Title: Any Other
Author: amazonqueenkate
Claim: Jacqui Franco
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: (Set 2; #37, methodical thinking)
Rating: PG
Summary: If they were any other people, things would be different. But Jacqui knows they're not.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for "A Bullet Runs Through It, Part 1", but they are teenie-tiny and thus not important.

"Hey," Jacqui says, and stands in the doorway.

"Hey," Sofia says, and steps into the front room.

This is the way it works, the way it always works, and if she herself weren't so chicken shit Jacqui might point out how very fucked up this whole dance has become. They're two women too alike to be friends and too different to be sisters, so they float in limbo because limbo's the only place they really fit. Sofia's like an iceberg, cool and emotionally distant; Jacqui's warmer, like a campfire, but she knows she's emotionally immature. It's the reason they never talk more deeply about things, the reason their visits are short and conversations so stilted: they don't know how to interact. They're the interpersonal equivalent of bonsai trees.

"Beer?" Sofia asks, her head muffled by the buzzing of the refrigerator.

"Sure," Jacqui says, but she's already placing two on the countertop.

If they weren't this way – one emotionally retarded, the other emotionally barren – Jacqui figures she could really appreciate Sofia. Maybe even go as far as to love her, though that word seems too large for the one bedroom apartment and pint-sized kitchen-and-living-room combo. Sofia's intelligent, mature – sometimes, even clever. She's clean and crisp, neat and narrow, the sort of woman that most straight men and gay women wait their entire lives to meet. She's the sort of woman who only comes around once in a lifetime and allows you one flitting chance to either carpe diem or wallow in eternal self-pity once sunset rolls around.

"You heard," Sofia says, and it's not a question.

"Yeah, I heard," Jacqui says, and flicks her bottle cap into the garbage can.

But that's not how it is. Sofia resides in the emotional Antarctic, and Jacqui's still in elementary school. They're both two fucked up women in a fucked up situation, drinking beer at a breakfast bar and listening to the refrigerator buzzing. Any other two people might finally look at each other now – after the shooting of an officer in a high-speed, high-stress, high-stakes situation – and mention something about the sex-without-sympathy quicksand they're sinking into. Any person who isn't Jacqui "Chicken Shit" Franco might admit that she worried when the words "officer down", and "Detective Curtis" were slapped together in one hasty Sanders-sentence.

Instead, Jacqui asks, "You wanna talk about it?"

"Nah," Sofia says with a shake of her head.

Jacqui sighs and sips her beer without saying anything more. Any other person would say something else, sure. But she's always known that they're nothing like other people.