all three colors. He caught easily the red in her hair as she moved through the crime scene - bending over a dented piece of wood, the blood drops beneath it, following the trail the evidence clearly told as the timeline.

Tonight, though, there was no fatigue; she hummed to herself as she worked, not realizing as she made her way through Symphony Number Nine in E Minor. He remembered vividly that night so long ago, when he introduced her to Antonin Dvorak. It was love at first sight.

A few years since, they went to a performance and Catherine had wept for the heartbreaking beauty of the piece. She was not alone; so many of their companions in the audience also shed a few silent tears. Afterwards, they strolled along the street, heading for the Strip. Donned in evening wear and the desert night chilling their breaths, they ducked into the casino bar. That was the first time he had met Sam Braun, who guarded Catherine so protectively. She smiled, ever willing to indulge him.

When they stepped back into the cold, his car was waiting and warm; she tipped the valet for the efficiency and the extra touch. Home was a few miles away, and they drank coffee, relaxing for the rest of the night. He could not remember if they fell asleep but, from that night, he knew the texture of her skin. It slowly drove him mad.

Even as he dreamed those torturous fantasies, his memory always inputted the satin smoothness of her skin. Memorized by the pads of his fingers, he cursed the innocent massage that plagued him still. More than that was the sensory overload she caused when she leaned against him as the sun rose. Pale yellow deepened to gilt gold, highlighted the skin her dress did not cover.

He lost the ability to move on that night.