A/N: LUNAR KWEH UPDATES WHAT
...so, uh, yeah. I love this pairing, and wanted to write a little series of drabble-type things. So here you go.
-can't write A/Ns for crap-
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Smile
So he took her aside one day, some weeks after that case, the case they both remembered too well. Took her aside, asked her if she wouldn't mind his company an evening. She smiled, cheeks flushed faintly red, said sure,why not.
If she only knew how much courage it had taken, to hide anxiety behind the cool façade she knew so well.
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So here she was, a new world, a smoke-and-wine dream. No, not new; it was his world through and through, soft jazz playing in the corner and the scent of coffee.
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The first night she buried her face in his coat and sobbed, hot tears for memories and new aches alike. Inhaled the rich bitter scent that clung to his skin and clothes.
He could only smile at her, smile despite the pain. Smile, and hold her close.
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And then a week passed. She remembered what he'd once said to her—don't cry until it's over —and smiled, threw herself into her work like nothing else mattered.
Except there was one thing that did matter, and so therefore she was not quite surprised at his second invitation. Welcomed it, in fact. Because she couldn't forget the dreamlike warmth of that night.
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The second night he asked her to dance. She declined, said something along the lines of two left feet and he said no, that can't possibly be true.
Something like good-natured laughter glittered in his eyes, warm and inviting.
And you just can't say no to an Armando.
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She wept again that night, stood paralyzed at the door to her apartment. Because he himself brought back those memories she'd tried to drown, his gentle teasing and lopsided grin tied inextricably to that first and last day in court.
She tried to explain.
He caught her in his gaze, and his eyes—dark as the coffee he loved—assured her there was nothing to fear.
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She was a real help around the office, they had to admit, but for some reason she would refuse any case that came their way.
Grossberg asked him why, the next day, and he answered with a shrug—some things are best kept between friends.
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The third night came raining and grey, and he of course had left his umbrella. So he swallowed his chivalry for one evening and they walked to his car under her umbrella, smiling at each other like old lovers.
Grossberg watched them go with a wistful sigh, cup of hot lemon tea in hand.
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So a week passed, and then a month, and the visits to the café became more and more frequent. One morning they walked into the office hand in hand, smiling over some shared secret.
Grossberg knew better than to ask.
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One month. Then another, and another, where had the time gone? Summer raged on, sweltering mornings and buzzing fans in the office. Balmy evenings, warmth from another source than the weather.
And one day she found a red rose on her desk. Then another, and another, every morning for months. Somehow, she knew exactly where they had come from.
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The last evening, they danced again. She'd improved, he had to admit—he no longer winced at the harsh clack of inexperienced feet on tile floors. Her natural grace shone through, now, sultry yet lively—kitten was an apt metaphor, he mused.
Yet that evening found her sobbing in his arms, something she hadn't done for months. As if she knew, somehow, what tomorrow would bring.
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The next day bloomed hot and muggy. Stifling in the firm, despite fans and cold packs and glass after glass of icy water. Lunch break came and went and it was still just the two of them in the office, her and Grossberg. She poured a cup of coffee, idle hands looking for something to do.
Watched it as it steamed lonely on his desk.
Poured it out when it finally went cold.
And the telephone rang.
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She didn't cry that night.
La familia sat across the bed from her, sobbing wailing mother and sister, holding each other close against the sterile chill of the room. Cousins she did not know, smiling sadly across the room at her.
Silence hung heavy over all their heads, cold and mournful. How he would have mocked them all, silent in vigil when they could have been out dancing.
"The wedding would have been lovely, you know," said the youngest, wistful voice tiny against the crushing press. She murmured something in response, a mechanical reply.
He would have been after her for that, as well. Would have pleaded with her to smile, just once.
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So a year passed. And another, and another. She was waiting, forever waiting. The parents had long since gone back to Florida—the cousin who had consoled her that terrible night was the last to leave, flying back to Sacramento with the promise to keep in touch. So she waited alone, mostly, usually brought a book or sheaf of papers to shuffle.
Her little sister had once asked her where she vanished to, those nights she wasn't at her apartment. So she told her a little, mentioned in passing an old friend she used to work with.
"Were you two dating or something?" she'd asked once, prompting a sad smile that told her all she needed to know.
But she never told her sister about those memories of sultry summer nights—those she took with her to the grave.
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Two years after, and the younger sister knelt at the grave of Mia Fey. A halfhearted white carnation drooped over the lip of its vase, sadly begging for release from its mortal prison. She replaced it with a sigh, arranging the new blooms artfully. She said her few words, smiled sadly, turned to go.
Yet something scarlet caught at the corner of her eye—something red and fading, a few petals scattered here and there. It had been a rose, once, before the wind had gotten at it. She took it in her hands, smiling knowingly at the memory of a whispered conversation. Placed it upright in the vase, alongside her carnations.
"A rose? For Mystic Mia?" Pearl asked later, eyes shining. "Mystic Maya, do you think she had a special someone?"
Maya bit her lip as she tried to recall. "Well, she mentioned someone, once . . ."
And somewhere on the edge of reality, a ghostly hand caressed the memory of a rose.
Somehow, she knew exactly where it had come from.