TITLE: Between the Shadow and the Soul (3/?)
PAIRING: A veritable clusterfuck… but there is only one way it can end up.
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

(Lindsay’s POV)

Not all of San Francisco had slept the night before.

Around three-thirty in the morning, a man sauntered along the sidewalk outside Lindsay’s apartment, taking his time about it, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Lindsay knew that he was out there, because she was awake too, standing at the bank of windows that lined the wall in her living room, Martha dosing at her feet, and Pete… asleep alone in her bed.

Welcoming any distraction from her mind’s throbbing preoccupation, Lindsay concentrated with vigor on the man below her, completely disconcerted with her findings. As a general rule, she harbored the uncanny ability to size a person up by stride alone, with little or no additional information needed. But even though she had watched him walk the length of the block, from the moment he came into sight until the moment he stepped out of it, for all she knew he could have been a homeless man or a drunk or a businessman or a groom-to-be heading back from his final hurrah as a bachelor. She simply couldn’t tell.

And then he’d walked on and left her standing there, ill at ease, with nothing left to focus on, and, as if they were magnetically pulled that way, she turned her eyes in the direction of Mission Cross North. It wasn’t remotely visible from her location. A blessing. Knowing it was out there was plenty painful enough. A very specific ache infusing her, she was ultra-grateful to live in a sprawling city where building upon building effectively blocked her view of the brightly lit hospital.

Unfortunately, the city and the darkness held no similar preventative influence over her distressing late night musings. Instead of cutting them off at the midway point, as the tall city structures so effectively managed with her sight, the same thoughts continued to run through her head over and over again without obstruction.

Was Jill still there with Cindy? Sitting on the edge of Cindy’s bed as if she were the person who was meant to be there with her?

Still holding her hand?

Because even in the short time Lindsay stood watching them, it was very apparent that Jill had no immediate desire to let go.

And why was that? When exactly did Jill and Cindy get to that place? How did they go from an argument to a friendly apology to a kiss?

And where did that leave her?

Did she foolishly assume that she could have Pete and come to a discovery about her suppressed feelings and that Cindy would just be available for the sudden change of heart? Did she really expect that Cindy wouldn’t have someone too? Who wouldn’t want to be with Cindy?

But Jill?

Had she missed something? Was this happening right in front of her without her noticing? Wasn’t that what she was paid to do? Notice these types of things?

She really thought that she had noticed something. But not for Jill. She’d really thought that whatever was there was meant for her.

Cindy.

She had always seemed so open, so genuine. There were times when Lindsay felt as if Cindy was looking at her in a way that was reserved for her alone. Like there was more between them than either of them could find the words to say. But did Cindy really have any of those feelings for her? Or did she just want to think it so badly she’d started to remember what was never really there?

All of her insistent thoughts were uninvited, but there was one that caused more relentless anguish than any of the others, the thought that haunted her the absolute most -

If she had considered any of these questions sooner, would she have to be asking them now?

All night and all day, the question had been with Lindsay, punishing in its repetition.

And then there was the guilt.

Because that was what she had been wondering, gaze directed outward from her apartment and off in the night toward Cindy, when Pete wandered out of her bedroom, walked up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Hey, what are you doing up?” he’d asked in a whisper.

His arms were sturdy, affectionate, and since they weren’t even close to those she wanted to be in, felt like a vice she couldn’t escape.

“Nothing,” she’d told him. “Go back to sleep.”

She wanted him to. She wanted him to go into the other room, to be invisible, to be a temporary fling, to leave town, to stop making her feel guilty because she could feel the warmth in his embrace trying to turn into love, and she didn’t want it.

“You’re crying,” he softly informed her instead.

She hadn’t realized it. Had been taken by surprise. Hadn’t the time to make the discovery and wipe away the tears before he saw them first.

“Is it your friend?”

There were countless questions. He could have asked anything else. But that question, it undid her. Lindsay raised her hand, feeling tears flood her palm, her lungs struggle for each pained breath, and like a truly terrible person, because she took the offered comfort, letting Pete hold her without needing to know why.

It was using him maybe, leading him on, letting him believe what she needed him to believe. Maybe he was getting the better end of the deal though. Who was to say? At least he got to be with the person he wanted to be with.

But then again, she didn’t love him, and she understood now that she couldn’t.

It wasn’t him. He truly was an amazing guy. He had all kinds of good qualities, the kind that most people looked for when they went looking.

He just wasn’t Cindy.

If only Lindsay could have figured out sooner that it was a dealbreaker for her. Because, if she never got to find out, if this thing between Cindy and Jill was real, she would always wonder what would have happened if she had just been a little quicker on the draw. She felt as if she’d been shot down and didn’t even have a chance to pull her weapon.

She also felt exhausted and used up, and royally pissed off that Tom had called her in on another case so soon after everything that had happened. If he hadn’t, she would already be drinking and then she wouldn’t have to think at all.

“I was expecting to hear from you,” Claire raised her head and watched Lindsay’s entrance over a corpse that thankfully looked as if it had experienced a relatively unexciting death.

“About what?” Lindsay asked, crossing her arms, lips setting in an automatic scowl.

“Uh oh,” Claire uttered nervously. “What happened?”

“You mean before or after I had sex with Pete again?” Lindsay returned, jaw aching from the tension she couldn’t seem to shake out of it.

“You did what?” Claire questioned. “What about Cindy?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Cindy,” Lindsay’s voice took on the phony quality of nonchalance. “She’s got Jill.”

“Jill…”

“Yeah. Jill.” Her voice struggled to maintain the indifference she didn’t feel. “When I went back in to talk to Cindy, they were kissing.”

It wasn’t until Claire had failed to respond for several agonizing seconds that Lindsay turned to meet her eyes. She highly suspected the shock she saw on Claire’s face seamlessly matched her own from the night before.

“Cindy and Jill?” Claire eventually inquired. “I didn’t even know that they were… that close.”

“Yeah, well, none of us know much around here, do we?” she bit out.

“Lindsay, I’m sorry.”

The pity only amplified her already substantial ire. And playing it off was the only way she could think of to breathe, to think, to put one foot in front of the other for the rest of the day and go on about her life.

“Don’t be. I’ve got Pete,” Lindsay reminded her. “And Jill and Cindy have each other. Everybody’s happy.”

Lindsay eyed the tools on Claire’s counter, trying to preserve that cool detachment she’d spent all night re-perfecting. If Cindy just hadn’t started melting it in the first place…

But, even without looking at her, Lindsay could feel Claire’s eyes on her, boring inside of her, unconvinced.

“When you say they were kissing…” Claire gently started.

“Jill kissed her, Claire,” Lindsay snapped. “Do you need me to draw you a picture?”

“Don’t get pissy with me.”

It was soft and lacked any trace of emotion. She didn’t have to raise her voice for Lindsay to feel duly scolded, and surprisingly calmed, by Claire’s mothering. Breathing deeply, she fought it with all due might. She needed to be apathetic. She didn’t need to be infuriated with Jill or wounded by Cindy. She just needed to not give a damn.

“Cindy kissed her back?”

But Claire refused to let her. She was asking all the right questions, the ones that drilled into the walls she’d so carefully constructed and picked them apart piece by piece.

“Well she wasn’t pulling away,” Lindsay answered, voice trembling slightly.

If she was going to feel anything, she chose fury. She walked into that hospital with the intention of putting herself out there and got a hard slap in the face. So why did she sound so fucking weak?

When Claire’s arms came around her shoulders, she wanted to push her away, shake off the solace. Evade the compassion. But she simply didn’t have the strength.

“If Jill hurts her, I will never forgive her,” she heard a feeble voice whisper, realizing it was her own too late to withdraw it.

Wholeheartedly annoyed when she felt tears falling down her cheeks again, Lindsay roughly wiped them away, hindered by Claire’s arms that refused to let her go.

“I know. Neither will I,” Claire replied softly, hesitating before adding, “And I’m sure she knows that.”

Which meant it had to be worth the risk.

“Do you think she’s in love with her?” Lindsay asked.

Though Claire was holding her as delicately as a porcelain doll, she shattered a little bit more inside the embrace.

“I don’t know.” She could hear the tells in Claire’s voice. She wanted to cry too. For her. “You could always ask her.”

“No I can’t,” Lindsay aggressively shook her head. “If she is, I don’t want to know.”

“But if she’s not, Linds… if she knows that you are… she would walk away.”

“She is though.” The fact hit her as hard as a sucker punch. “She has to be.”

“Why do you say that?” Claire asked in a whisper.

She didn’t have to. She knew that answer every bit as well as Lindsay. There was no need to deny what was so very simple.

“Because it’s Cindy.”

As the words left her lips, Lindsay found herself choking on the truth of them.

Jill was in love with Cindy.

Her Cindy.

She was just too late.