A/N: From what I can remember, I intended this to be a work-in-progress, so expect more from me. Thanks so much to Sara for the betaing. Read. Review. Enjoy.
Sara Sidle hated birthdays. She hadn't begun to hate them until she turned thirty. That was when the questioning began. They were always asking. It wasn't any of their damn business anyway. She wished she was five-years-old again. When growing another year older was something to look forward to. When life actually intrigued her. When was the last time life had actually given her something worth rejoicing over? When he asked you to come…and stay in Vegas. Her mind answered her. And she wished it wouldn't.
The air seems suffocating. It envelops her, surrounding her. She has nowhere to go. And then the thoughts begin to seep in, random sounds making their way through the crevices of her mind. She wants to burrow a hole through the floor, and hide. Just stay. But she can't. It's late, and the moon's usual brightness is absent. The clouds are covering it. Surrounding it, like the oppressive heat is surrounding her.
She's seated in the corner of her kitchen, on the floor. Why is it every year on her birthday she's on the floor? There's a bottle of gin beside her, with a shot glass near it. She remembered in her mad scramble that she had gotten whiskey also. You always need a fallback. What had happened to the girl from Harvard? Was she utterly lost? She was lost in the escape. She poured gin into the shot glass, and sipped at it, enjoying the slow, tortuous burning. The shot glass was pretty pointless. She knew she would drink a large portion of the bottle, and she could accomplish that a lot quicker by drinking straight from the bottle. But the shot glass provides her something she needs. There's a meticulous activity she needs to accomplish. She pours carefully, making sure not to exceed the line. And then she lifts it, and sips at it slowly. It's almost ladylike.
A short, bitter laugh leaves the hollow of her throat, and glides over the silence like silk. She hasn't been anything resembling a lady in a long time. The alcohol assaults her senses, but she doesn't mind. To the contrary, she welcomes the feeling. It's a feeling of rapture. Substitution. Her whole life seems to be composed of substitutions. Since she has no existing relatives, she'll be placed in a foster home immediately. And now? She was replacing the rapture of love with the rapture of getting drunk. But that was a ways off. She could hold her liquor. And she still had a bottle of whiskey.
In the back of her mind, she hears a soft ringing. It takes a few minutes before she realizes it's her phone. She crawls over and rummages around, locating the little plastic thing. She lifts it, and answers it. "Sidle." It's him, and it's a crime scene. Yes, another thing demanding her attention. She ends the call, a smile dancing on her lips. Triumph lights up her features. She's become so skilled at hiding it. She's practically an expert. Quickly scrambling to her feet, she caps the gin, and plans to return to it later. She brushes her teeth, and gargles with mouthwash.
She drives slowly, methodically. Her complete knowledge of Nevada's driving laws is in the forefront of her mind. She arrives at the crime scene without incident. She parks her car, and meets him, prepared to receive her assignment. He delegates a room for her, and she heads off. Before she even takes a step, he inquires about her, and she replies positively. He can smell the faintest touch of alcohol on her breath. It's slight, and it intermingles with the overpowering mint. The investigator in him wants to interrogate her, to help in any way. But things have not been smooth lately between them. Their civilities are becoming more forced and tense than genuine and comfortable.
She is completely shocked when he asks her to breakfast. After all, was it not he that completely rejected her proposal for dinner? There is a part of her that is incensed, angry beyond belief at him, but she suppresses it. She accepts, flashing him a rare smile, and he tells her a restaurant. He asks her to meet him there. "Supposedly the best pancakes in Las Vegas," he says, flourishing the sentence with a nervous grin.
It's close to five a.m. now. The air is still cool. She wonders if it's still suffocating in her apartment. She gazes up at the stars, the ones that are hidden by a thin veil. He thinks they're akin to her. They're so bright, so beautiful, yet so distant, and there are parts of them that are always hidden. She smiles at him as she packs away the evidence she processed, and the equipment she used.
She steps into her car, and almost programs her brain to recall all the information about Nevada driving laws. Evasiveness is her key tool now. She places her hands on the steering wheel, and starts the car. As she drives away, she tries not to think of the gin waiting for her at home.
A/N: So what did you think? Sorry if it was out-of-character. Click shiny button?