Summary: In an attempt to take his mind off Lindsay, Danny seeks distraction. Post-ep for Oedipus Hex, just in case there aren't enough already.

Rating: Definite T…you could even make the case for M, except I refuse to admit that I'm capable of writing an M-rated story. What a way to break into the fandom.

Disclaimer: CSI: NY is © Jerry Bruckheimer, Anthony Zuiker, Alliance Atlantis, CBS, I could go on…meaning this story is freely distributed and I cannot attempt to sell or otherwise profit monetarily from it as long as I use their characters. There's no law says you can't pay me with reviews, though, so please do. Anyone have ideas for a better title?

Suicide Girl

Danny tries, one more time, to get into Lindsay's good graces. He tells her she did a nice job wrapping the case; she smiles, albeit distractedly. Then he slips up with what he hopes is an innocent offer for a late dinner, and she shuts down again. "I already told you. Don't."

She's gone before he can say he didn't mean it, and he has nowhere to go but in the opposite direction, resigned to another brush-off and the accompanying mixture of disappointment and frustration.

He's a quarter of the way home when he turns around and goes back to the lab for information.

"Be with a Suicide Girl…you don't know what you're missing."

Well, he does now, and it's the same thing he'd missed before he tracked down this one's number and asked if she wanted to do something, maybe.

"Like hook up?" Blunt, direct, playful, and utterly carefree.

"Something like that."

"Not very decisive, are you? That's okay. Kinda cute." The words are crystalline but smoky, and he's reminded why this is a bad idea. But he still gets an address and directions and follows them, surprised to find that he's arrived at her private apartment.

"You expected a cheap motel?" she asks coyly, batting his nose again with her finger. He doesn't say anything but she knows she's right, and it doesn't bother her in the slightest. She's the predator tonight, as she always is, and sex is her pleasure and prerogative.

To her credit, she tells him they should to get to know each other first, reminding him her initial offer was, after all, only for cocktails. So they go briefly back into the cold until they arrive in the warmth of a hundred bodies packed into an overcrowded room. She doesn't dance and smirks at those who do; she makes a sport of disdaining the ordinary and he has to admit he's never met anyone quite like her, so brash. Maybe he even likes that edge. They talk of nothing consequential to a deafening soundtrack and down three drinks apiece for perspective before he makes himself stop while he can still see straight. She is unaffected.

And then they're back at her place and it's a blur. She's a wild minx and shows him a trick or two he's sure he'll never see repeated, but as she wraps her legs around him in artless mimicry of lovemaking, he sees a heart shaped tattoo curving round the back of her shoulder, and he's no longer able to keep his mind completely out of it. The heart reminds him of the victim and her death and he wonders if any man ever truly loves these girls. They're mysteries and enigmas wrapped behind truthful façades, and none of them compare to the western secret he'd rather unravel.

He falls asleep next to the girl (what was her name?), but there's nothing intimate about it, only two people sharing space. He wakes up a few hours before dawn and looks at his bedmate. Funny, he'd spent all night with her without ever really seeing her. He thinks perhaps her appearance should disturb him - half her skin inked in pictures, not all appropriate for a general audience, and patches here and there on her skull shaved bare. But to be disturbed would require feeling, and he's been strangely numb all night.

The girl beside him is hard and angular, with sharp bones and sharper features and eyes that pierce through without ever seeing you. Everything about this girl is the opposite of her. She has an honest face and warm eyes. Her body is diminutive and fits neatly into the cradle of his arms, and her hair is not silky but soft, like a cat (and oh, wouldn't she kill him if she knew he was comparing her to pets?).

But they're not dating, as she's made quite clear, and maybe they never will. So why does this feel like cheating? Lindsay's face is still flashing before his eyes, and he knows he has to get out of here.

A hand on his leg stops him as he reaches down to find his shirt. "You wanna go again?" The purring voice returns, half asleep but still playing coquette.

"No. I, uh…I think we're good."

A mannequin's smile. "It was fun though, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Short. Detached. Emotionless.

"Call me later."

"You know I won't." He isn't usually like this, yet he continues to treat her more brusquely than he's ever treated a woman in his life because he knows she doesn't care, and caring too much is what brought him here in the first place.

She shrugs, "Oh well," and shuts her eyes again without concern.

He finds the door without a goodbye, double checks to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, and heads for the car. It's 4 AM, Saturday morning and freezing, the streets are deserted. All he's interested in is going back to sleep, maybe for a week or a month or however long it takes to exorcize Montana demons. He's not scheduled to work today, though he might be on call. He doesn't remember if he is or not, but one thing he's pretty sure of: if he gets a page from Mac anytime in the next 24 hours he's going to hurl the beeper against the wall.

He sought distraction and escape and all he got was guilt and self-loathing, making him wish he could rewind the whole day and take Mac and Stella's case instead. He wishes…a lot of things of things, actually. That Lindsay would talk to him. That it wouldn't bother him when she won't. That he'd never tried to flirt with the new girl in the first place.

He wishes they'd caught DJ Pratt the first time around.