DISCLAIMER: CSI and its characters are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
By Kristina K
She seemed ten feet tall, standing like that. She seemed so distant and unreachable from where you were looking at her, and it was from only twenty feet away. The scene was hectic and crowded as always, with police officers, technicians, curious bystanders, TV crews All the unnecessary people. But somehow that didn't bother you because she was the only thing you could focus in on at that moment.
Dressed in perfectly fitting black slacks and a matching shirt, tight and then loose in all the right places, with her hair falling down her back in one smooth flow of gold and her head tilted to the right side like it always was when she was hearing a story she didn't quite believe to be entirely true, detective Curtis interviewed a witness of the shootout that left three people dead and five injured. She scribbled down a few notes on her pad without bothering to look away from the guy's face and then closed her eyes for a second followed by an amused smile indicating how the witness' story is slowly turning out to be complete bull.
You're not sure how long you've been gazing up at her from your position next to the victim's body, holding the camera in your hands but not taking any pictures with it as you should be, but it was obviously too long because it took Nick three snaps of his fingers in front of your face and one very stern Sara! to wake you up from your daydream. Your head snapped up at him and met his perplexed gaze as he asked you if you were all right. "Sure," you said, "I'll be just a minute." And then your camera started clicking, making the flash go off like a lightning in a stormy sky.
It was her swagger that made you notice her at first. When she walked down the lab corridor like she owned the place; long, slender limbs moving in a confident stride. She swayed in her shoulders, not in her hips, like women usually do. She liked to keep her hands in her pockets making her shiny detective's shield as visible as possible and her hip holster at a millisecond reach. You've seen her hold that gun in her hands many times. The way her fists squeezed around the handle made her forearm muscles tighten and quiver from the grip. It made you quiver when you thought about having those arms around you.
She was close to Greg for some reason. They often stood off the side together, Greg doing his elaborate gesticulating thing while describing an event, and Sofia, with her hands down her pockets, a smug smile curving her lips, and her head tilted to the side more than usually. You tried to listen in on them, to see what was so entertaining, or secretive, or in common to the two of them. She never laughed at your jokes like that. She never reached over and patted your shoulder in amusement. She never really bothered to acknowledge you in any other way besides professional.
Catherine often went parental on you, and even though you never really appreciated her approach, as of late it became unusually tedious. Intrusive. No, actually, you were scared that you'd break and blurt out something that you shouldn't say, not even to Catherine. You're not Lindsey, you're not fifteen. You don't need a guidance counselor for whenever you get pensive and distant minded. She was a little hurt by that, Catherine. But she knew you well enough to know when to let you be, and yet to still stand by available if you decide you wanted to talk.
You protested when Grissom pointed it out, but you knew that your concentration at work is not hundred percent. He suggested you take a few days off and deal with issues that seem to plague your mind but you dismissed him saying how you've only been suffering from a spring lag. Nothing that more physical activity in the fresh air and a boosted dose of vitamins couldn't fix. He arched his eyebrow at you behind his glasses and pursed his lips. He didn't believe you.
The place behind the one-way glass overlooking the interrogation room became your resident spot whenever she talked to a suspect. That woman had attitude bursting out of her every cell and you found it so very compelling. At first you just thought you kind of envied her on the amount of self-assurance she had and wished that your confidence could match her own, but then you realized her attitude turned you on, sexually, and the only envy you were feeling was pointed towards anyone and everyone to whom she gave her attention. You were jealous and it scared you.
You caught her looking at you one day. It was a second, a half glance, when you lifted your eyes from the tire tracks on the victim's clothes and the pictures you took at the scene you were trying to match to them, and you found her eyes fixed on you. It made you stop what you were doing and look right back at her. She wasn't just standing there waiting for your conclusion on the marks; she was actually giving you a look over, even now when you were face to face. It felt as if her gaze was piercing through your skin, inspecting you inside and out, discovering your deepest and darkest secrets.
She could read your mind, you were sure, and instinctively you tried to wipe your thoughts clean. There was a faint smile tugging on the corners of her lips, but a whole bulk of taunt in her eyes. It made you feel like one of the suspects she grilled so skillfully and you knew exactly how helpless they must feel with her on the other side of the table. You might as well fess up and tell her everything, because it seems she already knows how hooked on her you are.
The motion of her hands sliding into her pockets broke the thickness of the moment and it gave you a second to regain your breathing again. Like it was no big deal at all, she shrugged her shoulders a little and then proposed, "We should hang out some time."
She gave you a smile you so long waited for her to give you and nodded her head, "Yeah."
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