Disclaimer: Believe it or not, I don't actually own CSI.

AN: Yay! I'm scheduled for surgery at 5.30 next Monday! In the morning! My happiness over that stupid schedule in no way affected this fic.

I twirl my service weapon in my hand and chuckle. I doubt this is what I was given the damn gun for. I wonder… what would Grissom say if he knew what I was about to do? Probably quote some long-dead philosopher and leave me to my business.

I choke down another shot of vodka and smile. The more alcohol I have, the more sense this makes. I've had a hellish day, and sleep that I can wake up from isn't exactly appealing.

I had to deal with a domestic abuse case tonight. Grissom, in his infinite wisdom, decided to put Catherine on the case with me. Of course. Why not? We've been friendly lately- time to ruin that. After about two months of friendship, something pops up and we get to figuratively tear each other's heads off.

Now, if we were tearing each other's clothes off, we might actually make some progress.

But that'll never happen. As of four hours ago, she hates me again. At least, she should. I didn't stick around to hear her response to my comments. Given how I insulted everything from her job to her personality, I figured I should just get the hell out of there.

Not that she didn't shout her fair share of insults, but I'm pretty sure her remarks were justified. Every single thing she said to me tonight was true. Why do you think a gun's in my hand right now?

I chuckle again. I suppose she can't take all of the credit for this. After all, I have had a lot of alcohol. And if my life wasn't so fucked up, she wouldn't have had so much ammunition. So see? Not all the credit goes to her.

I wonder if she knows how much power she has over me? One glance from her, and my entire outlook for the evening is settled. I'm either deliriously happy or so fucking depressed that I don't know what to do with myself. Wait- I do know. This.

I lean against the back of my couch and tap my gun against my temple. I really can't do this anymore. I've finally taken just a little too much. She doesn't give a damn about me- she never has. Figures I realize this when I'm drunk and have a gun nearby.

A loud noise echoes throughout my apartment, and it takes a second for me to realize that someone's knocking on my door. Well, great. Might as well get up and figure out who I'm going to say my last words too.

I drop the gun and push myself off the couch. Some part of me doesn't think answering the door with it in hand would be a good idea.

Somehow, I make my way over to the door. The constant throbbing in my head made the task extremely difficult. I hope whoever's out there appreciates this. I slam open the door and look out at my guest.

For a second, I'm not sure whether or not my eyes are playing tricks on me. I have had a lot to drink. Catherine Willows can't be standing outside my door holding a red rose. That isn't how my life works.

"Sara, I am so sorry."

I stare at her for another minute, still not believing what I'm seeing or hearing. Then I back up, letting her into my apartment. She walks in and I can practically feel her tense when she sees my loaded gun on the coffee table. I look down at the floor to avoid her piercing gaze.

I feel her warm arms surround me, and for an instant her intoxicating presence stuns me. I can't believe she's this close. She's caught me in one of my weakest moments after I insulted and belittled her, and she's still holding me in her arms.

The sheer pain of the comfort I don't deserve causes tears to begin flowing down my face. I hurt her so badly. I saw it in her eyes. How can she just forget that and wrap her arms around me?

"I'm sorry."

"Shhh… it's okay, baby. I've got you. We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

I sob again, knowing that she's not talking about our argument. She's more concerned about the gun on my coffee table. I don't deserve any of what she's offering me. She has to realize that.

I feel her leading me down the hallway towards my bedroom. We lie down on my bed, and despite everything that's happened tonight, I can't help but feel safe with her.

She takes the rose she still has in her hand and rubs the petals against my cheek. Dimly, I recall the meaning of the flower she has. A single red rose. 'I love you'.

I feel my body jolt to life, and from the sudden tension in her forearms, I know she's just as nervous as I am. I look up and meet her intense gaze. She returns the look for a few seconds, but then turns away.

"Not now, Sara. Tomorrow."

I nod slowly and curl deeper into her embrace. Tomorrow. We'll worry about fixing this mess tomorrow.