It was a quiet night, as quiet as the sprawling city of Las Vegas could be with the constant traffic up and down the glittering Strip, the distant sound of slot machines whirling, the muffled cries of joy and despair, and the shouts of awe from audiences. But for the men and women of the crime lab, it was a blessedly quiet night, with no one in the city needing their particular skills.

So it's a quiet night, you think, and all of you are catching up on paperwork. You were glad that you didn't have to assist another victim speak from beyond the grave, but at the same time, you wanted to be doing anything but paperwork. The five of you were piled into the break room, the table there buried underneath case files. Everyone was spread out, no clear group defined, since a group included different people for different cases. You were seated across from Catherine, a seating arrangement that had gone back years, allowing the both of you to look directly at each other without having to turn your heads. You both needed the looks, the assurance that you were both okay, commiserating with the other about the paperwork you both accumulated on a daily basis. A look, a soft, barely-there smile, was all that you needed to keep going.

The room wasn't quiet by and means, soft murmurs and questions inside, while Greg's ever-present music floated down the hallway, adding a rhythm to your work. Contrary to the image that you present, Greg's loud music doesn't bother sensibilities any, it just drags up memories, memories that you both covet and wish would disappear. The music reminded you of a time not too long ago when the woman seated across from you moved her lithe, nearly nude body to the throbbing beat. And each time, your body painfully reminds you how much she turned you on them, dressed in a G-string, heels, sweat and skin, and how she still held that power over your body even today. You both aware of it, bit have done nothing about it to disturb your precious friendship. For a long time, there was the buffer of Eddie, and how adultery was a sin. Then there were the bruises, and the coke, then Lindsey. You loved her daughter as if she were your own, but when Eddie left, that little baby reminded you always that Cath needed a friend, not a lover. So you helped her through rehab, and gave up cigarettes and drinking, and somewhere along the line, buried your attraction to her by stopping anything that reminded you of the times you watched her grind against the sparkling silver pole in Dream Dolls.

Shaking your head, you tried to dispel the intense craving for a three dollar beer and a cigarette. Tuning out the music as best you could, you refocused on the reams of paper before you.

Just as you got your concentration back, a hauntingly familiar harmonica solo reached your ears, tempting them with the knowledge of the smoky voice you knew would soon follow. Your body froze for a brief second, recognition spilling over your features. Looking up, you saw that Catherine had also stopped her work and was looking at you.

Well I was born an original sinner
I was born from original sin
And if I had a dollar bill for all the things I've done
There’d be a mountain of money piled up to my chin

The music was no longer soft enough to talk over, an effect of floating down the hallway, but loud enough so that it sounded as if the stereo was in the room. And your body reacted instantly to its presence. The craving for alcohol and nicotine slammed back into you, and you looked at the door quickly before turning back, instantly drowning in Catherine's knowing eyes. She remembered the song as well, and you could see her body start to move in remembered motions. You close your eyes and take a couple of deep breaths to try and curb your arousal. The music wasn't abating, and if you knew Greg, it wouldn't anytime soon, so you rose from your seat, turning quickly so you wouldn't embarrass yourself and move down the hallway to the DNA lab.

Poking your head in, you yell Greg's name several times before the spiky-haired youth turned towards you. He caught your meaningful glance at the stereo and turned down the volume.

"Keep it down, or I'm confiscating it," you tell him in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Gotcha."

"Thank you," you say, then go back to the break room, your body thankfully relaxing. You notice that when you walk in, everyone's eyes go to you before sliding away - all except Catherine's. Her eyes traveled leisurely down your body before traveling back up and meeting with yours. You nearly blush from her blatant appraisal and the far-too-knowing look she wears. She knows exactly what you were thinking, but you see that answering heat darkening her eyes and you suppress the crazy thought of just dragging her across the table and kissing her. Instead you sit back down and fiddle with a small scrap of paper.

'Breakfast?' you write on it, then slide it across the table with a file. She smiles, jots down a brief note on her official paperwork from the file, then writes a reply on the paper.

'Before or after dessert?' you read.

That was the crux of your relationship with her. There was always flirting with a hint of seriousness, but you know that your answer to her question would determine if you both continued your stalemate, or if you both finally got over past regrets and insecurities and moved forward.

A flash of memory - Catherine dancing to the Eurthymics on her first night back at Dream Dolls sober and your body's immediate reaction to that memory decided for you.

'I'll make you breakfast in bed.'

Her soft smile grew wider and turned knowing once again. Looking at the clock, you wished for time to speed up so you could see Catherine dance once more. But this time, it wasn't for a roomful of men who would stuff bills into her G-string; it would just be for you - and only you.

-fini