CSI-fic: Whatever people say about falling in love (1/15)
Title: Whatever people say about falling in love
Author: TXLtoSFO
Fandom: CSI:LV
Pairing: Sara Sidle/Sofia Curtis
Rating: PG-13 overall I'd say
Disclaimer: CSI, its characters, places, and situations are property of Jerry Bruckheimer Television, Alliance Atlantis and CBS Productions. This story was written for entertainment, not monetary purposes. Original characters, and this story are intellectual property of the author. Any similarities to existing characters, fictional or real, living or dead, are coincidental and no harm is intended.
Spoiler/Warnings: None
Summary: Everything's not lost, though it seems that way after a major break-up. But life has a way of throwing heady stuff at you when you expect it the least. Maybe it's worth starting all over again?
Notes: Another older story finding its way to LJ. A rather slow and introspective piece, told entirely from Sara's perspective. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Hope you will like reading it...
Whatever people say about falling in love
Chapter 1
Whatever people say about falling in love, it's mostly not very close to what I think. They say it's heavenly, the anticipation, the hope for your feelings being returned by the object of your affection, the utter bliss when a mutual attraction is confirmed, the sweetness of a first kiss, a first touch on heated skin, the first tentative or fiery lovemaking, the time spend together, the life led as a couple.
So far that's not so untrue. But what about the possibility of a break-up? The possibility that one of the lovers might love more than the other? What about feeling so heartbroken after a split up, that you think you'll never be able to smile again, laugh again, be happy again, love again? Why do we constantly try to get ourselves in the worst possible situation that makes us so vulnerable as it is to open yourself up to someone, let them in, love them, just to be destroyed and shattered when it doesn't turn out like we'd hoped it would? Is all the good worth the bad in the end? Most people think it is. I don't think so.
I'm damaged goods, in more than one sense. Any kind of trust I've ever put in another human being has been wronged. The last time I fell in love, I told my partner I was bruised and battered, but not broken. I hoped they'd understand. To be careful with me and my feelings. I tried so hard not to fall too deeply, but in the end I did, with a lot of encouragement from them, that it'd be worth it this time, that this time it'd be forever, no one and nothing could change their feelings for me. And I believed it again.
It was so good as long as it lasted. I've never felt more secure, more cared for, more loved and cherished in all my life. I felt like I'd come home after a lifelong search for the place that'd fit those words. Home. We moved in together, we even got a pet, a lovely red-striped cat from the shelter, simply called Red, since he had no name and we couldn't come up with something less -well, obvious. He used to sleep in our bed, happy to have a home, content to be treated the way he should have all his life. We made a cute little family. We fitted.
My world was whole and perfect, for the first time in my life. I never thought that I could have fun just going to buy new sheets or that fabulous retro kitchen lamp. Hell, I don't think I've ever been to a flea market before. The name alone, yikes. But strolling along the lanes, the stands filled with the weirdest curiosities, the afternoon sunshine filtering through the trees, my lover's hand in mine, stopping to thumb through old photographs, antique books, cases filled with LP's from all decades, I felt a happiness I still can't explain. That's what people do when they're in love. And I'll never forget that picnic at Lake Mead, and I surely won't forget the dessert that followed. Blue hour, skinny dipping at a remote beach and making love in the warm water of the lake. I don't think I ever came that hard before. It was bliss. All of it.
Until one day I came home to find them in bed with someone else. Drunk wasn't even enough, no, they were wasted and fucking the hell out of their "guest". I slammed the bedroom door shut and left without ever looking back. No shouting, no fight, no apologies, no great scene, just the end of the life I had learned to love so much. I couldn't even cry, I just felt like the weight of the world had settled itself upon my shoulders and my chest. I didn't sleep for almost a week. We never talked. I returned once to get my stuff after having left a note that they'd please not be home that afternoon for at least four hours. I left my keys on the kitchen counter. I didn't take any of the things we'd bought together. But I took Red. If I had to live without them, I'd have at least my big red cat to comfort me through the loneliness. That night, surrounded by boxes and furniture uncoordinatedly scattered all over an apartment that I knew would never feel close to anything like a home to me, I finally cried and he snuck up into my lap and purred like never before. I stroked his soft fur absent-mindedly and fell asleep on the couch with him curled into a ball on my stomach. His absolute trust and devotedness was a true comfort indeed.
I tried to tell myself that I was just back to square one, back left to my own devices, a place I knew all too well and I'd get used to the feeling again. Over the next few weeks I tried to get accommodated to this new place. I almost emptied out a DIY-store, painted every room in a different colour I liked, renewed the tiling in the bathroom and the kitchen area, hung up plenty of pictures and paintings, arranged my furniture nicely, bought a couple of plants and real curtains for the bedroom, added a candle here and some framed pictures I'd taken myself there, threw a heavy and soft comforter over the bed and made space for a huge scratching post in one corner of the living room. I'd outdone myself. I'd created a model home, ready to be displayed in some magazine about home improvement.
I buried myself in work. Working doubles had never been something odd for me, but the doubles had turned into triples lately, at least since I was done remodeling my flat. I just went "home" to feed Red, take a quick shower, fall exhaustedly into bed just to wake up after not much more than a couple of hours and went back to work.
People have long started to worry. Well, not exactly people, my colleagues and friends. As little as they had noticed how much happier I had gradually become over the past three years, the more they recognized my deteriorating mood, my broodiness and withdrawal the moment everything went downhill.
I get lectured a lot lately.
That I've been losing weight, that I drink too much coffee, that I'm too concentrated, well, can a person be too concentrated when engrossed in finding clues to catch murderers, rapists and other scum? I don't think so. And I obviously lost the ability to talk to any one of them. I have the feeling I talk all the time. But then that's just me.
At home I talk a lot. Because there's Red and you couldn't wish for a better listener. He sits on the middle shelf of his scratching post, which is about my shoulder height, very straight and looks at me intensely while I ramble about cases, tricky evidence, boring paperwork, the newest office gossip I pick up walking past the other labs or sitting in the breakfast quietly reading while everyone else chatters about. And he listens to me mourning my loss. And he understands, because it's his loss, too. He did love both of us equally I might say, even though it's hard to figure out a cat. But one thing I'm sure of, he's very good in picking up on feelings. He felt my anger, my sorrow the sense of betrayal, he felt their remorse and guilt and I think he knows that I needed him to come with me, needed the comfort he gave me by just being a cat, purring and strolling around my legs, he never left me out of his sight for the first week or two after we moved out.
I know he's lonelier now, too. I'm at work too much and there's no second person around anymore with a completely different work schedule.
But he copes. I bought a small fish tank with three colourful inhabitants and he can sit for hours in front of it, watching them.
I got sent home early today. I lost my temper. All the pent-up frustration and anger went-off and I yelled at a colleague during a seemingly harmless argument. Thank god that only my direct supervisor was witness to my blow-up, he made me apologize, which I did in all honesty and sincerity, I was well way out of line, and ordered me to get home, sleep and not return until the day after tomorrow since tomorrow is my day off, one thing I lately ignored a little too often.
So there I am, watching some rerun of a show I used to watch and stroking Red's fur, who has rolled himself into a huge fluffy ball by my side on the couch.
I can't stay home, I'm neither tired nor do I feel the need to remain stationary. I feel restless, my body still in work-mode.
I try to remember the last time I went out on my own to have a couple of drinks. I can't. We always spent our days off together.
I take a shower and slip into something presentable, but plain. I don't plan on causing attention, I just want to blend into a crowd.
On the way to the door I snatch my jacket off the hook, pet Red's head lovingly and tell him I won't be too long, grab my keys and wallet but leave the cell and head out.
Author: TXLtoSFO
Fandom: CSI:LV
Pairing: Sara Sidle/Sofia Curtis
Rating: PG-13 overall I'd say
Disclaimer: CSI, its characters, places, and situations are property of Jerry Bruckheimer Television, Alliance Atlantis and CBS Productions. This story was written for entertainment, not monetary purposes. Original characters, and this story are intellectual property of the author. Any similarities to existing characters, fictional or real, living or dead, are coincidental and no harm is intended.
Spoiler/Warnings: None
Summary: Everything's not lost, though it seems that way after a major break-up. But life has a way of throwing heady stuff at you when you expect it the least. Maybe it's worth starting all over again?
Notes: Another older story finding its way to LJ. A rather slow and introspective piece, told entirely from Sara's perspective. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Hope you will like reading it...
Whatever people say about falling in love
Chapter 1
Whatever people say about falling in love, it's mostly not very close to what I think. They say it's heavenly, the anticipation, the hope for your feelings being returned by the object of your affection, the utter bliss when a mutual attraction is confirmed, the sweetness of a first kiss, a first touch on heated skin, the first tentative or fiery lovemaking, the time spend together, the life led as a couple.
So far that's not so untrue. But what about the possibility of a break-up? The possibility that one of the lovers might love more than the other? What about feeling so heartbroken after a split up, that you think you'll never be able to smile again, laugh again, be happy again, love again? Why do we constantly try to get ourselves in the worst possible situation that makes us so vulnerable as it is to open yourself up to someone, let them in, love them, just to be destroyed and shattered when it doesn't turn out like we'd hoped it would? Is all the good worth the bad in the end? Most people think it is. I don't think so.
I'm damaged goods, in more than one sense. Any kind of trust I've ever put in another human being has been wronged. The last time I fell in love, I told my partner I was bruised and battered, but not broken. I hoped they'd understand. To be careful with me and my feelings. I tried so hard not to fall too deeply, but in the end I did, with a lot of encouragement from them, that it'd be worth it this time, that this time it'd be forever, no one and nothing could change their feelings for me. And I believed it again.
It was so good as long as it lasted. I've never felt more secure, more cared for, more loved and cherished in all my life. I felt like I'd come home after a lifelong search for the place that'd fit those words. Home. We moved in together, we even got a pet, a lovely red-striped cat from the shelter, simply called Red, since he had no name and we couldn't come up with something less -well, obvious. He used to sleep in our bed, happy to have a home, content to be treated the way he should have all his life. We made a cute little family. We fitted.
My world was whole and perfect, for the first time in my life. I never thought that I could have fun just going to buy new sheets or that fabulous retro kitchen lamp. Hell, I don't think I've ever been to a flea market before. The name alone, yikes. But strolling along the lanes, the stands filled with the weirdest curiosities, the afternoon sunshine filtering through the trees, my lover's hand in mine, stopping to thumb through old photographs, antique books, cases filled with LP's from all decades, I felt a happiness I still can't explain. That's what people do when they're in love. And I'll never forget that picnic at Lake Mead, and I surely won't forget the dessert that followed. Blue hour, skinny dipping at a remote beach and making love in the warm water of the lake. I don't think I ever came that hard before. It was bliss. All of it.
Until one day I came home to find them in bed with someone else. Drunk wasn't even enough, no, they were wasted and fucking the hell out of their "guest". I slammed the bedroom door shut and left without ever looking back. No shouting, no fight, no apologies, no great scene, just the end of the life I had learned to love so much. I couldn't even cry, I just felt like the weight of the world had settled itself upon my shoulders and my chest. I didn't sleep for almost a week. We never talked. I returned once to get my stuff after having left a note that they'd please not be home that afternoon for at least four hours. I left my keys on the kitchen counter. I didn't take any of the things we'd bought together. But I took Red. If I had to live without them, I'd have at least my big red cat to comfort me through the loneliness. That night, surrounded by boxes and furniture uncoordinatedly scattered all over an apartment that I knew would never feel close to anything like a home to me, I finally cried and he snuck up into my lap and purred like never before. I stroked his soft fur absent-mindedly and fell asleep on the couch with him curled into a ball on my stomach. His absolute trust and devotedness was a true comfort indeed.
I tried to tell myself that I was just back to square one, back left to my own devices, a place I knew all too well and I'd get used to the feeling again. Over the next few weeks I tried to get accommodated to this new place. I almost emptied out a DIY-store, painted every room in a different colour I liked, renewed the tiling in the bathroom and the kitchen area, hung up plenty of pictures and paintings, arranged my furniture nicely, bought a couple of plants and real curtains for the bedroom, added a candle here and some framed pictures I'd taken myself there, threw a heavy and soft comforter over the bed and made space for a huge scratching post in one corner of the living room. I'd outdone myself. I'd created a model home, ready to be displayed in some magazine about home improvement.
I buried myself in work. Working doubles had never been something odd for me, but the doubles had turned into triples lately, at least since I was done remodeling my flat. I just went "home" to feed Red, take a quick shower, fall exhaustedly into bed just to wake up after not much more than a couple of hours and went back to work.
People have long started to worry. Well, not exactly people, my colleagues and friends. As little as they had noticed how much happier I had gradually become over the past three years, the more they recognized my deteriorating mood, my broodiness and withdrawal the moment everything went downhill.
I get lectured a lot lately.
That I've been losing weight, that I drink too much coffee, that I'm too concentrated, well, can a person be too concentrated when engrossed in finding clues to catch murderers, rapists and other scum? I don't think so. And I obviously lost the ability to talk to any one of them. I have the feeling I talk all the time. But then that's just me.
At home I talk a lot. Because there's Red and you couldn't wish for a better listener. He sits on the middle shelf of his scratching post, which is about my shoulder height, very straight and looks at me intensely while I ramble about cases, tricky evidence, boring paperwork, the newest office gossip I pick up walking past the other labs or sitting in the breakfast quietly reading while everyone else chatters about. And he listens to me mourning my loss. And he understands, because it's his loss, too. He did love both of us equally I might say, even though it's hard to figure out a cat. But one thing I'm sure of, he's very good in picking up on feelings. He felt my anger, my sorrow the sense of betrayal, he felt their remorse and guilt and I think he knows that I needed him to come with me, needed the comfort he gave me by just being a cat, purring and strolling around my legs, he never left me out of his sight for the first week or two after we moved out.
I know he's lonelier now, too. I'm at work too much and there's no second person around anymore with a completely different work schedule.
But he copes. I bought a small fish tank with three colourful inhabitants and he can sit for hours in front of it, watching them.
I got sent home early today. I lost my temper. All the pent-up frustration and anger went-off and I yelled at a colleague during a seemingly harmless argument. Thank god that only my direct supervisor was witness to my blow-up, he made me apologize, which I did in all honesty and sincerity, I was well way out of line, and ordered me to get home, sleep and not return until the day after tomorrow since tomorrow is my day off, one thing I lately ignored a little too often.
So there I am, watching some rerun of a show I used to watch and stroking Red's fur, who has rolled himself into a huge fluffy ball by my side on the couch.
I can't stay home, I'm neither tired nor do I feel the need to remain stationary. I feel restless, my body still in work-mode.
I try to remember the last time I went out on my own to have a couple of drinks. I can't. We always spent our days off together.
I take a shower and slip into something presentable, but plain. I don't plan on causing attention, I just want to blend into a crowd.
On the way to the door I snatch my jacket off the hook, pet Red's head lovingly and tell him I won't be too long, grab my keys and wallet but leave the cell and head out.