TITLE: A Conversation with Martha that Doesn’t Go Quite as Expected
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
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.

Work was a great place. At work, there was a constant stream of duties, tasks and interruptions to keep her brain well-occupied. But home, in the middle of the night, with nothing that needed doing and nearly total silence inside the apartment, it was like a breeding ground for mental bacteria. No matter how much she tried to keep her mind thought-free, there was simply no controlling the infestation.

What in the hell had happened to her standing in that hallway with Cindy? First, there had been normalcy, genial conversation, uncontaminated thoughts of the kind she’d always had about Cindy. She’s a charmer. Cute when she rambles. Funny. Needs protecting from pervy old men. That kind of thing. Nothing you wouldn’t also say about a toddler.

But then her brain had burst and all those crazy notions spilled from her like candy from a piñata. And Cindy, who had gone from friend, and semi-nerdy reporter, to the star of Lindsay’s very own mind-produced softcore almost instantly, had been struck by some of those flying thoughts. Or so it seemed. At the very least, she was aware that there was something peculiar going on.

‘Which is just great,’ Lindsay internally mused. What she really needed was for the object of her desire to know that’s what she was.

Whoa Nelly! … she did not just think that.

Thunderstruck, slightly disturbed, and feeling the sudden need to be anywhere but in her bed, Lindsay bolted upright, dizzy from the rush of blood to her head, and pushed the covers from her overheated body. It seemed the more she tried to hold them off, the more uninvited thoughts kamikazeed their way into her cranium, each one slightly more explicit than the last. Suffering from a jumble of real memories and hallucinations that she flat out refused to call fantasies, Lindsay frantically looked around for some form of distraction. And she found one, soundly sleeping at the foot of her bed. Glancing at the clock to see just how cruel she was being, she guiltily turned back to her slumbering companion.

“Hey Martha. Are you awake?” she whispered.

Asking made her feel a little less like a jackass, regardless of the fact that it was pretty clear Martha wasn’t. The first call didn’t wake her either. She didn’t budge a millimeter, and, if anything, her light snore amplified.

“Mar-tha,” Lindsay sing-songed, a little louder, and waited for her to open her eyes to no avail. “Martha!” She nudged the great furry beast with her leg, and sleepy eyes opened to glare up at her.

“Hey,” Lindsay exclaimed in excited contrast to Martha’s lethargic irritation. “Want to go for a run?”

Even with limited expressions, she was pretty sure the look on Martha’s face was a cross between “Want to shut the hell up?” and “Bitch, you gotta be crazy.” If that was the message Martha was trying to convey, Lindsay had to agree with fifty percent of it.

“How about a biscuit?” she offered instead. “Wanna biscuit?”

Clearly a better proposition, Martha at least perked her ears up in reaction.

“Get up with me, and I’ll give you a biscuit.”

Oh my God, she was sad. There were no words to explain how ridiculously pathetic she was right at this very moment. It was the middle of the night, and she had to bribe her dog to get out of bed with her. Her only saving grace was that Martha wouldn’t be telling anybody.

Not particularly amused by her, but tempted nonetheless, Martha wearily got to four legs. Lindsay almost cheered as she bounded out of the bed.

“Come on girl,” she called.

Martha dropped to the floor and padded after her into the kitchen.

As promised, Lindsay fished a biscuit out of the cabinet and chucked it on table, hearing Martha climb up on a chair and start chomping as she pulled her own much needed late night snack from the refrigerator and twisted the cap off.

She settled in the seat beside Martha, who looked up at her mid-chew, as if she knew the faster they got this over with, the sooner she could go back to bed.

“People are morons,” Lindsay started.

Martha didn’t dispute the fact, instead seeming to concur so wholeheartedly that Lindsay chugged half her beer in shame.

“They just… they think they know things they don’t know, you know?”

If Martha did know, she didn’t feel the need to voice the opinion, instead just taking another bite of biscuit and leveling Lindsay with an intent stare.

“I can’t believe they all think that,” Lindsay continued, almost to herself. “And now they’ve got me thinkin’ it.”

Downing the last of the bottle, and contemplating another, she looked at Martha’s confused head tilt and realized she hadn’t told her the whole story.

“You know Cindy,” she started, pausing momentarily as Martha abruptly livened up and stood taller on the chair. “Well, everyone seems to think I have a thing for her. I know, it’s crazy,” she continued in response to what she was certain was total disbelief on Martha’s part. “It’s like an obsession that’s overtaken every person in my life.”

Finally giving into the desire to further dull her senses, Lindsay got up and went to the refrigerator, setting her bottle on the counter, and reaching in for a replacement. Once she had it in hand, she turned back to Martha, leaning her hip against the counter.

“Pete started it,” Lindsay informed her, feeling every bit as petulant and juvenile as her words implied.

Apparently, Martha’s wakefulness was short-lived. Biscuit completely gone now, she yawned cavernously, and hunkered back down.

Lindsay toyed with the bottle, debating whether or not she should drink it, seeing as it was going on two a.m. and she was on duty at eight. Undecided, she lowered the bottle to her side, but didn’t put it back.

“And you wouldn’t believe some of the things he said about Cindy,” she divulged, only vaguely sidetracked by Martha’s return to upright attention. “I mean, more about me really… but still, it was about Cindy too.”

Martha barked loud, and Lindsay gave her a warning glance.

“Shh, what’s wrong with you? You know better than that.”

Martha looked duly shameful and quieted immediately. She never barked, especially not in the middle of the night. Lindsay studied her, wondering if something might be wrong for real, and tried to remember where she put the business card she had for just this type of occasion. Locating it in her mind, just in case, she decided to wait it out for a few minutes. Other than the abnormal, random bark, Martha looked perfectly healthy.

“It’s just… I am with Pete,” Lindsay said, watching Martha stoop, her chin coming to rest on the table. “He knows that. I went to the airport to see him off. I had sex with him, for Christ’s sake.” She hesitated on whether or not to say more. Then, realizing Martha was the only creature, great or small, she would ever be admitting this to, decided to spill all. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t have an orgasm. But that wasn’t because it was him. These things take time.”

The confession had no profound effect on Martha’s current state of languor. She stayed where she was, chin lying on the table. Lindsay hoped it was just sleepiness and nothing more serious.

“But, God, him thinking that I wanted it to be Cindy.”

Martha jumped up again suddenly, tail wagging with enthusiasm. Though it was late, and she was tired, and her mental state lacked a certain clarity at the moment, Lindsay couldn’t deny that a distinct pattern was making itself known to her.

But just to check it out…

“Pete,” she said slowly.

Martha settled down in apparent boredom, chin once again resting on the table.

Sighing, not sure if she really wanted to know this, but feeling it imperative that she do, she bit the bullet.

“Cindy,” she whispered.

Like a Jack-in-the-box that just hit the magic note, Martha was back up in an instant, wide awake, tail going like a windshield wiper in the midst of a downpour.

“Pete.”

Thoroughly uninterested, Martha remembered she was tired again, and returned to, what was apparently, the Pete position. Butt to chair. Chin to table.

“Cindy,” Lindsay barely breathed, throat tightening.

Martha jumped up like a member of Cindy’s personal pep squad, tail wagging in lieu of a pompom.

“Okay,” Lindsay uttered, remembering the beer in her hand and putting it back in the fridge.

She guessed she had Martha’s vote.

But was it Martha’s vote?

Remembering the card again, Lindsay slid open her junk drawer, scouring the contents until she found it between the mess of unnecessary paraphernalia. Casting Martha, who now looked remarkably energized, an accusatory stare for making her do this, Lindsay irritably punched in the phone number.

“Twenty-four hour pet emergencies. This is Tyler,” a friendly voice answered two rings later.

“Yeah, I have a question,” Lindsay said, holding the phone in an iron grip. “Is it true that animals pick up on their owner’s emotions?”