Author's webpage: http://www.catmoran.com/warning.htm

Author's disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I don't own the canon characters or concept; I do own this story.

Author's notes: Brrr. This one's chilly, folks. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Spoilers for TSbyBS.

Minor references to STP2 and Brother's Keeper. (Don't blink, you'll miss 'em.)

He's Still Here
By CatMoran : catmoran@catmoran.com

Why is he still here?

Sometimes I pretend that he's here because of duty. I've tried to pretend that it's because of his sense of loyalty, but that's just too much of a strain on my imagination.

I'm sure he'd tell you that I don't have an imagination. Or maybe he would... but that I use it strictly for paranoid delusions.

I hear him stirring upstairs, shifting under the sheets and making quiet whimpering sounds. He does that every morning, whether I'm in bed or not. I've learned to wake up and get downstairs first, it's easier that way. Easier on me, not that I deserve it. I'm not sure what he thinks of it, he's never said anything.

Yes, he still sleeps in our bed. But that's all. I only made that mistake once, while my leg was still healing from Zeller's bullet. His complete lack of reaction... it felt too much like an assault. I didn't have much trouble repressing most of my desire after that.

But I can't repress everything. I still need physical contact with him, I crave it. I try to content myself with the most hesitant or formal touches. In bed, the tips of my fingers will brush against his hips or back. In public, I'll place a hand on his arm as we examine a crime scene. I suppose he would permit more, but I'm afraid to ask.

For a moment all is silent upstairs. Then there is the sound of the covers being thrown back. He sits up, stretches, and makes his way slowly down the stairs and to the bathroom. Nude. His eyes shuttered, as always.

He's his old ebullient self with everyone else. He even feigns it with me, when other people are around. It's only when he thinks we're alone that I see that cold, flat stare directed at me.

But we work with detectives. More than once I've overheard people who've noticed how he looks at me. "If looks could kill" is the most common observation. They probably think they've spotted a minor ripple in the Sandburg-Ellison partnership. After all, we still have the best solve rate in the department. Actually, it's the best on the West Coast, now that he's on the job with me 24/7. I got 'Cop of the Year' again. They've never given it to a rookie, but he's sure to get it next year.

He walks past me again, on his way upstairs to get dressed. My view as he goes up the stairs is magnificent, but I would trade the chance to ever see his body again for one kind glance from his eyes.

I stand and take my coffee into the living room. If I didn't, he'd eat his breakfast standing at the kitchen counter. If it wouldn't cause people to talk, I'm sure he wouldn't eat with me in public, either.

I hear the closet door closing. He'll be back downstairs in a minute.

What weapon will he use today to remind me of the debt I can never repay? A perfectly timed, barely exaggerated cough? A red marking pen left on the kitchen table? Or a kiss... he knows I can't refuse him a kiss. He knows just as well that I can tell there is no affection behind his action.

I know why he's still here. He won't allow me to forget.

And I know why I'm here.

The End
(c) CatMoran 2000