It means something, or whatever. Five ways Abby flirts with Gibbs.

Blindly but surely.

Truths repeat themselves. Five afternoons.

This is not home.

There are many ways to run. -Set before La Grenouille arc.-

There is a rumbling here.

The path clings to your shoes. This can't be all.

A moment isn't over until it's understood.

In the company of common fillers.

These are moments only.

This is what is between and this is your head full of doubts. McGee wants Abby, or so he thinks.

Be good, be good, and weren't we?

And that was different, too. Kate Todd lives, at least for a while.

An exact word for this cannot be imagined.

Nothing can exist only slightly.

Nothing remains except the two of them.

He was born a screaming baby boy and will always hate endings.

Grissom is fascinated with bugs, but mostly just Sara.

Outcasts always mourn.

He’s going to let go and she’s going to break, at this point they’re past emotion and that’s how these things end.

It fell, as he ordered, in rapid achievement.

“I’m a toad, you’re a princess, and we are so pathetic it’s easy to believe it.”

They got it wrong.

Beneath his fingertips he can feel blood, warm and essential, coursing through her veins. “You leave me absolutely exhausted.”

This isn't right. This isn't even wrong.

Dissolve the floors of memory and all its clear relations.

There was a hint of something in her voice. You tell yourself that it’s pity. Anger is the only thing you’ll ever admit to feeling towards her.

And all this is so stupid because you never wanted any of this in the first place, just a nice man to date, casually date, it’s only been two months and you can’t break up with him now and maybe now, you can love him now.

You shake her hand and hold on to it like a lifeline.

This is when they came together, to ground each other, because nothing is ever that good for long.

She left when he was in the middle of a sentence, having heard it all before.

Her alarm announces the arrival of another beautifully sunny Monday morning in Miami, bodies dropping, or sometimes falling, by the dozen.

The scarf he wrapped around her neck is heavy with words she won’t hear.

“So what? Checks and balances, but an aide’s nephew can show up to a White House function?”

“…our love by hour may we two stand when we're dead. Between these lands the sun sets, behind his eyes …”

She has one too many dimensions to enter.

Pulling me towards her, she’ll feel my breath against her shoulder, and she’ll realize just how out of hand this is getting.

The elegant universe.

With each look, every touch, and the individual words that make up his sentences he turns her pages.