CSI: New York

Phantasmagoria

Phantasmagoria by definition is a scene that is something like you see in a dream

Eight

Isabelle had slapped him.

She could still hear the slapping of her palm against his cheek. She could still remember the look Emily gave. She replayed the scene over and over in her head. He did not flinch when her palm met his cheek. He did not blink. He did not say anything at all. He did not move. He just stood there before her, looking down at her with his blue eyes, staring. She could not read the emotion off of his face; he looked neutral.

Of course, she was furious, breathing hard. She stared back at him despite the stinging pain on her palm which she had slapped him with. She did not know she had given him a hard slap. She did not know she could ever slap him that hard – until today. She must have been really angry then.

Then the telephone rang.

It brought her back to reality and when it finally registered in her head, she found herself staring down at her palm, the one that met his cheek. She did not know why she was looking at it or why she was replaying the scene over and over in her head. Was she guilty for slapping him? Did he really deserve it? Was it rational of her doing that?

She did not know.

"Are you going to get that, dear?" her mother asked standing by her bedroom door with a broom. Isabelle looked over at her. "The telephone, Isabelle, it's ringing."

Oh! She stood up from sitting in front of the computer and rushed over to the telephone on her nightstand. "Hello?"

"Hi, um, is Isabelle in?"

"Hello, Lindsay," she greeted, smiling trying to forget about the incident with Don. "What can I do for you?"

She laughed. "A lot, really. Um, about dinner tonight, Mac and Sheldon can't make it. You know Mac, he's always about work and work and he ends up being busy. Sheldon has got plans, so yeah. I just wanted to tell you that."

What is this woman talking about? What dinner? She tried to recall the last time she talked to either Danny or Lindsay. Did she ever mention about dinner?

"Are you there?" Lindsay asked after a moment of silence.

"Yeah," she responded as she saw her mother raced past her bedroom with a cloth. What is she doing, anyway? "Right, dinner…what time is it again and where exactly?"

"You're funny," Lindsay laughed, though Isabelle did not know if it was a forced one or sincere. So Isabelle laughed along with her. "Well, according to Danny who said according to your mother, dinner is at eight, your place."

Mother, she thought, no longer smiling. She caught a glimpse of her mother racing past her bedroom again. It all made sense now – all the sweeping, dusting and cleaning. Her mother was having guests over...without her acknowledgement.

"Well, uh," she paused, "I guess I'll see you at eight then."

"Okay," Lindsay agreed, "I'm looking forward to meeting your mother. Danny told me some nice stories about her."

They said their goodbyes after that and as soon as they hung up, Isabelle stood up and went after her mother, whom she found hunching over a pot on the stove, singing softly to a song coming from the radio in the kitchen. She cleared her throat as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"You're having guests over?"

"Mm-hmm," her mother replied, nodding. "And the only reason I didn't tell you earlier because you'd disagree. I'm leaving tomorrow and I don't want to leave without seeing them. That Lindsay girl is such a doll – sweet and polite. And oh, Sheldon, I can't wait to meet him."

"Sheldon's not coming," she said. "He's got plans of his own."

"Oh." Isabelle could hear the disappointment in her voice as she continued stirring. "Well then I guess Mr. Taylor can't make it as well?"

"He's busy," she said bitterly.

The kitchen fell quiet then. Even the radio had stopped playing. The only sound could be heard was the boiling pot. She remained leaning against the counter, not knowing exactly why she was still there. Was she waiting for her mother to say something? Was she waiting for an apology? Or was she debating of confiding in her mother that she had slapped Don so hard that the incident was still fresh in her mind? Well, it has been only a day. Of course it's fresh.

"Are you mad at me?" her mother blurted out, turning to face her.

She thought for a moment and then she smiled. "That's ridiculous. Of course I'm not."

Her mother was surprised by her answer. Not the answer she was expecting from her hotheaded daughter. "Are you sure? Don is coming, you know. I thought you said no the other time? You sure you're not mad?"

She shrugged at her. "I can deal with that besides, I have got boxes to return."

X

Don sneezed for an umpteenth time at the table.

Isabelle could barely contain herself from revealing the smile. Before they arrived for dinner, she had snuck out of the apartment and ran her way down the hallway to Laquisha's apartment who happened to have a cat – a white Persian cat. Laquisha was determined of not handing her precious cat over but after a little bribing, she agreed.

Isabelle borrowed her cat since Don was allergic to it. She did that on purpose. It seemed that her plan was working.

Don sneezed again. He looked over at Isabelle, and then glared. He was annoyed, very annoyed.

Stella laughed at something Danny said and Isabelle's mother was too busy to notice that Don was sneezing more than he should. Lindsay could only glance at Isabelle and Don every now and then as she listened to all the stories Isabelle's mother was telling, the protagonist being Isabelle herself.

Isabelle, on the other hand, seemed not to realize about that. She was, well, busy glaring back at Don at the other end of the table. Otherwise, she would have protested and insisted on talking about something else.

Then something happened.

Don "accidentally" knocked his wine glass over. The plan was to just spill it on the table but ended up spilling on his lap instead. Very smart of you, Don, he mocked himself.

Everyone at the table saw that but nobody said anything. He was staring at Isabelle. He kept on staring and still, nobody moved or said anything. Everyone was waiting for somebody to say something or do something. But no one moved. They had stopped talking and he had stopped sneezing – for now. It was silent with the only sound of the clock ticking: tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

It was annoying.

"Uh—"

"I got it," Isabelle cut her mother off as she excused herself from the table to get a cloth from the kitchen.

Everyone stared after her, excluding Don as he took a napkin and began pressing it on his pants. And then he stood up, "I'm going get cleaned up."

Isabelle was just about to walk out of the kitchen when Don appeared in the doorway. When he made it clear that he was not going to step out of the way and let her through, she took a step back.

But she ended up taking one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eig—her back met with the steel refrigerator door. He placed both of his hands on either side of her on the refrigerator door. He was standing so close that she could smell his cologne touching her nostrils, his warm breath pricking at her bare skin and his eyes locked with hers.

Her heartbeat quickened and her breath shortened as he leaned in closer, slowly. She shut her eyes as she felt their noses touching. He was going to kiss her, again. Maybe she would have to slap him one more time to remind him of the last incident.

But she did not want to slap him. You want him to kiss you then? Feel his lips on yours, feel his touch that ignites the fire within you, roaming every inch of your body, hearing him moan—

"I opened your box!" she blurted out, ducking under his arms and stood away from him, facing the sink, breathing hard.

This was awkward.

Don regained his composure before walking over to her and taking the cloth out of her deathly grip. He chuckled as she released it. "Found anything interesting?"

There, he sounds neutral. He was back to being the annoying Don. She was relieved but as she stood there, staring at the knife by the sink, she herself felt annoyed. Without giving any second thought she grabbed it and face him, the tip of the blade pointed towards him.

"You, do you always have to pretend that nothing happened? What was that back there? Why are you doing this to me? It's disturbing, Don, get it? It's disturbing to see you act like nothing happened! So stop it before I stop you myself!"

He was tempted to just grab her wrist and silenced her again with his lips but with her holding the knife, anything could happen. So, instead, he smugly said, "I challenge you to that." He smirked.

He smirked at her with that annoying smirk of his.

Slamming the knife down on the countertop, she grabbed a fistful of his blouse and their lips came colliding with each other. It was so sudden that Don actually lost his footing, tripped and fell, hitting his head against the cupboard doors on the other side.

She broke the kiss as soon as she found herself sitting on his lap as he held the back of his head, rubbing at it. He was groaning. If she was angry just a few moments earlier, she was not anymore. In fact, she was grinning down at him, chuckling. She found the whole thing hilarious.

"Are you okay?" she asked sincerely, laughing softly trying to keep it down.

He sat himself up a little better but she did not remove herself from being on his lap. He did not mind it anyway. "Why am I always the one getting hurt?" He did not expect her to answer.

"That's because you're clum—"

"Oh my God" someone exclaimed. "What on earth are you two doing!"

X

demolished-soul – Hehe. Thanks. I hope you didn't squeal like you did on the previous chapter since, well, you know, Don tripped and all. But if you did, then well, I'm happy for you! XD.

sarramaks – Oh, okay. Thanks for the advice. No I don't find you picky at all. I understand. ( : And I'm glad to know you enjoy this fic. Hope chapter eight was fine!