She held his gaze for ten full minutes- what seemed like an eternity, once, but after much practice it had begun to seem less of a challenge. His steady gaze never faltered, and as with every staring contest she'd held in the last year, she ultimately lost. These eyes held nothing within them, not an ounce of pleasure, nor pain- she having seen the latter far too often in the eyes of her most recent ex-husband.

With one deft twist of her wrist, she moved her scalpel to begin the basic Y-incision.

"Catherine, you work too hard." Catherine Willows placed her blood-encrusted scalpel upon the work tray to her left, honey-blond hair grazing the shoulders of her powder-blue lab coat as she spun toward the direction of the voice she'd just heard. The morgue of Aurora, Nevada was never booming with voices- as with many, it was traditionally sparsely populated, and she'd become used to the steady silence that overwhelmed the vast, sterilized room. Very little jumped her anymore, and certainly not the voice of the man who now stood in the doorway, watching her with a gentle smile curving upon his lips.

"Quen- I don't care how much you pay me...you have to stop doing that." She began to peel thick latex gloves from her hands, shaking her head as her supervisor entered the room. Quentin Gagney was forty-two, salt and pepper beard the only hair that honored his head, and the weak flourescent lights painted a soft shine upon his skin as he moved. He often came to relieve her, in the hours of the afternoon when Lindsey was released from soccer practice at three-forty-five, and as Catherine tossed her gloves into the biohazard bin she realized that the hour had come sooner than she'd expected. "Thank you. You don't have to do this, you know."

"Someone has to pick up the future Beckham," Quentin's smile was the one thing that she found lit up the room better than any light bulb, and she playfully tossed a fresh pair of gloves at him, striking his right shoulder. "Go on, you. Get your daughter, and be at my door by seven-thirty sharp."

"Have I ever let you down?" She smiled again, spinning on her heel and striding down the hallway toward the outer door and into the sunlight.

"Mom- Becky asked /her/ mom, and Shari asked hers. It won't hurt- and they're both signing the permission slips." The cherry-red minivan paused at a stoplight, the discussion within not stopping as Catherine's cool blue eyes left the road and locked onto those of her thirteen-year-old daughter.

"No."

"Mexico, Mom. Soccer tournament. Biggest opportunity of the /year/." It was as if Catherine had been transported back into her own days of teen-hood, when she'd been forced to explain to her mother in a patronizing tone that she simply didn't understand the important priorities of life. She shook her head, adjusting the rearview mirror and advancing under the shamrock-green traffic signal, before managing to answer again.

"Mexico. Spanish. No tenga dinero." She maneuvered the van to a stop at the curb and sighed. "Linds, I know you want to go to this tournament, and I know it's important to you. But until I get my raise, I don't have any extra money, and this costs money, sweetheart, despite what Shari and Becky might be telling you."

"I know. I'm sorry." No pleasure flickered in Lindsey's eyes as she watched her mother gather an overnight bag from the backseat. "Mommy, I know."

"I know you do." It wasn't often the child backed off from an argument, but recent circumstances had instilled an understanding within her that Catherine was more than aware of, and blissfully contented with. It made things less difficult than they had been the first time around, with Eddie, and she enjoyed that in a way she often felt guilty for.

"I'm glad you made it." The words fell from Quentin's lips just as she stepped out of the van and into his arms, aware of Lindsey tromping up the walkway behind him and disappearing into the house. "I wasn't sure you'd be able to find the place."

"Look. You have to ask for directions when we go to Pizza Hut, even though we've been there a thousand times. I've been here enough to know my way by now." She pressed her lips to his and wrapped her arms securely around his torso, sighing into his grey-marbled t-shirt. "Rough day."

"I know. High death rate, in the summer."

"Don't I know it." He took her bag and she looped an arm through his as they walked up the front path toward the looming doorway. "I'm ready for steak. I hope you didn't burn them this time."

"I think I managed." He pushed her ahead, hand gently touching the small of her back, and pressed his lips to the skin below her right ear. "But I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"What?" Warily, she paused in the front hallway, eyes glancing to the living room on her left, and dining room on her right. "What's going on? What did you do?"

"Very little, actually. I'd scheduled a meeting with a colleague of mine a few weeks ago, and we'd had to reschedule. But he flew in early, so I invited him to dinner."

"Ahh. Encroaching apon our private time?" Spinning on her heels, she stood up on limber toes and touched the tip of her nose to his. "You're sneaky, I'll give you that. One colleague- that's not terrible. And we'll get him out of here as soon as dessert's over...with plenty of time to spare."

"That's a plan." The overnight bag made a muffled sound as it hit the floor, Quentin's arms wrapping securely around her as he lifted her with as much ease as he always did, pulling her close in a deep, longing kiss. They always knocked the wind out of her, made her as dizzy as paint fumes, and she moaned softly, wishing there was no colleague at all, and no one left in the world but them.

"Quentin- the steaks are done. Did you want the po-" Before the sentence was done, Catherine fell to the floor, having disengaged herself quickly at the sound of the voice behind them, the sound of a voice she hadn't heard in over a year, and hadn't imagined she ever would again.

"Catherine...sweetheart..." There was no comfort in Quentin's arms as they wrapped around her neck, and no warmth seeped into her heart as he spoke, the sound of his voice bringing no joy this time. "Meet Gil Grissom...my colleague from Las Vegas."