A/N: Sorry for the long hiatus between updates.
She danced with him once. It was a clumsy dance, as she, half-drunk, tried to recall the steps. He had smiled and his warmth just encompassed her. She had smiled then, considered it a symbol of their courtship. She doesn't smile anymore. Not genuine smiles. She creates deceitful smiles of happiness, weaving her way out of every confrontation.
She wonders if he remembers. She remembers. She remembers everything about that night. Even the wine. It was tart and bitter, but it was a perfect complement to him. She had kissed him that night, a thorough, searing kiss to steal his breath away. She doesn't remember if it worked. He danced with her again, and all she remembers is the twirling. Circles. Constant circles.
That was the first time they had sex. Made love. One or the other. After all the drinks and all the abuse, it starts to blend together. You can't distinguish anymore. The wine mutes everything. All she remembers are the tangled limbs, how he tasted, how he smelled, how he acted. She remembers in bits and pieces. And if she remembers for too long, she can still feel his hands on her, gently taking what he wanted. That's all he did in their relationship. She's a shell now. She knows it. Something has hollowed her out, made her a figurine, a trophy for someone to dust occasionally. It leaves a lot of time for self-abuse. She wants to blame him. But she knows part of it is her fault too. And she knows somewhere that the alcohol has a key role in it. But she can't uncover the mysteries of the universe…or Grissom. It's too late, and she's too bitter. And what would she do then? Run back into his arms and expect another compliment a leap year and be satisfied? If anything, her pride wouldn't let her. And pride is all she has left. Pride. And work.
She watches him in the lab, dancing and headbanging among test tubes and centrifuges. Very precious equipment. Very priceless equipment. She wonders if he realizes that she's just as fragile. She wonders how he'd dance with her. Would he step on her toes like she stepped on his? Would he whisper things into her ear? Would he take her someplace where ball gowns were only fashionable if there were seven million rips and tears in them? She tries not to imagine morbid scenarios, but they emerge anyway. She closes her eyes.
There's something different in her demeanor. A date with Grissom meant walking on eggshells, special preparation. A date with Greg meant…jeans and a t-shirt. Something casual, something comfortable. She wondered if she could ever think of Greg in a romantic sense. She had always just considered him a friend. You don't need love to make a relationship work. It's just another relationship. Like a contract. I stipulate what you do for me, you tell me what you expect of me in return.
She changed their plans. Breakfast to lunch. Not that it mattered to her. To her, it was only a change in axial position, time, food items. She wouldn't even try to fathom what it meant to him. She had wasted so much of her life fathoming, trying to understand somebody else. She couldn't take it anymore. She would take her date with Greg at face value. No more, no less.
So she dons her clothing. It's almost like snapping on gloves at a crime scene. If you start to hide behind things long enough, they actually start to hide you. She puts on make-up. She's amazed that dust hasn't started to collect on her cosmetics. She's putting on her shoes when the doorbell rings. She answers it, face flushed, cheerful expression plastered on. The deceit comes second nature to her now. She doesn't know if she should be proud or disgusted. He smiles behind a large bouquet. She takes them, a genuine smile dancing on her lips.
"Thanks, Greg. They're beautiful." She hopes he doesn't reply with something cliché about how she's beautiful. She doesn't expect him to. He doesn't. "You really didn't have to."
The playful glint returns to his eye, bright and shining. He knows that it's not going to be sober and serious. He knows that she wants to keep things the same. Except heightened. He doesn't know what he thinks. Well, he can't understand it anyway. "I was raised traditionally," he says, with a grin. "Flowers, candy, diamonds."
"In that order?"
Their quips make it seem more comfortable, more them. But the awkwardness jostles its way in, stealing a front-row seat. By the end of the night, they have worked themselves into a comfortable silence. They've managed to work their relationship from the plateau up to a higher, more dangerous cliff, but the awkward silence is there. Which is why she is thoroughly surprised when she finds herself kissing him. He kisses her back, his hands settling themselves on her waist. He tries to ignore the subtle taste of alcohol that lingers on her teeth. She pulls away, smiling. She feels sixteen again. "I had fun tonight."
"Me too." He can't bring himself to say something witty. Everything popping into his head sounds…wrong. So he doesn't say anything. He lets the silence settle in. "We should do this again." She nods, and he leans in to kiss her. It's a gentle kiss, a chaste one. Her lips just seem to tempt him. They whisper good night, and she walks into her building.
She pours herself a glass of red wine, and draws back her window curtains. She watches the moon and drinks slowly. She's savoring. She touches her lips, remembering the feeling of when Greg kissed her. Inevitably, the memory of her first kiss with Grissom returns to her as well. She downs the rest of her glass quickly, drawing the curtains closed. The moon disappears, and she's receding into darkness. She can't stop thinking about him. She tries not to think of it as lying to herself, but it's inevitable to see it any other way. She bites her lip and draws blood. As she tastes it, she can't help but think that there's no way to run from yourself.