A/N: First in a series of shorts peppered throughout!
Cold
Rigsby tossed restlessly in his bed. It was late, a little past three in the morning. He'd given up on waiting to get sleepy and had finally turned in around ten. He hadn't wanted to, but then again, the tv wasn't distracting him as much as he'd hoped. Dinner hadn't interested him either and he'd picked at it like a fickle child. Bed seemed like the only option. He turned again, wading his pillow up in a tight ball under his head and impatiently pushing at the sheets that had twisted up around him as he continued to roll over and over. They felt suffocating. Annoyed, he kicked them to the end of the bed. It felt freer, but then he almost instantly began to feel cold. With a huff and a muttered curse, he reached down and pulled them up again, their warm, stifling presence settling around him.
In the five hours he'd been laying there, he hadn't slept a wink.
He huffed, lifting onto his elbow so he could punch his pillow in frustration, wishing it would magically assume a shape that would soothe him and knock him out. But the only way the pillow could calm him down was if it miraculously sprouted two soft, slim arms, grew three feet in length, spoke to him in hushed, loving whispers and clung to him as it slept. But the pillow mulishly refused to do anything except crumple under his fist. Stupid, non-magical pillow.
For the last two nights and for the next three, Grace had been sent to the Fresno field office to help overhaul their computer database. Word of her skills was getting around, and the smaller offices were sweet-talking Lisbon into pimping her out to help update their sorely outdated software. Grace had been pleased. It wasn't fieldwork, but she'd been happy that people were noticing her talents and making her look good for the boss. And Rigsby had been nothing but proud. His thing was arson, and he knew how important it made him feel to have a niche specialization. Now Grace was getting her props and he was delighted for her.
But the nights without her were insufferable.
He flipped onto his back and groaned, staring up at the darkened ceiling and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. He was so not this guy. He never had trouble sleeping. He almost always dropped like a stone the minute his head hit the pillow. Even before they got together and thoughts of Grace were driving him crazy, he'd simply self-gratify, releasing his tension and accruing some self-loathing, but at least it conked him out. And once they'd started dating he'd never such a satiated sleep in all his life.
But now?
He turned on his side again. The blindingly bright red numbers on his clock read 3:17. He cursed again. Either time needed to slow down so he could hopefully get a few hours in, or it needed to hurry the hell up and just be morning already so he could get up for a crappy, exhaustion-filled, Grace-less day at work. He shut his eyes, breathing deep and trying to relax. He pulled his usual pillow out from under his head and grabbed the second one next to it. Grace's pillow.
He turned his head into the cold fabric and inhaled through his nose. The scent of peaches and rosewater filled his head. A low whimper escaped him. God, he missed her so much. On every level. Sure, his body was on permanent vibrate ever since she left and suddenly abstinence—which had been the norm for over a year—was threatening to level him. But it was so much more than that. His mind, his soul, the indefinable pieces of him were just heartbroken. They knew she was coming back very soon, but they ached so badly. Yearned so badly. No wonder he couldn't sleep when all he really wanted to do was sit outside and bay at the moon, calling for her.
Instead he was adrift in his own bed, missing the soft, sweet anchor that centered him and made him still.
He buried his face in her pillow and breathed again.
Hurry home, baby.