TITLE: Between the Shadow and the Soul (4/?)
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.

(Cindy’s POV)

It was quite possible that she was hallucinating. After all, four days removed from the drugs, she could still feel the aftereffects of them coursing through her system, proving just how mind-warping they could have been when they were pumping into her at full throttle.

Delirium may have been the easy explanation, but it made about as much sense as any other that she could come up with.

Because there had been no signs.

No warning.

Not a single indicator that it was coming.

If it had actually happened.

There were no longing stares, no casually purposeful touches, no unnecessary closeness. At least none that Cindy could recall. Of course, it was possible she’d been a bit preoccupied with work and…

…other things.

But Jill, most certainly, had never said anything blatant or behaved in a way that suggested there was something deeper than friendship building. In fact, with the amount of vigor with which Jill had shown affection for her in the past, it was rather hard to tell that a friendship was even present between them. It had taken Jill the longest to warm to her, and, even when she did, she never seemed to want to get as close as Claire and… Lindsay. At least as close as Cindy let herself believe that they were before that night in her hospital room made her a little iffy on just how tightly knit the club really was. It would actually be a surprise to her if she and Jill appeared anything more than acquaintances who occasionally took a meal together to outside observers.

But Cindy knew that they were friends. She knew, without a doubt, that she could trust Jill, that she could count on her for anything. It didn’t have to be a tickertape parade for her to be confident in that. While Jill’s feelings could be readily apparent, she also had a habit of playing her emotions cool until something massive shook her world. So the fact that she had asked Jill to stay with her the night after her shooting, and that Jill had instantly agreed, she was almost positive actually did occur.

Her memory of that night was admittedly hazy though, so anything else that may or may not have happened in the aftermath of that favor was only, highly unlikely, possibility. There was nothing concrete. All observed evidence up until the point of contact, which may or may not have taken place, pointed toward the complete inaccuracy of Cindy’s recollection of that night.

Furthermore, as her memory served her, there wasn’t just the moment, or non-moment, with Jill, but there was also a reappearance of Lindsay. Unlikely. And it wouldn’t be the first time that Lindsay had been summoned out of nowhere by Cindy’s subconscious mind.

In summation -

Evidence prior to, and immediately following, the event in question suggested that she was very likely tripping.

More recent evidence, however, did present convincing rebuttal.

Like, for instance, Jill showing up at the hospital the day after the alleged event and staying for hours, talking about nothing to Cindy’s mom and stepdad with an attorney’s practiced ease, and not even leaving when Claire showed up to take over friend duties. Not leaving, in fact, until visiting hours were over, and then only at the urging of an adamant nurse and seeming rather disinclined to do so.

Trying not to let the familiar ache return when the thought of all of the people jockeying for position in her hospital room served as a stark reminder that Lindsay never bothered to come back, Cindy pushed the memory away, putting her, once again, fully functional brain back to the task at hand, puzzling out what exactly had taken place in her room at Mission Cross North while she was half in her wits.

Though she recalled Jill’s daily, and lengthy, visits that followed, just as she recalled that Lindsay couldn’t even spare her one, those too could have been drug-induced.

But then there was the fact that Jill came around to her apartment, even while her parents were still in town, bringing flowers and fresh-baked cookies from the most popular bakery in the neighborhood, which consistently had a line out the door, both day and night. Despite Jill’s claim that her ADA credentials got her a line jump, the fact that she arrived twenty minutes later than she said she would be quite clearly contradicted the claim.

By the time Cindy’s parents had left the day before, they had come to the conclusion that Jill, not Claire or Lindsay, was her best friend in San Francisco. And there could be no question in her parents’ eyes that Jill was a very good friend.

From some of the sly quips that her stepdad, generally prone to Sherlocking situations and coming to the most unlikely conclusions about them, tossed her way, her parents may have believed that Jill was more than a good friend.

Cindy just laughed and told him that he was reading way too much into things.

But was he?

Was Jill more than a friend?

Did she want to be?

And then, the most pressing question of all -

Had Jill really kissed her that night in the hospital?

The answer was key in solving this particular puzzle.

Evidence suggested no.

And yes.

For a while, the ratio of proof for and against was roughly 50/50, but now Jill was once again at Cindy’s apartment, in her kitchen, making her lunch. It might have been attributable to boredom, or guilt even, but it wasn’t like Jill was experiencing downtime in her current schedule. Numerous times over the past weeks, she’d protested that schedule, appeared in Cindy’s presence with bags under her eyes from too many long hours of overtime, and mentioned the ridiculous caseload she’d been given. She had plenty of things she should have been doing that weren’t caring for her laid up friend, but, instead, she was right there at Cindy’s beck and call.

The guilt thing remained a highly likely possibility, but the last thing that Cindy wanted was for Jill to neglect her life due to remorse over their pre-shooting argument.

It was over.

They were fine.

Thoughts quickly scattering as Jill stepped into the room with her usual confidence, Cindy caught her gaze for a half a moment before Jill’s eyes very uncharacteristically darted away.

Jill set a bowl on the table, a spoon down next to it, and seemed at a loss as to what to do with her hands. Finally, settling them on her waist, she shifted back on her heels.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t make it,” she announced with an overabundance of unnatural cheer. “Leftovers from your Mom.”

“I’d try it if you did make it,” Cindy said, lifting bowl and spoon onto her blanket-encased lap.

“I can’t say I’d advise it,” Jill chuckled, finally looking her way again.

Smiling at her, Cindy indulged her hunger, and Jill leaned down to gather a portion of the books and paper mess that had been piling up around the sofa. She didn’t appear in any hurry to leave as she willingly cleaned up Cindy’s haphazard mountain of work, while work of her own continued to pile up on her desk back at the DA’s office.

It hardly seemed fair.

“What are you doing here?”

Cindy meant it as an innocuous question. She didn’t mean to cause the break in Jill’s movements, or the sudden, acute shot of stunned pain that passed through her eyes.

Recovering rapidly, Jill lifted the pile she’d gathered in her hands to the far edge of the coffee table, straightening the papers before she looked up, less assured than she had been a few moments before.

“Your mom and I were talking at the hospital and agreed that you might need a hand with things,” she answered evenly.

Balancing her bowl between her hands, Cindy shook her head.

Of course that’s what had happened. Her mom had this unbelievable way with guilt trips. She could talk anyone with an ounce of compassion into just about anything.

“What did she say exactly?” Cindy asked.

“Uh…”

“Jill.”

Jill’s eyes lifted, a small smile creasing her face.

“Even though my daughter is fiercely independent and refuses to let me stay here, she isn’t going to be able to do everything for herself. Even if she thinks she can both do it all and write the article,” Jill cleared her throat, before tacking on, “I’m paraphrasing.”

“That’s a direct quote,” Cindy countered. “And an uncannily good impression.”

Jill’s smile broadened. It was a preferable reaction to the one she’d gotten a few moments before.

“You shouldn’t have let her sucker you into helping me.”

“I didn’t,” Jill said quickly, growing suddenly serious. “I volunteered. I wanted to.”

Was that some kind of declaration? Could she be convinced now? Jill’s words and her mannerisms seemed to be presenting Cindy with a picture that she still couldn’t quite make out. Or maybe she was too afraid to.

“So, anything else you’d like?” Jill queried, breaking into Cindy’s runaway train-like thoughts.

Cindy looked up at the eager expression looking down on her, automatically smiling in reaction. There was just something downright adorable about Jill’s enthusiasm to help.

“I’d love for you to sit and eat with me.”

“Oh, okay,” Jill responded, slightly off-guard. “Hold on.”

She swiveled at once, disappearing again into the kitchen, and reappearing a moment later with a bowl and spoon of her own. She took the vacant seat beside Cindy, and, after a few bites of the famous Thomas ‘hot soup’ recipe, she glanced toward the coffee table.

Cindy saw her do it, because, still exceedingly curious as to what had happened between them, and still completely unsure whether or not anything actually had, she simply couldn’t look away.

“Drinks. We need drinks,” Jill muttered. “I’m so not good at this.”

If not for the years she’d spent honing her skills at listening in on conversations she wasn’t supposed to be hearing, Cindy surely would have missed it, so softly was it mumbled.

Jill eased her bowl onto the coffee table, shaking her head minutely when some of the broth sloshed down the side to form a puddle despite her best efforts, and Cindy realized, whatever evidence for or against there was, there was an easy way to find out for sure.

A light hand on Jill’s arm succeeded in turning Jill toward her, and before she even cleared the space between them, she could tell by the sheer anticipation on the face in front of her that Jill had actually kissed her. Or had at least really wanted to.

It even felt the same way that Cindy remembered it as her lips met Jill’s for a soft, brief moment.

When she pulled away, it took quite some time before Jill’s eyes finally opened. It was quite a surprise, frankly, that she could have such a seemingly profound effect on someone so much more advanced in the sexuality department. But clearly she did. At Jill’s delighted smile, Cindy not only knew that the first kiss had actually taken place, but that Jill had meant it.

“Thank you,” Cindy stated, though from the expression on Jill’s face she needed no explanation for the spontaneous intimacy.

“You’re welcome,” Jill breathed, her soft smile pulling a matching one from Cindy. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

As she watched Jill get up from the sofa, and bounce into the kitchen, as if immune to Earth’s gravitational pull, Cindy rediscovered an old, popular platitude.

One door closed.

Another opened.