His pen scratches over the smooth white paper as he writes up the last of the report in the dim light of the empty bullpen. He yawns widely, reflecting that he's probably getting too old to be working ridiculously long hours. And he really thought his days of tracking through woods in the dead of night were over. Still, it was worth it. The case is closed and he yawns once more, flexing a crick out of his neck. The elevator to his left pings quietly as its doors open, but he doesn't need to look to know who has joined him. Not lifting his eyes from his report, he softly pushes his chair back a little from his desk and extends his arm. There is a momentary pause, as she climbs out of her shoes before sliding onto his lap with practised ease. She wedges her knees in the gap under the armrest, toes tucked under his leg. He scoots the chair back to the desk, still writing, and kisses the head that has come to rest against his shoulder.

Even in sleep Abby is never still for long, yet it takes him ten minutes to realise she hasn't commenced her customary wriggling. He stops writing for a second, pulling his head back to look at her, then nudges her with the hand that has been resting between her shoulder blades.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't reply, but only pushes her head further into his neck in answer. He waits for a moment, to see if she has anything more to add, and when nothing is forthcoming he lowers his hand, and pulls her tighter against him, angling her into his body. His hand comes to rest on the hem of her impossibly short birthday dress, the tips of his fingers just brushing her bare skin. He begins to write again, while his free hand slowly sets a rhythm against her leg. He remembers nights spent pacing the nursery floor, his daughter squirming with colic against his shoulder, his touch on her back the only thing that would quieten her. And now, all those years later, he's unsure of its affect on Abby, but he continues the beat, because it soothes him.

He scribbles his signature at the bottom of the page, tosses the pen down and turns his attention to the huddled figure in his lap. Her eyes are wide open, staring unseeing at nothing, and he can see no light shining from them. Her hands are balled into fists in her lap, and he covers them with his hand, and tries to rub some heat back into them. He has seen her like this on just a few occasions, tight, cold and unlike herself. It took days to undo her then.

He brushes his lips to her hair.

"You wanna go get your Birthday meal now?

She shakes her head silently and he frowns slightly at her refusal to participate in their ritual, albeit twenty-four hours late.

"You sure? I can get takeout?"

She shakes her head again, the smallest of movements.

"Home?" he asks, lips brushing her forehead.

She nods this time, and he is grateful to finally be on the right track.


He slides a hand under her legs and gently sets her on her feet, and raises himself out of the chair to stand beside her. The hand that comes to rest on the back of her neck gently nudges her forward, and without missing a beat, he picks her shoes up as they head out the building.

The rain had fallen suddenly without a moment's warning, cooling the air but falling too fast to let the earth drink its fill, and the parking lot is still swimming as they step out into the open, his car in it's usual spot, despite the reserved space allotted to him under cover, which he has yet to christen.
She automatically steps out, heedless of her lack of footwear, heedless that it has even rained. Her feet splash in the water, and he curses under his breath as he scoops her up in his arms.

He slides her into the seat, tosses her shoes over into the back seat, knowing they are surplus to tonight's requirements, and closes the door. By the time he has rounded the car to his own side and climbed in, she is ready for him, curled up on her seat, her hand on the gears. He is glad to see this small token of normality, and, turning the engine over, he slips an arm around her shoulder, settling her against him before he begins the journey home.

Her breathing has been deep and steady for a while and he thinks she may be asleep, as he brings the car to a stop, but she slides the gear to park at exactly the right moment. She always blurs the edges of his judgment.

She slides out the car and begins to walk up the path before he's even closed his door. He walks round the car to close the door she left open and locks it, follows in her footsteps. She has stopped near the steps and is looking up to the heavens. As he reaches her, his feet splash in the puddle she is standing in. He frowns, then takes her hand. "Come on, Abs. You need to come in now," he says softly, and leads her silently into the house. He closes the door behind them, and nudges her towards the stairs. "Go on. You need to get those wet things off before you get a chill. I'll be right behind." It takes a second nudge before she moves of her own accord. He waits for a moment to check she has begun to climb the stairs before he heads for coffee, before following in her steps.

She has slept in his guest room on occasions too many to count, but she's spent just as many nights in his bed. Knowing her, as he does, he walks past the guest room and heads for his own.

She has made it as far as the window, but is at a standstill once more. She is looking out into the night, one finger pressed to the pane of glass. He looks through her to the reflected image but it yields even less than the original. He crosses the room to place the cups on the bedside table, turning the lamp on, then walks back to the window. He slides his hands across her shoulders, his long, slim fingers pushing against the taut muscles. He feels none of the usual compliance under his ministrations; instead she remains stiff, tight and cold to his touch. He looks to her fingertip on the window, rests his chin upon her shoulder and tries to see what she is seeing.

"Whatcha looking at, Abs?" he whispers quietly against her ear.

She taps her finger against the pane, and watches the reflection of his eyes track across. She lifts her finger away and the moon suddenly appears, until she snuffs it out with her finger again. He knows he's missing it, but she's still not ready to put it into words yet. He will wait. He always can for her. Despite his arms wrapped around her she is not getting any warmer, his body heat not penetrating the wall she has built, and so he places his hand over hers on the window, curling his fingers around hers and gently prises it off the cool pane of glass, setting it to rest on his arm around her waist. He looks back at the moon, its light flooding through the window, almost obliterating their reflections.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes." he says, quietly but determined she actually will this time, and turns her away from the post of her vigil, steering her towards the bed. He sits her up against the pillows, and she brings her knees up to her chest, making room for him to sit. He hands her one of the steaming cups, watching her until she does what she is silently told, and takes the first sip. When she takes the second unasked, he rewards her with a gentle smile, a hand on her ankle and she grasps her hands tighter round the cup in reply.

He tugs at her sock, slowly drying from the heat of the car, but it still sticks to her foot. Waiting until she takes another sip, moves his hands to her knee, and tugs again, the sock sliding down her thigh to pool at his hands. He pushes it down her calf before slipping it off her foot, and beginning again with the other. She wriggles her bare foot underneath his thigh and he winces as he feels her cold seep into him. Her dark green eyes look over the rim of her cup at him. He thinks there may be a flicker of light in them now.

He warms his hands on his mug for a moment, before taking one of her feet in his lap. He pushes his warmth into her, fingers curling to meet under her arch, thumbs moving over bones. He keeps going until his hands cool down, then slips the foot under his thigh, and extracts the other to take its place. He warms his hands and begins once more.

She sets the empty cup down and yawns, finally breaking the comfortable silence they have been bathed in all this time. He lifts her foot back onto the bed and rubs her leg.

"Bed."

He leans over, pulling the small drawer open and tossing a T-shirt onto the bed. Standing, he picks up the cups, dropping a kiss on Abby's head before walking out the room.

By the time he's rinsed the cups, set the coffee maker for the morning and turned off the lights he hopes she will be curled up fast asleep, but, based on this evening's performance, he's not holding his breath, as he climbs the stairs again. He pauses before the doorway for a moment, then steps through.

She sits exactly as he left her.

He sighs softly, not in annoyance but more in acknowledgement of the situation. He pushes the T-shirt out of the way, lifts her up onto her knees. A hand on her shoulder, he leans over her, and unfastens the button at the top of her dress. Taking the hem in his hands, he quietly says "Work with me here, Abbs," and begins to lift the skirt. She lifts her arms above her head, and he tugs the dress up, easing it over her head, tossing it onto a chair. He slips the T-shirt on, pulling it down over her cold, naked skin and sets to unfastening her hair, running his fingers through its length. He wonders where her collar and rings are, noticing their absence for the first time. She looks smaller without them. He shakes the pillows, laying them flat, before pulling the covers from under her and slipping her between the sheets. She curls up tight on her side and he perches on the edge of the bed against her feet, laying a hand on her hip. When she doesn't close her eyes, he begins again with the steady rhythm against her leg. She lies quietly for a moment or two, until she turns to look at him, then raises a hand to sign to him.

He looks at her for a moment, as if to make up his mind, but it was never really in doubt. He wouldn't know how to refuse her anything anymore. He switches off the lamp letting the moonbeams dance their light across the room. His jeans and shirt join her dress on the chair and he rounds the bed to slip in beside her. She rolls over to face him and he gathers her up against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her clenched fists against his chest.

"Go to sleep, Abby," he whispers, lips against her forehead. He keeps them there until he feels the habitual shudder that tells him she has at last given in, before kissing her once more, and finally closing his eyes to the soft moonlight watching them.


He's always had a sixth sense as far as she's concerned. She likes to think it's ESP, that they share a telepathic link. He applauds her scientific reasoning, even though she's wrong. He knows it's simply love. Either way, it kicks in after only a couple hours sleep, and he opens an eye. She is sitting up leaning sideways against the pillow, legs curled up under her, waiting for him. He rubs a hand over his eyes and pulls himself upright.