Chapter 8: Crazy on You

But I tell myself that I was doin' all right

There's nothin' left to do at night

But to go crazy on you

Crazy on you

Let me go crazy, crazy on you, oh

Lindsay lay in bed, typing on her laptop. All the people she'd been IMing for the past three hours had finally begged off, and she was now idly surfing. Anything to keep from thinking; anything to keep from sleeping. Anything to keep from dreaming.

In the past few weeks, she had done virtual tours of all the museums, art galleries, and big tourist attractions in New York City. Her life had been so busy, and her shifts had been so sporadic since she moved, that she never managed to see them in person. Okay, she had been to the New York Zoo, but processing a scene had hardy counted as a magic moment exploring her new home.

Home. It wasn't really, was it? Montana was still home, even though she couldn't go back. For a while she had felt as if she were creating a place for herself here, but now she realized that had been an illusion. She was a valued member of the team, perhaps – Mac had assured her of that at both her three and six month evaluations – but she wasn't a part of the gang, the inner circle, anymore. It was Danny who had let her in. It seemed Danny was keeping her out.

With a sigh, she closed down her computer and slid down under the covers. That wasn't really fair; Danny had been perfectly polite to her since that night that she had humiliated herself completely: first by standing him up and then by fainting at work.

"Drama queen," she muttered to herself.

At work he was completely professional and never crossed the line. They were completing their cases quickly; they still worked together well, complementing each other's strengths and compensating for each other's weaknesses. They were a good team.

And it wasn't the same. In fact, it was awful. The last time he had looked at her, the last time he had called her Montana, the last time he had even pretended she was a real person and not a piece of machinery at work was in her kitchen, was when he started to explain to her the working of the universe. That cheeky grin, that light in his eyes: she had not seen either once since then.

"So what are you saying, Monroe?" She flipped onto her back and kicked her feet in the air in frustration. "You're the one who blew him off. You're the one who told him you didn't want a relationship."

She winced at the memory. He had caught her in the hallway, had laid himself out for her to walk all over, and, as if it meant nothing to her, she had. She had pulled the oldest, lamest excuse in the canon: she "needed to be alone", "couldn't have a relationship". With a painful cringe, she could hear her voice saying, "It's not you." Right: like anyone was able to believe that most pathetic and transparent of excuses.

She closed her eyes again, remembering Danny's face, hearing his voice as she turned and walked away, "If you need anything …"

How could she sleep? How could she not hear that voice echoing in her head every moment of every day? Every time she saw him in the hallway, she went another way. The locker room was hell – each time the door opened, she jumped a foot. She had started changing in the washroom and waiting to shower at home, just to avoid even the chance that he might be there at the same time she was.

It was not so bad in the lab – there were usually other people around and always lots to do, so her guilt was diluted. But then would come that moment when she would look up, almost expecting to catch his eye as she had for months, only to know he was avoiding her as much as she was avoiding him. Then the freezing feeling would move through the pit of her stomach, making her want to vomit up the pain and remorse that followed her around like a malevolent fog.

She rolled over in bed again, holding a pillow to her aching stomach, curling around it, holding it all in. What could she do? What could she do? There was no one to talk to – she had cut herself off from her family and friends in Montana. She had no one at the lab – Stella was one of Danny's closest friends, and probably hated her for what she had done to him. Lindsay didn't even contemplate talking to one of the men in the lab: a life living with and working with men had taught her that they did not want to discuss their own feelings, much less someone else's.

It was true, as Stella had noted, that she had gone willingly, even eagerly to the department psychiatrist. One thing she had learned through the past several painful years was how to psych out a head doctor. They always looked for the same things, asked the same types of questions. Lindsay considered herself an expert in reading the tones of voice and the searching looks, then playing whatever role she had chosen for the occasion. Sure, she had gone to see Dr. Reis; if she hadn't, she'd have been taken off active duty. Once she had her clean bill of mental health, she could concentrate on going crazy in her own way. She had no intention of talking to a doctor about her feelings: she had long ago learned her lesson there.

With a sigh, Lindsay sat up in bed again, reaching for her computer. The only way to stop thinking was to fill her brain with something else. If there was no one on-line, she could always read medical or forensic journals.