Disclaimer: Characters belong to CBS. Title of this fic was inspired by the
song "You'll Think of Me" which belongs to Keith Urban. And he
belongs to Nicole Kidman, apparently. The song itself doesn't
really apply to D/L, but the title inspired me and so have included
some lyrics.
A/N: This
was just a little ditty that formed in my head and will not let go
until I type it out. It's centered on my belief that Danny melts
into a puddle around Lindsay. For some reason, I like writing in
non-specific third person. Thus, "He" means Danny, "She" means
Lindsay. Not that you really needed me to tell you that. ;)
He Thinks of Her
I woke up early this
morning around 4am
With the moon
shining bright as headlights on the interstate
I pulled the covers
over my head
And tried to catch
some sleep
But thoughts of you
kept keeping me awake.
He thinks of her.
When he stares out the window of the subway, watching each mile fly by, he thinks of her. He thinks of her eyes and her hair, her voice and her smile. Just the thought of her illuminates the darkness outside his window.
He thinks of her when he hears music. Especially jazz – the smoothness of it reminds him of her skin, and the warmth of it reminds him of her laugh. Even when she walks, it's with a kind of harmony.
When he's waiting in line at Starbucks, and the teenagers in front of him are kissing, he thinks of her. He wishes for that time of such innocent passion, the obsession and compulsion of it. He thinks of how she makes him feel sixteen again.
He thinks of her when he sees the 70-year-olds holding hands, their wedding bands tarnished with age. He wonders what it would be like to be with someone for so long, that you know them better than you know yourself. He thinks she would still be beautiful at 70.
When he hears her say his name, it's electrifying. Two ordinary syllables he has been hearing his whole life. Yet on her lips, it's pure magic, and it catapults him to another place.
He thinks of her when he is called to a crime scene. He doesn't think about the victim, the suspect, or the circumstances. He has just one tingling thought: will she be there?
When he is out with friends at a bar, he thinks of her. His friends admire and flirt with the women who buzz around them, like bees to honey. When a blond with red lipstick and ample attributes winks at him, he turns his gaze to the beer in front of him. He can think of her only.
He thinks he might be losing his mind. He can visualize himself in a padded room, in a straightjacket, in the Institution for the Romantically Insane. He thinks he should be committed, for wanting to commit to her.
When he daydreams of her, it's not about the things he wants to do to her body. Well, sometimes it is. But it's also about cooking her dinner as they talk about their day, making her laugh when she's gloomy, watching the sunset with her head on his shoulder. Those are his fantasies now.
He thinks of her when he looks into his coffee cup, and his reflection stares back at him from the pool of brown. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. If she sees his secrets, or if she sees the way he feels about her.
When the snowflakes begin dancing in the New York sky, he thinks of her. He thinks of what Montana must be like in the snow, the mountains and the plains, the fence posts and the hay bales. He thinks he might like to go there. With her.
He thinks of her when he interviews the grieving widower, whose wife was murdered for $43 dollars and a gold watch. She's standing right next to him, separated by mere inches, they are professionals doing their job. But he thinks, just for a fleeting second, that he understands how such a loss could break someone in two.
When he is walking down the street, and passes the flower market, he thinks of her. He smells the roses and tulips and lilacs, and the smell – springtime and sunshine and rain – reminds him of her. Even the colors – red and pink and purple and yellow – remind him of her, and the color she has brought to his world. He thinks of how, if she was his, he wouldn't be able to walk by without buying some for her.
He flips through channels with the remote, trying to distract himself, yet nothing holds his attention quite like she can. He turns off the TV and stares at the clock, and with each minute he thinks of her and what she is doing. And later, when he can't sleep and the moon is shining in - illuminating the empty expanse of his bed - oh, how he thinks of her.
He thinks of her when he's nervous. When he's angry, sad, or bored. He thinks of her when he is happy – which, lately, is only when she is around. He thinks of her first thing every morning, and she is his last thought each night.
No matter what he does,
no matter where he goes,
he can't help it.
He thinks of her.
A/N: Drop me a line if you enjoyed. I might do a partner story called (guess!) "She Thinks of Him".