Keeping Count, a csi fanfic

Title: Keeping Count
Author: Frumpy
Rating: M
Disclaimer: You don't really think they're mine, do you? If they were, CSI would be on HBO and we'd all see more of Billy's butt. But I digress…

A/N: Rather angsty story.
Many thanks to AussiRayne and gglovebug for being awesome betas and wading through my random punctuation and for the encouragement. And thanks to Anni2001 for the title (I so suck at titles), all the help, and general craziness. I changed some things before posting, so all remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

The first time you kiss it's quick and sloppy. Your aim is off and you catch only the edge of her mouth. Nothing like the many fantasies you've had; no nibbling on her lower lip and making her moan with desire before you can learn what her tongue feels like against yours. Only a shocked look as the first rays of sunshine streak over the cold deserted parking lot and catch the light brown of her hair. It's over before you're even sure it really happened.

You run just as fast. Car, gas pedal slammed to the floor as you run from her and you and the both of you. Keys dropped on the table next to the door as usual and you down a scotch and jerk off in the shower. Quick and hard, your release leaving you hurting, but you wallow in the pain and the nagging doubts eating at you. Curses are the last thing on your mind before you drift off into a restless sleep.

The second time you kiss it's as you're leaving the last crime scene for the night. She catches you before you get into your SUV and tries to tell you with her actions that she understands. But you don't understand yourself. You slam the door shut and drive off, leaving her standing where you car had been moments ago, not able to look at her forlorn figure through the rear-view mirror.

You forgo going home and instead lock yourself in your office, working on that linear regression for Nick's case, because bugs are easier to handle. Insects are perfect. Nature made them so they do what they were meant to do, perfect in their simplicity. Something you've always striven for but never managed to achieve. And you hate that even your insects can't provide you the respite from your thoughts that you seek as you watch her walk by your office. Motions jerky and deliberate and you finally find the guts to get up and follow her.

The first time you fuck her it's hard and angry and full of loathing. At yourself and how fucked up you are, and you can't stop your mind from processing and wanting to catalogue everything to make it perfect. Her every reaction and moan and the way her wet heat surrounds you and makes you lose control. But it never makes you shake those nagging doubts and prevents you from truly believing, as you just aren't perfect. But you've yet to realize that 'perfect' isn't what she's looking for. Never was.

You leave that night as soon as her breath evens out and you can stop staring at the ceiling, trying to hide the chills raking your body as the cool morning air caresses your sweat-slicked skin. You hate yourself the moment you stealthily close the door with as little sound as possible, running a hand through your dishevelled hair, but not as much as she'll hate you. And you hate yourself for finding some sick comfort in that thought.

The third time you kiss her you are really trying. You've done everything you could think of before and really, your friendship had been better than ever. But it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth despite her tasting of paradise. And you realize that, while you try to let yourself just feel, it just feels wrong. You'll never be able to give as much as you want to, no matter how you try, and it turns awkward and painful fast. You wrack your brain for what to say to make light of it, but you end up leaving her again. The hurt in her eyes the last image that stays with you as you can't get home fast enough to the first cigarette you've smoked in years.

The first pull hits you as you watch the smoke lazily waft through the air and you remember why it had been so hard to give this up so many years ago. But really, this is an addiction you can give in to easily. Flush the stubs in the toilet and nothing to remind you of it when you get up and get ready for work. You think about analogies and Sara and forcefully stub out your fourth cigarette, watching the angry red glow die slowly. You leave them in the ashtray, just to spite you in the evening.

The first time you talk, you fidget in your seat and it's been years since you last did that. You talk about cases and for a few moments it feels like it once did between you; almost comfortable beside her in the diner. But when you're still tongue-tied after your third coffee her eyes turn distant and her smiles more forced. You switch to beer but it tastes like defeat. You know defeat well, but never knew how to deal with it when you just defeat yourself.

Self-fulfilling prophecy and the id winning over the ego runs through your mind and you try to kill the thoughts by getting on your favorite roller coaster. Your face is flushed with the adrenaline rushing through your veins after six runs and you're able to not think and fret for a few precious moments. But it's back to scotch and mind-numbing game shows when you can't sleep later on.

The fourth time you kiss you're sure she can taste the tobacco and stale beer in your mouth as you find yourself in front of her apartment on the way home from the bar. Only you don't remember taking that left instead of the right you'd need to get home, and you probably really shouldn't be driving at all.

You wake up on the couch with a crick in your back and your belt digging into your skin. Silence and a note greet you and you realize you didn't leave her even that much when you left her that early morning weeks ago. You drink two coffees in a decrepit diner on the way to work that no tourist will ever see, but you're pretty sure you've printed that booth across from yours once. The pack of cigarettes is in your pocked and you finger it, but then throw it away on your way out. Catherine makes some comment about partying late and you smile and nod and say nothing, as you always have.

5/ 1/

The fifth time you try to kiss her is the first time she turns away from you and you feel something inside you give. You try to talk for the second time and it goes marginally better than the first, but it leaves you hollow and empty as you watch her get into her car and drive away.

You smile as you hang up the phone and close your little black book with the florist's number. It had been jotted down years ago, though you don't remember what whim had struck you back then. But some things never change and some florists still have the same number. You worry for a fleeting moment if she actually likes tulips and you worry some more about how she'll interpret your gesture, but then worrying never got you anywhere and you fall asleep with a smile on your face.

The second time you fuck her is also the fifth time you kiss her for real. And it's the first time you understand what making love really means and you stop counting. Sweaty and slick; so many kisses and bites and whispers. Hands trying to touch as much as possible in your frenzy, and skin so soft you can't believe you're allowed to touch it. The moment she tightens her legs over your ass and you bite down on a tendon in her neck as she moans your name all thoughts cease to exist.

So wet and tight and perfect around you and somewhere inside you you're finally able to stop thinking. Just feel and just let go and you laugh afterwards. Truly laugh and then wrap her in your arms and burrow your face in her neck. And you don't even wonder what brand of shampoo makes her hair smell like peaches and summer and bliss, because really, thinking is indeed overrated.