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Eliot's never been much for consorting with law enforcement. He has to know how they do their jobs, or he'd have ended up a lot deader a lot sooner, but he never much cared how they lived their lives or how they sleep at night.
He can make his own peace with the shitty stuff - he's always picked his own jobs and taken care of them his own way - but his girl, she doesn't have that choice. Abby plays the hand dealt to her every day, and just because she works with the bits and pieces (just because she is the undisputed mistress of the bits and pieces) doesn't mean that she's safe from hurting over the big picture sometimes.
So she finds her joy wherever she can; she likes her loud music (Godawful racket), and her costumes (cute, but not his style), and her bowling with nuns (no thank you). She names her computers and talks to the toaster ("A little whimsy never hurt anyone," she says.) and generally makes things up as she goes along to balance the things that she cannot change. He still doesn't know what the rules to strip Monopoly are, because she cheats, and she has long since lost the right to "create" anything in the kitchen when he might be expected to eat it.
Apparently, sometimes she also recreates third grade field trips, though why she would want to spend her day off staring at dead people, he has no idea.
"El-iot," Abby whines one morning at way-too-early-o'clock, tugging at his arm, "Come on! It'll be fun!" she claims, but he's not convinced.
"Mrph," he responds, and tugs back, unbalancing her enough to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her down into the pillows.
"I'll make it fun," she sing-songs, and he keeps his eyes resolutely shut, because the puppy-dog eyes always follow the wheedling.
He edges one leg out from under the covers and nudges it between her thighs - and, Jesus, she already has her boots on and the sun's not half up yet - and growls, "I'll make this fun," before rocking against her hip, but she is damn near impossible to derail once she gets going.
"Pleeeeeeease, Eliot." She wiggles up his body and starts dropping kisses on his chin, up his jaw to his ear. "Just for a couple hours," she says, and then her voice drops to a husky whisper that has all of him paying attention, "and then we can do anything you want. I'll be so good for you, baby."
Against his better judgment, he cracks one eye open and raises its eyebrow. His "Anyfing?" is muffled against the pillow and she pulls back to grin and nod enthusiastically. Admitting defeat, he nods his assent and mumbles, "a'ight," and then Abby is up like she's on springs, like she hadn't been draped across his body 2 seconds before.
She runs a steady commentary while she flits around the room, tossing clothes more or less in the direction of his head, talking about bone pathology, and isotope ratios and god-only-knows-what-else as he wonders how long she's been up and how much caffeine she's sucked down already.
If this is what she needs to stay happy, it's well worth it, and he figures he and Abby will sleep just fine.