Life got chaotic, but I finally have some time to commit to this. I appreciate your feedback so much, thank you for taking the time. If there's anything- broad or specific- that you'd like to see, tell me your thoughts. I hope you enjoy.

Sara

I've been staring at the moonlit desert so long that I'm starting to see multitudes. The horizon glows dimly beneath the starlit sky. The dark umber of sand dunes, the shadowed crevasses of canyons. Cacti jutting awkwardly from the ground.

I search for constellations, but my mind keeps drifting. I find the belt of Orion and think of the night that Gil mapped stars from the edge of the city, a meteor shower raining down that he insisted we watch. I think of his excitement and my cold hands and the way I drank black tea from a thermos he brought, wincing at the taste. How I kept drinking it to stay warm. I find the bow of Sagittarius and I'm thinking of arrows turned knives turned weapons in the hands of vengeful men.

"Have you ever been to Arizona?"

I startle at the sound of Sofia's voice. We've been silent for hours now, my mind everywhere but on her, quiet at the wheel.

"I was in Phoenix for a forensics conference a couple years ago" I tell her, voice raspy from lack of use. It was really more of an intoxicated weekend with Greg spent touring East end pubs, though I leave that part out.

"You?"

"I helped an ex move out here once" she tells me, thumbs tapping against the wheel. "Tucson. It was July and my air conditioning broke down halfway there. It was …" she puffs out a breath, "A very long trip"

I frown at the thought, wondering briefly about the sort of men she dates. If she prefers to be just as domineering in her personal life or whether she softens. What she's like with her guard laid down.

"Why would anyone want to live in Tucson?"

"Why would anyone want to live in Vegas?" she counters, glancing over and arching an eyebrow.

I smile, popping one of the mints from the pack I've been slowly devouring into my mouth and shrugging.

"Distraction, excitement, living on the fringes of society. Who knows."

"Is that why you're there?"

I chuckle, staring out at the illuminated pavement in front of us.

"I… have a life there"

"How did you end up in Vegas?"

I consider the question and settle on the simplest answer. The one that doesn't involve my mother's hysteria or a desire to run. Life was at a standstill. Grissom called, I went.

"I was called in to investigate a death on the team and offered a permanent position"

"Why did you stay? Why not work the case and go back to San Francisco?"

I clench my teeth, shattering the remnants of mint. She's the last person I want to talk to about that with- my naïve assumptions, the pliability of a youthful heart.

"I needed a change I guess" I tell her, glancing back out the passenger window at desert that stretches on for miles.

"What kind of change?"

"A big one, clearly"

She stares at me for a moment before scoffing, returning her gaze to the road.

"Why are you so hostile with me?" she asks after a moment, shifting positions in her seat.

"I'm not hostile" I defend.

"You are" she insists, amusement coloring her voice. Of course she's right, but I will never admit this.

"I'm tired, I'm irritated about having a trip sprung on me last minute, it has nothing to do with you"

"You have been hostile towards me since I showed up, Sara. It's been two years, it's getting a little tough not to take it personally"

I don't want to have this conversation, trapped in a vehicle in the middle of the desert, though she seems perfectly comfortable broaching it. I don't want to dissect feelings that I haven't yet sorted out for myself.

"Will me answering your question make you feel less victimized?"

I expect indignation but she chuckles, glancing over at me.

"It's a start"

I should just answer her. I should tell her how San Francisco felt like a cage, how an unnameable wanting was driving me mad, driving me to distraction, driving me out of the one place that was meant to feel like home. Better yet, I could lie. Tell her some story about a bad breakup or larger ambitions.

Instead, I choose to be ornery.

"It's not like you've exactly tried to be friendly, Sofia. You hang out with Greg, Nick adores you, you spend more time with Grissom than anyone"

She raises an eyebrow and I glare out the window, irritated at myself for bringing him up.

"You want to hang out?"

There it is again, that casual amusement.

"I don't want to be blamed for the fact that we're not friends"

"I'm not looking for friendship, Sara. I'm tired of you treating me like someone not to be trusted"

She looks over at me, amusement faded into a more serious emotion that I can't quite place. It's not the first time she's brought up my lack of trust.

"I trust you…"

She quirks an eyebrow, an unspoken question hanging heavily between us. It's clear that she knows about Grissom and me. She isn't one to beat around the bush, but she's giving me an option now- pursue this conversation or relent. How can I explain that I trust her with my life but not my partner? That I have no good reason for feeling this way. That my insecurities amplify when she's around.

I sigh, leaning back into my seat and sliding my foot up against the dashboard, staring out the window.

"San Francisco started to feel suffocating. It's home, but it… stopped feeling that way. I felt like something was missing and no matter what I did, I couldn't fill the void. When the opportunity arose to come to Vegas, I jumped on it"

It's not the full truth, but it's not a lie. She is quiet for a long moment.

"Do you miss it?"

"Yeah, I do"

Silence stretches between us and I'm starting to feel a slight tenderness towards her. A guilt derived from years of unjustified feelings. Mostly unjust anyway.

"How did you end up in Vegas?" I ask her eventually, studying the soft curves of her features against the glow of dashboard lights.

She chuckles, glancing over at me, eyes crinkling softly.

"I'd tell you about it, but we're not really friends"

I stare at her for a moment- her bright eyes, lips fighting a grin. A crooked smile plays over my face before I turn back to the window, the distant lights of a city beginning to take form.

"Touché"

I sleep deeply for the first time in weeks, lulled by the soft drone of the air conditioner and the peace of having 300 miles stretched between me and anything familiar. I wake before sunrise and consider going for a run, instead wandering a few blocks down in search of decent coffee.

I had hoped to hear from Gil by now but am not surprised that I haven't. I tell myself that he's busy. That his migraines are back and he's tired. I cling to the thread of truth in this, ignoring the larger reality. He doesn't know how to handle conflict between us. When I'm irritated, he disengages until I inevitably return to him. It will be a few days before he reaches out to test the waters, assuming I am not the first to relent.

I do however have a slew of work emails that I'm frowning at as I enter back onto the hotel grounds, finding purchase against a large, abstract statue. I slip a beaten-up pack of Marlboros from my pocket, sticking one between my lips as I glance over an email regarding a recent case. I don't smoke often, but the habit has crept back in over the past few months. There has been an uptick in violence and a downtick in my ability to cope with it all.

The sound of shattering glass on the large hotel balcony draws my attention, up to where a bus boy stands frozen, a tray of what looks to have been mimosas at his feet. I wince at the scene, taking in the towering Cottonwoods that shade the breakfast buffet; a large Bougainvillea that trails up the side of the white building, a deep shade of crimson. I almost don't notice Sofia standing beneath it, ceramic coffee cup in one hand, a cigarette in the other, frowning down at her phone.

She looks tense, even from a distance. It feels out of place in the quiet, six am peace. She's in all black, a contrast against the white building. Against the vibrant blooms trailing above her.

The young bus boy slips out a back door, fishing what looks to be a joint out of his pocket, sticking it between chapped lips. His pants are wet from spilt champagne and I smile, flicking ash from the end of my smoke, remembering my own chaotic youth. He leans against the wall, collecting himself for a moment before catching sight of Sofia. Appreciation quickly morphs into suspicion, and before she takes notice he mutters something under his breath, returning the joint to the safety of his palm and heading around to the other side of the patio.

I smile into a sip of coffee, wondering if she realizes how much cop she carries with her, even off the clock. As though sensing my attention, she glances up to meet my gaze.

I stare at her for a moment before offering a smile, raising my hand in greeting. She gives me a nod of acknowledgement, drawing the cigarette to her lips.

I'm still feeling at ease with her, hopeful that we might make it through this trip unscathed. I wander over, stubbing the embers of my smoke out against the wall. She looks exhausted but refined as ever, ponytail burnished and tight, blouse impossibly smooth.

"I didn't know you smoke" I admit, leaning back against the wall next to her, avoiding the trunk of the Bougainvillea. She takes a final drag, turning her head to blow smoke away from me.

"I don't"

I snort quietly, smile playing over my lips.

"Yeah, me either"

She quirks an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. I'm not exactly subtle with my rooftop cigarette breaks, but so far no one has taken notice. Or so I thought.

We share silence, gazing out at the horizon where the sun has peeked out over the mountains, casting golden light over everything. I revel in the warmth, soon to be extreme and unforgiving. I love the desert in these small, fleeting moments.

I'm about to tell her something of the sort, but she shifts against the wall, something in her posture giving away the sudden switch to professional mode.

"I have to show you something"

She sounds tired and I look at her quizzically, watching her slip her phone from her back pocket.

"What am I looking at?" I ask as she passes it to me, a video cued up.

"It's Darrel Walton, filling up at a gas-and-go a couple of miles from his house the night of the murders. Brass sent it over this morning"

She doesn't look at me as she says this, grabbing her aviators from the V of her blouse and slipping them on. There's a tension in my stomach as I play the video, a grainy Walton filling up a vehicle that matches the description given by neighbours. I knew it.

"This is good news, Sofia" I remind her, pressing the phone back into her hand. Something solid amidst the mess of circumstantial evidence we've been working with.

"Yeah" she breathes. I'm about to attempt comfort- point out that the job hasn't yet jaded her. That it's not her fault that Walton played her, how could she be objective when he had seemingly lost his entire family in a single, gently delivered sentence. I'm about to speak when her phone rings and I glance down at it, Grissom's name lighting up the screen.

It feels like a betrayal. Like a gut punch. When I meet her gaze, the look she's giving me is somewhere between exhaustion and irritation. I press my lips into a thin line, taking a few steps backwards.

"You should get that"

"Sara…"

I stop, looking at her expectantly. She runs her tongue over her lip before giving her head a soft shake.

"I'll meet you in the lobby in half an hour"