Title: Supermarket
Author: sarapallas
Rating: PG-13, for one swearword.
Spoilers: set before 3.15, the One With Eddie and the Car in the Storm.
Summary: "Got a light?" she drawls, and suddenly Sara's leaning across the car, plastic lighter in hand.
Word Count: 400
Notes: Challenge by coldbeer (shut up :-* ). Words in bold are words I had to include.

***

She could've just ordered Chinese, but instead she dumps a bag of groceries in the trunk. Not that cooking a meal for herself (and only herself) is her idea of a good time. She leans against the car with a tired sigh, stares at a tacky line of Christmas lights strung across the windows of the store. Scrubs briefly at a scuff on the metal, scratches her tattoo (it's a new one, still healing), before lighting up. Her secret habit that's not-so-secret anymore, which hopefully means that no-one will probe deep enough to find out how Freudian her secrets get.

No, she's not a chain smoker, and yes, damnit, she knows it's not healthy.

"Sara?" a voice in the dark, barely audible. She can't see anyone, her eyes still adjusting after the harsh store lights (don't tell anyone, okay, but this could be making her nervous). Someone in heels heading straight for her, walking up to the other side of the car, and she spins around, automatically hides the cigarette behind her back.

"Got a light?" she drawls, and suddenly Sara's leaning across the car, plastic lighter in hand. It takes several flicks of her thumb for her to spark a light. Heh. She wants to ask why Catherine happens to be right here, right now; and where's Lindsey, anyway?

She must've spoken out loud, because Catherine, bitterly; "Eddie got tickets from some girl for a show. He took Lindsey with him." She slumps into Sara for support, all angles and despair, blows smoke up at the sky, and Sara's mouth is drier than Nevada in the summer (it's the cigarette she's just smoked; yes, that's the reason why her tongue is sticking to the roof of her mouth).

It's probably her turn to speak. What about? Work. The case. That's a safe topic, isn't it?

"Did Ballistics match wh--"

"I swear, that girl is just out of fucking high school," and Catherine's pressing a hand to her forehead. Sara's brain spins with adjectives to describe her; porcelain, glamorous, pretty, tragic.

She isn't quite sure what to do, now, with this woman that's usually all glitter and leather and sassy comebacks. The night is cold (Vegas is in a desert, after all), but her face is burning and it's possible that she's sweating, too.

"Want a beer?" Her voice an octave higher than normal.

Catherine tells her to drive.

***