What I Really Need
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Speed/Calleigh
Spoilers: None
Feedback: Makes my day
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.ahkay.net); anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: What Calleigh needs after a long day.
Author's Notes: This story owes a heck of a lot to the Montgomery Gentry song "Speed", of which a couple of the lyrics find their way in here. It owes even more to Heidi and her story "Problems and Solutions" which reminded me that this plot bunny had been festering for months and got me to actually write the thing.
I very slowly straighten up from the microscope and push it to the side, out of my reach, resisting with some difficulty the urge to throw it across the room. Doubtless the thud of it hitting the wall and the tinkle of the shattering glass would be momentarily gratifying, but then I'd have to clean it up, not to mention the fact that I'd probably get a chewing-out from Horatio for destroying lab property. All that, and it still wouldn't change the fact that the only thing the microscope did wrong was confirm what the naked eye had already told me, that the bullets I just test fired did not, in fact, come from the gun that I spent three hours crawling through dumpsters on Ocean Drive to find, and another two hours cleaning so that I could get it to fire a test round. Which means that this gun is not my murder weapon, and my whole day's work has been a waste of time. Which in turn means that the murderer of a six-year-old girl has had an extra day to work out his story, or to get away with murder.
With a groan, I flop down on the table, resting my head on my arms and closing my eyes. Ordinarily, I wouldn't countenance behaving like this at work; however, I'm deep in the recesses of the ballistics lab, where hardly anyone ever comes, and I'm on overtime as it is. There's no-one here to see my weakness, my frustration and that suits me just fine, because if I had to talk to anyone right now, I think I'd lose it. A little girl is dead, and I can't help apprehend her killer, despite the fact that I've been trying for the last three days. I've been getting nowhere, and I'm so tired of spinning my wheels on this. I'm so tired full stop, and all I want to do is get out of here, but I just can't find the energy to move.
I'm contemplating just dropping off to sleep right here, which certainly wouldn't be the first time, when I realise that there's someone else in the lab with me. It's an unspoken presence, but not an unwelcome one, and I don't move when I hear the quiet footsteps behind me. I know exactly who it is, both from the footfall and from the faint scent of his cologne, which I should know, since I'm the one who gave it to him. That, and the fact that the smell lingers in the bathroom and bedroom every morning after he uses it.
He doesn't say a thing as he approaches, for which I'm entirely grateful, and it never enters my mind to think that he might suppose that I'm asleep here. I know better, and so does he. Nor do I stir when I feel him standing behind me, looking down at me without saying a word, and I don't jump when I feel his hands, large and strong and warm, landing on my shoulders.
When those hands begin to rub however, trying to push all the tension out of my body, that's when I move, shifting to grant him better access, anything to make that particular job a little easier for him. There's a soft chuckle from behind me, because he knows what I'm doing and why, but he still doesn't talk.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realise that this probably isn't the most astute thing that we've ever done. In all the time that we've been together, very rarely have we brought our personal relationship into work; I'd go so far as to say that the majority of the lab don't even know that we're involved with one another. However, a shoulder massage in the middle of the crime lab definitely crosses a line somewhere, not that I can find it within myself to care when it feels so wonderful. Then I remember that we're not actually in the middle of the crime lab, that we're in the recesses of the ballistics lab, and that most people have gone home for the day, so there's not much chance of anyone coming in here to catch us.
That thought allows me to enjoy another few blissful moments of his hands moving over my body, then I straighten, somewhat reluctantly, sitting up, running my hands over my face. He doesn't move his hands from my shoulders, but he does step forwards, so that his chest is pressed against my back, the warmth of his body bringing a smile to my lips. I reach up, covering his hands with mine and squeezing gently, a wordless thank you, as well as a thousand other emotions for which I have no words.
An answering squeeze tells me that he understands.
Sighing, I stand, barely keeping back a wince as every muscle in my body screams in agony. There's another chuckle, and a vague look of amusement in his eyes, but when I shoot him an evil glare, he's wise enough not to make any smart comments. In fact, amusement quickly vanishes, to be replaced by concern, and he lifts one hand, laying it on my cheek, his thumb sweeping back and forth.
I know the question that he's not asking, and I shake my head in reply, for the moment not able to tear my eyes away from his. I have to set my jaw against the lump that I feel rising in my throat, and I do the only thing I know that will anchor me, will stop me from breaking down completely.
I mirror his movement, reaching up and laying my hand on his cheek, the stubble of his five o'clock shadow prickly against my palm, sending shivers up my spine as I remember what that stubble feels like in other places on my body. He must mistake the shiver for something else though, because his sigh ruffles my hair, as does his hand, which slides around to the back of my head, pulling me towards him.
I fall into his embrace willingly, trusting him to catch me, one hand going around his neck, the other going to his back. His chin is on top of my head, his fingers running through my hair, and it feels wonderful, especially after a day like today.
It feels wonderful, but not enough.
That's why I pull back, looking up at him, and he frowns in curiosity, which quickly abates when I rise up on my toes, brushing my lips against his. I mean it to be only a brief kiss, a down payment on a promise of things to come, a thought that will get me from here to home, but he doesn't see it that way, deepening the kiss, running his tongue along my upper lip. Without conscious thought my mouth opens to him, my tongue touching his, my arms winding around his neck as I press my body against his, and damn where we are and who might walk in. I need this. I've earned it.
Somewhere in the fog of sensations that his kiss creates, I'm aware of several things.
Like the fact that he's lifted me off my feet, has put me sitting back on the stool I only minutes ago vacated.
Like the fact that my legs have parted and he's standing nestled between them.
Like the fact that my legs close around him, pulling him as close to me as we can possibly get, which could never be close enough, not like this.
Like the fact that his kisses soon begin to stray, moving from my mouth to the side of my cheek and down my neck, and I shiver again, because the memory of how his stubble felt just didn't do the feeling justice.
Like the fact that while my head falls back, my eyes closed with pleasure, my hands work of their own accord, moving across his over-sized shirt, undoing the bottom couple of buttons, freeing a tantalising sample of his skin to my explorations.
Like that fact that his hands are busy too, lifting my shirt from the waistband of my pants, his palms warm against my skin, but I shift against him, wanting, needing his hands to move lower…
All things considered, it's a heck of a shock when his hands still their movements, when he lifts his head from my collarbone. An almost animal-like mewl of frustration leaves him in no doubt as to my feelings, and there's a rueful smile on his lips which isn't echoed in his eyes. Those are brown pools of arousal, and I know he's as close to losing control as I am.
He shakes his head, brushing his lips against mine, and this time, it is a brief kiss. He's the one who breaks it, stepping away from me, holding out his hand in invitation. I take it unhesitatingly, smiling as he does something very unexpected, brings my knuckles to his lips and places a kiss there. It's very old school Southern, extremely charming, and it would make me weak at the knees if I weren't already. He grins, sets about checking me over, making sure that I'm presentable to walk the halls, and I do the same to him, though there's less work to be done on my part; after all, when he looks presentable and well dressed, that's when people begin to talk.
Inclining his head towards the door, he takes a step in that direction, and I fall into step beside him, but not touching him. We make our way to the locker room, where we grab what we need from our lockers, and then we go out to the parking lot. My car is over in the far corner, but by unspoken agreement, I leave it; I can pick it up tomorrow. Tonight, I follow him over to his bike, watch him as he climbs onto it and puts on his helmet. While he's fastening the chinstrap, I'm making sure that my hair is securely caught inside my jacket before putting on my own helmet, and once those tasks are done, I climb on behind him, slipping my arms around his waist. Before he starts the bike, he turns back to me, gives me that little grin of his that I love so much, and when he turns back, his fingers dance across my hands ever so lightly. Then the touch is gone, and the engine roars to life, and we're off, him in total control, me holding on tightly.
I'm not in the least bit surprised when we take a right turn on the way out of the parking lot, despite that fact that both of our apartments are to the left. I had a feeling that we weren't going to go straight home, that tonight was going to be one of those nights where we chase the sunset as far as we can, as fast as we can, for as long as we can. It will be up to him how long we ride for, and I will hold on tightly to him, my cheek pressed against his back and I'll leave all my cares, all my worries behind, thanks to an open road and a whole lot of Speed.