TITLE: Inamorata (29/?)
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. 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.
The sun had risen high into the sky before Lindsay was forced to abandon her post in search of something to keep her from toppling over from the very real exhaustion. Even then, she went slowly, inhibited by her body’s fatigue or her disinclination to leave Cindy lying there alone. Maybe both.
She fumbled around the kitchen, trying to figure out where essential items had been stored, releasing an unconscious groan upon discovery of the vital caffeine source. Then, leaning right there against the kitchen counter, she threw back enough coffee to fuel her with false alertness. Between each cup, with slightly more ability to function every time, she made the journey up the stairs. Cindy showed no signs of waking up, and the day continued to move on without them.
It was just after noon when Lindsay finally topped the staircase and open eyes rose from where they were focused on the blankets to take her in.
“Hey,” she softly breathed, approaching the bed guardedly.
“Hey,” Cindy returned even softer.
“You slept for a while,” Lindsay gently smiled.
Cindy’s eyes drifted away from her.
“We had a late night.”
It wasn’t meant to be tantalizing or said in fond remembrance. It was just a fact, stated as such, impassive. Regardless of the lack of emotion with which it had been delivered, Lindsay’s soul craved to return to those moments just the same.
Things had changed. She’d known it already, but, standing there in the same room with Cindy, she could feel the difference. The air didn’t move the same way between them. The connection was fractured.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Uh huh,” Cindy answered in the most abbreviated possible way. “Is there coffee?”
Yeah. A whole pot flowing through her own system at the moment.
“I’ll make you some.”
Lindsay was rather grateful to have a task she could fulfill at Cindy’s request.
Cindy barely nodded in reply, and, as much as she didn’t want to, Lindsay left her alone to go back down the stairs and fetch the one thing that she had been asked for. She tried not to ponder all of the things Cindy could have asked from her, but didn’t.
She could hear Cindy shuffling around in the bathroom above her as she waited for the coffeemaker to percolate enough for a cup, poured Cindy’s coffee, and fixed it to order. She had every intention of walking it upstairs, but when she stepped into the main room, Cindy was already set up at the table, the front section of The Register open in front of her.
“There was blood on your shirt,” Cindy said without looking up.
Lindsay paused in her forward movement, and Cindy did look up at her then, their eyes holding across the room. Even at a distance, Cindy’s looked clouded. They’d been so bright yesterday before the storms rolled in.
“I saw it on the floor.”
Lindsay really thought that she had hidden the evidence better. She’d meant to. There was a perfect lie on the tip of her tongue. Paper cut. It could have happened. It would have made things easier.
“You hit me,” she reminded Cindy, unable to get anything but the truth past her lips. “Remember?”
Cindy’s eyes went back to the paper, though Lindsay suspected they weren’t actually seeing it.
“Kind of,” Cindy answered, just above a whisper. “Sorry.”
Lindsay didn’t want an apology. At all. She wanted to make it better. She still didn’t know how. And she wanted to tell Cindy all of this, but she didn’t know how to do that either.
Remembering the coffee in her hand, she walked over to the table, setting it next to the rest of The Register. Her other hand slid onto Cindy’s back. There was a further objective, a kiss Lindsay was desperately craving, but when tension instantly seized Cindy’s shoulders at the touch, it, quite effectively, doused the impulse. Lindsay pulled her hand away, pausing to allow the fleeting pain at Cindy’s negative response to move through her, before pulling out the nearest chair and sitting down in it.
Cindy’s eyes stayed focused on the paper, either reading or pretending to read, it was hard to tell. Lindsay was more than ready to talk about everything, get it out where they could deal with it, but it wasn’t hers to talk about, and Cindy didn’t want to talk to her. That was plainly written in the way that she sipped her coffee and slowly turned the pages, holding the paper high enough to inhibit Lindsay’s view, though her distinct height advantage made it nearly impossible for Cindy to block her out completely.
“Do you want something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” Cindy answered abruptly, as if to make her go away faster.
So Lindsay didn’t ask anymore questions. At Cindy’s unspoken request, she remained silent, but she didn’t go anywhere. She just sat there while Cindy read the entire paper, deserting her chair just long enough to refill Cindy’s coffee when the hollow clink of the mug indicated that it was empty. Cindy didn’t, in any way, acknowledge the service.
Lindsay could tell that her hovering was making Cindy uncomfortable, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave her alone. When Cindy ran out of sections to occupy her and finally stood, Lindsay twitched not to immediately jump up as well.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
The announcement was really a plea for her not to follow, and Lindsay heeded it as such, staying where she was and watching as Cindy started up the stairs.
She listened to the sounds of Cindy moving around again. When the door to the bathroom clicked shut, she dropped her head into her hands. At a loss, she thought for a moment about calling Claire, but somehow knew exactly what her friend would say - this was to be expected, and to just keep trying.
So that’s what she would do. Just keep trying.
She went into the kitchen and looked through her options, each second moving by in slow motion. Cindy was taking a ridiculously long shower, and the fact that she was alone in there, after last night, made Lindsay nervous to an extent that she couldn’t possibly explain. Cindy wasn’t the type to do something irreversibly drastic, but there were some things with power enough to change what a person was capable of doing.
When she heard Cindy come back downstairs, Lindsay walked into the living room to find her emptying a bag of the books she’d picked out from her apartment and stacking them in a pile at the edge of the couch.
“Pizza or leftovers?” Lindsay asked more jovially than she felt. She didn’t make whether or not to eat an option this time.
“Leftovers are fine,” Cindy returned. Tersely again.
Lindsay nodded, though Cindy didn’t bother to turn around to see it, and went back into the kitchen to heat up their food. The entire time she was doing it, she listened for any sound from the other room that seemed to call to her. It was an unreasonable wish, and went unanswered.
She took everything out to the table before going over to Cindy, who was sitting with her knees tucked to her chest at the end of the couch, focused intently on the book in her hands. She looked even tinier than usual, as if she was purposely trying to occupy as little space on earth as possible.
“It’s ready.”
Without bothering to offer some indication she’d heard, Cindy continued reading for a few seconds, then bookmarked her place and got up. When Lindsay was certain she would follow, she went to the table and sat down.
Lindsay let Cindy take her first few bites in the same silence they’d been in all day, then took a deep breath and a sip of water.
“Have you been having nightmares or was that the first one?” She tried to keep her voice soothing as she set her glass back on the table.
“Lindsay, I don’t want to talk about this,” Cindy’s answer came so fast, Lindsay suspected she’d been ready with it since she’d woken up.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Lindsay tried to tread carefully, “but I think that we need to.”
Cindy looked up at her as if she had something to say, her breath becoming more rapid, her face flushing lightly. Then she seemed to think better of it and looked back at the table. After a suspended moment, she put her fork down on the edge of her plate and got up, moving to the sofa. She reclaimed her place and started into her book where she had left off.
Clearly Lindsay’s light treading had been no way near light enough. She waited for a while, trying to get up the nerve to make another effort, but it felt too soon and she knew that it would be rejected again. After that, she waited some more, hoping that Cindy would return and finish her half-eaten meal.
She didn’t.
Long after all food left on the table had gone cold, Lindsay picked up their plates, cast Cindy a longing look, trying not to let herself be overcome by the thought that yesterday seemed so dreadfully far behind them. She filled the kitchen sink with soapy water and washed dishes, using that time to recuperate from what felt like a fight, even though it wasn’t, before walking back into the living room.
The only thing that had moved at all was Cindy’s place in her book.
“Can I sit with you?” Lindsay hesitantly queried. It was desperate and needy, but it came out sounding astonishingly level.
Cindy nodded, her eyes never straying from the page, and Lindsay sat down next to her, giving her plenty of space. She’d brought things to do, magazines that she’d had at the hospital, popular fiction, but, when Cindy finished the first book several hours after Lindsay had settled in beside her, Lindsay put down her own reading material and reached for Cindy’s. She needed to know what was inside her head, even if it was only part of it, and the part that was inconsequential.
Cindy cast her a sidelong glance, but she didn’t say anything. Lindsay really wished that she would. Anything.
All movement throughout the rest of the day was meant only to sustain - food, bathroom, stretching, return. Far from being relaxing, though, it was hellish. Lindsay was resisting with all her might the nervous energy that made her want to fly up from the couch and do something physical. Like maybe put her fist through the wall.
After the sun had been down a while, and the effects of not sleeping the night before really started to set in, Lindsay glanced over at Cindy, surprised to see that, despite her late rising, she looked rather drained too. She closed the book in her hands and slid it onto the coffee table.
“Are you ready for bed?”“Not yet.”
“Okay,” Lindsay responded.
She stared at Cindy for a few moments, and despite her preoccupation, she could tell that, for once, Cindy was well aware of the scrutiny, and not particularly fond of it.Lindsay considered picking up the book again, but she couldn’t even stare blankly at it anymore. The way the words had started running into each other had caused a fairly massive headache. Or maybe she was just that tired. She sunk down, her head coming to rest against the arm of the couch, getting comfortable to wait.
There was a distinctive lullaby in the tiny sounds coming from the direction of her feet, the turn of the pages, Cindy’s occasional sighs that she probably had no idea she was producing. When Lindsay closed her eyes and focused, she could swear that she heard Cindy’s heart beating. The tune sang her into a sense of relaxation, and she drifted off briefly, jerking awake again.
“Go to bed, Lindsay,” Cindy uttered without looking at her.
“I’m okay.”
“Go to bed,” Cindy repeated.
Though her voice never rose above that of a normal exchange, Lindsay felt more ordered than excused.
The ache in her chest was so great as she got to her feet, turned away from Cindy, and ascended the stairs that if she had any other symptoms, she would have been convinced that she was having a heart attack.
That pain stayed with her as she changed clothes, remembering the nerve-racking, yet exhilarating, feel of Cindy’s eyes on her just yesterday as she had done the same, and crawled into the bed alone. Despite her exhaustion, without Cindy there beside her, she couldn’t find a peaceful enough place to drift into slumber. She could find snippets though, little recollections of the night before.
Just one night before…
Cindy was smiling down at her. Cindy’s voice was whispering against the night. Cindy’s lips were making gentle contact with her own. Cindy’s body was warm against her. Even though she knew that they were going to go through some difficult times, Lindsay had known a moment of elation just from the knowledge that, whatever came to pass, Cindy would be right there beside her. That thought was haunting her now. The half-vacant bed felt exceedingly cold because of it.
She laid there in the hush and the cold and the emptiness waiting for Cindy. But Cindy never came.
Neither did sleep.
It was once again the middle of the night, this time for no good reason, when Lindsay glanced at the clock. She noiselessly got out of the bed and went to the loft’s edge, glancing down over the railing at the sofa. Cindy was still at the end, almost in the exact same spot, but her book was on the floor beside her. She was curled up in a ball, sound asleep.
As Lindsay suspected, it wasn’t that Cindy didn’t want to sleep. She just didn’t want to sleep with her.
Cindy was shivering, barely. It was hardly even detectable, but Lindsay was certain that she saw it. Then again, she might have been imagining the movement so she would have an excuse to quietly plod down the stairs.
She took the blanket off the back of the chair, the same blanket Cindy had used while they watched the movie the previous night, and draped it over Cindy. Cindy whimpered lightly when the blanket made contact, and moved restlessly in her sleep. Uncertain in her ability to do so, but needing desperately to be a comfort, Lindsay lowered herself to her knees next to the sofa.
“Shh, Baby. Just sleep.”
Cindy began to settle at the sound of her voice, and Lindsay risked a touch, raising her hand slowly to Cindy’s head, smoothing Cindy’s hair back with a delicate motion, whispering the whole time so that Cindy would know whose hand it was.
“No one’s going to hurt you. I’m right here.”
Cindy calmed more beneath her tone and her fingertips, but the real peace was Lindsay’s. Knowing that, at least, some part of Cindy still wanted her there gave her enduring strength to face another day.
TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as a deviation from the average, everyday. (2/?) 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. 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)
“Okay, so these two –“
“Floaters.”
Cindy grimaced at Lindsay’s choice cop word.
“Kids,” she chose to use instead. “Their bodies washed up on the beach, and you aren’t going to end up investigating this as a homicide why?”
“Because there were missing persons reports filed on both of them a few days ago. Their parents had forbidden them from seeing each other. They ran away,” Lindsay relayed, watching the crew work the location before her. “In five minutes, Claire will give her initial report that they died of accidental drowning, which is no surprise. Another team is looking at debris washed up about a mile down, probably pieces of their boat.”
“So… what? They stole a motorboat and thought they’d try for Asia?”
“We think it’s a rowboat actually, and it was Hawaii. It would have been quite the feat if they’d made it, huh? By the time the investigators got it out of the girl’s friends and sent a search party, there was no trace. Since then, everyone’s just been waiting for them to either get in touch or wash ashore.”
Cindy felt a lump rise into her throat at the straightforward depiction of events.
“God, that’s so sad,” she uttered quietly.
“Makes for a better story though, doesn’t it?” Lindsay teased with a smirk.
“That’s true,” Cindy acknowledged. “But it’s still sad.”
“I agree,” Lindsay replied softly.
The truncated concurrence came as such a surprise, Cindy found herself leaning in and listening more intently than usual.
“If they’d waited a couple of years,” Lindsay continued her thought as Cindy knew she would, “their parents would have had no say in the matter and they would have been less prone to the rash decisions that got them both killed.”
Cindy stared at the side of Lindsay’s face, bathed in alternating red and blue flashes. What was she really expecting to hear from her? Some kind of poetic analogy about love lost?
“I actually meant it was sad that they felt like that was their only option,” she clarified on the more emotionally-stunted inspector’s behalf.
“Should something like this ever actually be considered an option?” Lindsay tossed at her.
“I don’t know, Linds. A choice between life and love, I wouldn’t want to make that decision.” She paused in gloomy consideration of a situation where such a choice would seem necessary, and then remembered who it was that she was talking to. “I guess it’s lucky for you you’d never have to worry about something like that.”
Lindsay snapped her head from Claire zipping one of the teenagers into a body bag to turn her direction so fast, Cindy nearly ducked.
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Lindsay snapped.
“Nothing,” Cindy tried for casual. “Just… it’s not your thing.”
“It’s not my thing?” Lindsay asked in disbelief, and Cindy prayed silently for some form of intervention to get her out of the jam she’d just created.
After five seconds, in which lightning didn’t strike and no one needed Lindsay’s assistance enough to call her away, Cindy realized with a suppressed shudder that she was actually going to have to respond in the glare of that irritated expression.
“Yeah,” she said lightly. “It’s not your thing.”
With a vexed scoff, Lindsay shook her head and walked off, deeper into the crime scene, where she probably thought she couldn’t be followed.
“What just happened?” Cindy asked herself in a whisper. “Lindsay. Lindsay!”
With a quick glance around, she bowed beneath the police tape and jogged to catch up to the considerably longer-legged woman, seizing her leather-clad arm.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Lindsay threw back at her in that same disbelieving tone. “You hurt my feelings.”
With some degree of shock, Cindy’s eyes moved amongst the officers watching them, surprised that Lindsay would utter the word feelings out in the open in front of people who had the ability to hear.
“Really?” she questioned, stepping in closer.
This should have been a secret. Shouldn’t it?
“Yes!” Lindsay hotly retorted. “I do have them.”
“I know that,” Cindy lowered her voice, hoping her very agitated friend would follow suit. “How exactly did I hurt them?”
“Lucky for me, I’d never have to worry about that? What, like, I could never fall in love that way, where I’d throw everything away to run off with the person?”
Lindsay’s voice still wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t quite the bellowing decibel it had been before.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Cindy soothed.
“So, do you think I could?” Lindsay challenged.
Cindy went mannequin-still at the question. Did Lindsay really have to ask so directly? Couldn’t they skate around the subject? That always seemed to work better for them.
“Well?” Lindsay prodded when she took too long in responding.
“I uh… I…”
“Any day now.”
“I doubt it,” Cindy declared in reaction to the provocation, and immediately regretted saying it.
Lindsay’s annoyed look faded into something much more neutral and unreadable.
“I was young once you know. Like you. Starry-eyed and idealistic and romantic” Lindsay informed her. “In fact, I could still do it now.”
Cindy was buying it up until that last part.
“Lindsay,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “Come on.”
Fire flashed through the eyes looking down at her, and Lindsay turned and stomped off in such a total and absolute huff, there was really no other way to describe it, that Cindy was too afraid to follow her over to Claire. She looked for somewhere to put herself out of harm’s way, and honed in on Jill, standing at the edge of the crime scene, flirting so transparently with a uniformed cop, it was like walking up to a dating show.
“Hey. What’s up?” Jill happily broke from her flirting to acknowledge Cindy’s approach.
“Lindsay’s mad at me.”
If she had a dollar for every time she’d uttered that phrase…
“Why? What did you do?”
“Why do you just assume I did something?” Cindy mocked offense.
Jill just gave her usual head tilt and waited. It was her cue. This conversation never altered much. Sometimes Jill would throw a ‘now’ onto the end of her last question, and Cindy’s answer could vary between “I got arrested again” or “I interviewed a suspect when she told me not to.” Not this time.
“I hurt her feelings apparently.”
“How’d you do that?” Jill was as surprised by the revelation as Cindy had been.
“I just made reference to her level-headedness,” Cindy told her. “I actually thought it was something she took pride in.”
“What did you say?”
“That she wouldn’t try taking a rowboat to Hawaii to escape with someone if, for some reason or another, she couldn’t be with that person. Was I wrong?”
“Well, you weren’t exactly tactful, but her reaction still seems extremely sensitive.” Jill stopped short, laughing suddenly in remembrance of something. “The other day I told her I was going to buy her a litter of cats now, so she could just stop worrying about it.”
“And how’d she react?”
“She bought me a beer and we started talking about a case.”
“Wait. What you said was so much worse!” Cindy complained. “Why did I get in trouble?”
“Bad timing?” Jill submitted with an uncertain shrug.
“I guess so.” Cindy sighed, glancing over to where Lindsay was talking to Claire, feeling a very heartfelt guilt stirring.
“I need to get back to the office and get this story written. Could you do me a favor?” She took the curiously raised eyebrow as a yes. “Will you call me when you find out just how mad she is at me?”
Jill bestowed her with a dazzling, and rather humored, grin.
“Don’t I always?”
TITLE: Inamorata (28/?)
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. 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.
Aside from the first morning waking up, there had been no signs of nightmares, so when Lindsay was pulled from sleep by an absolutely gut-wrenching scream, she half expected to awaken to a corporeal threat. Disoriented, having fallen asleep not long enough before the startling rousing for it to have any beneficial effect, it took her a lengthy interval to determine the only danger was in Cindy’s mind and the only physical manifestation was her resultant thrashing.
“Cindy,” Lindsay whispered, scooting to her, and trying to restrict the flailing arms.
Cindy fought hard against Lindsay’s attempts to interrupt her violent slumber, demonstrating more strength than Lindsay would have given her credit for, and Lindsay’s body, still enervated from sleep, lacked its usual muscle to subdue. Before she could get Cindy within her grip, they somehow made it into a sitting position.
Cindy’s injured arm, which Lindsay was scared to hold as tightly as the rest of her for fear of doing more harm than good, broke free, colliding hard enough with Lindsay’s face that she tasted blood and instantly felt the warmth start to trickle from her nose. Pained by far more than the impact, she recaptured the loose arm and held it more securely, and Cindy’s cries amplified at the complete confinement.
“Cindy, Baby. It’s me. Baby, it’s me. Baby. Baby. Baby.”
Panic finally raised Lindsay’s voice to a volume that couldn’t be ignored, and the body ensnared in her embrace immediately stilled, before going disturbingly rigid.
“It’s me, Baby,” she spoke softly into Cindy’s ear. “It’s me. It’s Lindsay.”
At the mention of her name, Cindy’s rigidity faded into a forceful tremble.
Suddenly wearier than when she’d first woken, Lindsay let her head fall to rest against Cindy’s, trying to calm her own pounding heart.
The sound of Cindy’s sob filled the space between them and Lindsay pulled Cindy down against her chest, letting go with one hand just long enough to wipe at the blood running over her lips and down her chin, then locked both arms around Cindy, rocking the broken girl back and forth gently.
It was some time later when she realized that Cindy had fallen back asleep. With utmost care, Lindsay laid her back onto her pillow, examining the tear tracks running in all directions, splitting her face into sectors.
The serenity was shattered in as many pieces.
Making a determined effort not to wake her again, Lindsay scooted away and slid off the bed. She went into the bathroom, barely able to distinguish the blood amidst the haunting fear reflected back at her. Not sure where to look for a washcloth, she wet the hand towel, using it to wipe the blood from beneath her nose, from her chin, and from where it was smeared over her hand.
Specks dotted her t-shirt. There were likely more on the bed and on Cindy. It was fitting. She felt as if she’d just been through a battle. It would be completely inappropriate for it to leave no mark.
She walked back into the room where Cindy was asleep. The streetlamps and moonlight still shined in upon her stationary form. Lindsay looked down from the loft, out the windows, toward the water that the night had blended seamlessly into the earth and the sky. It felt like a tease now, the beauty, like the universe was toying with them.
She didn’t return to the bed. For the longest time she just stood over Cindy, watching her sleep, watching her breathe, watching her be alive. When she was too tired to stand, she sunk to the floor with her back against the bed, where she would be immediately alerted to any signs of distress from above her.
As much as she would have liked to believe it was still a question, Lindsay knew that this was the moment. The proverbial shoe had fallen.
Of course it had.
When you got pushed down on the playground, you might brush it off and charge your aggressor-
When you got knocked down by life, you might rebound with gusto-
But when Atlas shrugged, you didn’t just get back up.
TITLE: Inamorata (27/?)
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. 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 release from the hospital came in just enough time to go off-site for a cup of coffee and return to the medical compound for an appointment with her orthopedic surgeon.
Sitting in the waiting room, her fingers lightly entwined with the disinclined patient’s on the armrest between them, Lindsay was struck by the moment of relative normalcy. Cindy was with her, upbeat, and talking. A lot.
At the coffee shop, when she hadn’t been moaning over the deliciousness of the decadent coffee treat she decided to try, she’d asked a dozen questions about the place where they were going to be staying, none of which Lindsay could answer because she hadn’t actually seen it. So she just relayed all of the hearsay that the place was ultra-chic and had an awesome view. That seemed to appease Cindy. She smiled so brightly that Lindsay felt her very battered heart rattling inside her ribcage.
Cindy was happy to be free again. She was excited. Why couldn’t Lindsay just give into it, Cindy’s exuberant enjoyment of a new place, sunlight and the coffee drink, or at least coffee-like drink (it had caffeine at any rate)? Why couldn’t she return every smile with equal vigor? Why did it feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to fall?
“I just got out,” Cindy complained, once they had been transferred back to a room to continue their wait. “I feel like she’s my parole officer.”
Lindsay looked up at her, perched on the edge of the table, from the place she had taken up in the chair against the wall, and her laugh came a little more naturally in response to the joke.
“I’m giving her five more minutes, and then I start playing inappropriately with all of the gadgets in here,” Cindy threatened. “Hey, want me to check your vitals?”
Lindsay actually felt herself blushing, which seemed ridiculous at the point that they were at, but lighthearted teasing hadn’t exactly been something they’d had time to explore and it hit her just the right way… or wrong way, considering they were in a doctor’s office and would be for a while.
“Is that a yes?” Cindy further tempted in response to the completely inadvertent reaction.
When she glanced up, Cindy motioned her out of her chair with a tilt of her head, and Lindsay rose automatically and walked over to her. As soon as she stepped within arm’s reach, Cindy latched onto her belt loop and pulled her up to the table.
“Or you could just kiss me. Time seems to fly when you do that.”
A soft eagerness filled Cindy’s eyes, but, despite such an open invitation, Lindsay couldn’t stop her gaze from making a downward expedition to inspect the now nearly invisible marks on Cindy’s lips, just in case something had changed since the last time. Fading fast, exactly like the time before. And the time before that. Status check complete, she leaned down and captured those lips gently as requested.
Cindy’s theory of time reacting in direct correlation to whether or not they were kissing was quickly verified. No sooner did their lips meet than a short knock intruded on them, immediately followed by the opening of the door. Lindsay pulled back, redirecting her attention in time to see Cindy’s doctor pause, taking in the sight of them. It might have been the way that both she and Cindy raised fingers to their mouths to wipe away any traces of the kiss that provided the most telling sign. The doctor didn’t even do them the service of pretending to be ignorant. She smiled knowingly and pushed the door closed before walking over to them.
“Sorry it took so long. Hope you found some way to entertain yourselves.”
Lindsay smiled at the woman as she positioned herself in front of Cindy, and started right to work, removing Cindy’s bandages. Lindsay’s relationship with the doctor had improved quite substantially since that first night in the hospital waiting room. Once Lindsay had been promoted to her proper role, the doctor had been more than forthcoming, never hesitating to provide her information about Cindy’s condition whenever she asked for it. Which was often.
“These look good. How does it feel?”
Lindsay leaned over Cindy’s shoulder to eye the sutures. How one could describe an ugly line of dark stitching as looking good was beyond her understanding, and she felt the usual sickness to her stomach at the sight of them.
“Okay,” Cindy responded, concentrating fully on a spot on the wall across from her.
If there was one thing that Lindsay wished she had been coherent enough that night to avert, once they had made it as far as the hospital, this was it. Not once in all the fretting that took place in the waiting room did she consider the closing stages of Cindy’s surgery. Not once did she consider that, without any kind of alternative instruction, they were going to close the deep lesion in Cindy’s wrist with stitches not so unlike the ones with which she’d come in.
It hadn’t even occurred to her until the day after the surgery, when they had removed Cindy’s bandages for the first time, and the sight stopped her like a dose of cold water to the face. It was the realization that Cindy had frozen up too that made her snap out of it, that made her put her hands on Cindy’s cheeks and turn her face away from the stitches. Cindy had blinked and said that she was fine, but it was one of the very few signals that she had given so far that proved she wasn’t.
Since then, anytime the wound was uncovered, Cindy just didn’t look at it.
The doctor went back to collect a small rubber mallet from a drawer behind her and sat down on the stool, rolling back over.
“This will probably hurt a little bit. Let me know if it hurts too much okay?”
Cindy nodded and Lindsay put her hand on her back, the idea of any more pain for Cindy, no matter how minimal or necessary, increased the nausea she was already experiencing ten-fold.
The doctor hit the arm softly, Cindy’s hand jumping in reflex, which Lindsay assumed was a good thing. There was a small contortion of Cindy’s face every time the doctor’s hammer made contact, but she never complained.
“It’s doing really well,” the doctor smiled at them. It was genuine and encouraging.
“So, can I use my hand?” Cindy nearly stumbled over her own tongue to get the question out.
The doctor’s eyes fleetingly drifted over to Lindsay, and Lindsay definitely saw a restrained smirk. For the second time in ten minutes, Lindsay felt her face get hot and searched for something else to look at.
“Sure. Use it. And when it starts to hurt, don’t use it.”
Cindy laughed. The doctor laughed. Lindsay smiled. Maybe things really were healing that quickly.
When they left the doctor’s office, Cindy’s good spirits translated into an enthusiastic, and incorrect, notion that she was going to drive Lindsay’s SUV with one bandaged hand and a head still full of pain medication. Lindsay just chuckled at the mention of the idea and helped her into the passenger seat.
She drove to Cindy’s apartment, not sure if it was a great idea, but she really wanted Cindy to have the things that she wanted. Her own stuff had been easier. Somewhere a group effort had been initiated to clear both her apartment and the safe house of her things, and she’d let them pack it all into boxes and put it in storage. There was very little that she needed or wanted right now. Only her clothes and necessities had been taken to the new place, and she was fine with not being a part of it.
From the time they walked through Cindy’s apartment door, Lindsay watched carefully for any indication that Cindy was uncomfortable, negatively affected, but there were none visible to the naked eye. Cindy’s picking through books and clothing took a couple of hours, and Lindsay did most of the packing. Anything left behind became an afterthought that they could deal with at some point later.
The doorman of their new building greeted them warmly, despite it being their first introduction. He helped with the bags and asked if they needed anything else. He knew them by name, and Lindsay wondered just how many people attached to this building had been notified of their arrival and told to be overly accommodating.
Once the elevator took them to their floor and they tossed all of the bags filled with Cindy’s belongings out into the swanky hallway, Lindsay unlocked the door of their apartment and was hit with an aroma that made her mouth water and her stomach remind her that several hours had passed since lunch.
“Mm,” Cindy said, walking up beside her.
Lindsay pushed the door open further. The object in their sightline that commanded the most attention was, by far, the card. Claire wasn’t kidding. Nate’s token was huge. No wonder she’d never brought it to the hospital. Several pieces of poster board stuck together, the card stood taller than Cindy. The letters in the big “Get Well” were each a foot high.
Cindy chuckled as she walked past her, and Lindsay laughed in return as Cindy went to inspect the inside of the card and disappeared from view.
The sound of their laughter beckoned Jill and Claire into the room.
“Hey guys,” Claire said warmly.
“Hey,” Lindsay returned.
Cindy stepped back out of the card with a smile big enough to rival the card.
“How did you get this here?”
“That,” Claire paused dramatically, “is a story that involves a three-person carrying committee and a ride on the cable car that was apparently very annoying for the tourists.”
“I’m sorry I missed that,” Lindsay chuckled.
“Hundred shades of jealous,” Jill cut in. “This place is so nice.”
“You could always become a defense attorney,” Claire recommended. “Then you can get your own.”
“That price is way too high. Seriously, you should look around,” Jill said.
“Just let me get Cindy’s stuff from the hallway.”
“We got it. You look around,” Claire responded, shuffling forward to push Lindsay in the direction of the rest of the apartment.
Lindsay allowed herself to be guided toward Cindy and the main room. She rested her hand on Cindy’s waist to walk with her through their provisional lair.
Jill wasn’t kidding. Tom had really outdone himself. High vaulted ceilings and a wall of windows, presenting a fantastic view of the bay, were the main room’s best features. A comfy-looking living room setup bordered a large floor rug in the middle of the space, and, somewhat separated from the living area by the circular staircase, a dining table filled the rest.
“Wow,” she heard Cindy utter.
Lindsay walked up behind her, looking through the doorway of a small room that had been set up as an office, with a computer, printer, fax machine, the works.
“Guess they thought you might want to work from home,” Lindsay said, internally marveling at just how much thought had been put into all of this.
Cindy grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the stairs leading up to the loft, their temporary bedroom, which was outfitted with a queen size bed already made up.
“Wow,” Cindy breathed again.
Lindsay followed her lead and turned away from the bed. Looking out from the loft, the whole room was just expansive, and the windows granted an even more dramatic view. It was quite possible there was no better location in all of San Francisco for waking up.
She moved behind Cindy, wrapping her arms around Cindy’s waist, staring past the windows at seagulls flying over the water. Cindy leaned back into her, and Lindsay sighed, just for this one moment allowing the incredible apartment, stunning view, and having Cindy in her arms to wipe everything else from existence.
“Hey,” Jill’s voice called up at them. “Dinner’s ready.”
“What are we having?” Cindy asked.
Wishing the stillness could have lasted a little longer, Lindsay moved with her to the stairs and they started to circle down.
“Chicken, potatoes, veggies,” Claire responded, stepping out to join Jill below them. “You know soul food.”
Claire winked, and Cindy’s response was best classified as a giggle, a giggle that sounded so light and carefree, it shot straight through Lindsay’s being. Maybe things really were going to be fine.
Jill and Claire led them to the table, now set with serving dishes and place settings. Just two.
“You aren’t staying?” Lindsay asked.
“We’re going to scoot and let you have some quiet time.” It was Jill’s turn to wink.
“You know, you two didn’t have to cook for us,” Cindy quietly said, but they all knew that the ‘us’ was really a ‘me’.
“I cooked,” Claire corrected. “Jill floated… like Tinkerbell.”
“Excuse me. I totally put the rolls in the oven, and you know what?” She went to the basket, feeling through the towel. “They’re still warm.”
Claire put her hand on Cindy’s arm, tugging her over gently.
“We wanted to,” she stated simply, hugging Cindy. Lindsay watched her smile disappear over Cindy’s shoulder. “Take care, Sweetie.”
As she pulled back to where Cindy could see her, Claire’s grin rematerialized like magic.
While Jill hugged Cindy goodbye, Claire approached Lindsay. There was worry in her eyes, well-hidden, but Lindsay could see it.
“The refrigerator is stocked. You should be okay for a while,” she said in a hushed tone. “If you need anything, call.”
Lindsay nodded, hugged Claire and then Jill, and then she and Cindy were left alone.
She wasn’t unaware of the significance in the moment as they settled across from each other at the table. This was their first meal like this, alone together, as a couple. It wasn’t a fancy dinner out. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t even a permanent home. They would get to those things eventually. Sometimes it felt like they were doing everything backwards. But having a sit down meal together was still amazingly pleasant. Even though Cindy didn’t have much to say on the issue, the way that she kept smiling up across the table made Lindsay think the feeling was mutual.
After she had eaten far more than she needed to and was letting her food settle, the sound of Cindy getting up lured Lindsay’s attention away from the windows. As she watched Cindy walk in her direction, she scooted her chair back from the table. Cindy took the available seat in her lap, without any words, and kissed her.
“I could handle this every night,” she said.
“Good thing,” Lindsay responded, drawing a truly radiant smile. “Do you want to do anything special?”
“Let’s just watch a movie or something.”
“Okay.”
Lindsay was somewhat surprised, since that’s all that Cindy had been able to do in the hospital, but if that’s what she wanted to do, that’s what they were going to do.
They relocated to the overstuffed sofa, and Cindy settled against her side. Lindsay was grateful when she picked a comedy from the listings for her choice of fare. Anything lacking tragedy was most welcome these days. More than any image on the screen, though, Lindsay was occupied with the feel of Cindy against her, the soft smell of her shampoo wafting up, and more than any dialogue, Lindsay’s ears were tuned to Cindy’s melodic laughter every time it came by.
When the movie ended, they turned off lights and made their way up the stairs. Lindsay took her turn in the bathroom after Cindy, and when she came out, Cindy was already dressed for bed and under the covers. Lindsay quickly found a t-shirt in her disorderly stash of clothing and changed into it, exceedingly aware of Cindy watching her every move, before she crawled into the bed next to her.
Cindy scooted into her space and pushed up so that she was hovering above her, cast from behind in the lights of the night and the city. A faint smile and a slight dip of her head brought their lips together for the first time in the privacy of, what was for now, their own bed. When Cindy’s lips broke away and she pushed back some to look down at her, Lindsay raised her hand to Cindy’s cheek, her fingertips just barely making contact.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Cindy’s sigh was one of contentment, such a relief when there were so many other things it could be right now.
“I love you.”
It was just a wisp against Lindsay’s bottom lip and then Cindy pulled the skin between her teeth and sucked on it gently.
That’s how the night moved for them, in soft kisses and murmurs that had no meaning for anyone but them, and Lindsay refused to think about anything outside or beyond those exchanges, until one of the times that Cindy pulled back to look at her, there was real lethargy in her eyes. Lindsay looked to the clock on the nightstand to confirm that what had started as an early night had, hour by hour, become a very late night.
“We should get some sleep.”
Regardless of how little she wanted this day to end.
Tomorrow would come though, whether or not they submitted to it.
“’kay,” Cindy responded.
Cindy pressed one more kiss to her lips, and she felt a powerful sense of loss when Cindy moved the few inches away to lay her head on her own pillow. She rolled to her side and Cindy’s hand found hers on the bed between them.
Like an infant, Lindsay watched Cindy fight sleep. The hand that wasn’t holding Cindy’s cleared the expanse between them and pushed a strand of hair out of Cindy’s face, before slowly tracing over her cheekbone. Cindy’s eyes fell closed under the touch. Some minutes later, her breathing changed to a slow, even rhythm.
Lindsay made no attempt to follow her into oblivion. Instead, she concentrated on the feel of Cindy’s hand in hers, on the serenity on the youthful face, on the refreshing newness of this experience.
There had been nothing false about this day. Every instant of joy had been real. Every kiss meant. Every word true. And Lindsay wanted so much to believe it, that this was the beginning of one ideal moment after another for them. The nightmare was over. This was the dream.
But she couldn’t just give into the fantasy that Cindy walked out of that attic virtually unaffected. As perfect as the day had been, and it had been, as amazing as it was to spend so much time that was quiet and romantic and uneventful with Cindy, the naysayer inside of her couldn’t shake the feeling that it was almost too easy.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of a sucker for all of you dedicated people who come back to visit on a regular basis. It’s a strange, indescribable, like, cyber-affection or something. I can’t explain it. Just know that it is deep-seated and sincere.
Now, in all seriousness (not that I wasn’t being serious before), a video using the latest ep of WMC was requested, and, like a Papa John’s employee, I deliver while it’s still hot and fresh.
Here it is:
Now, there may come a point where you think, this is just a recap of the ep, and for a span, that’s exactly what it is, all the best parts, in order, but there is payoff at the end, so don’t give up halfway through. Let your little steam engine carry your through approximately six minutes of Lindsay/Cindy (and 80s hair band) ecstasy to your ticketed destination.
Oh, and while I’m at it, I don’t think I ever posted a link to this Lindsay/Cindy video I made:
TITLE: Inamorata (26/?)
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. 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.
Leaving the hospital wasn’t something that she’d been particularly keen to do, but after five days of letting Jill and Claire bring her clothing, handle her personal errands, communicate information back and forth for her, and sneak outside food in, there were a couple of things that Lindsay absolutely had to take care of herself.
The day after next, Cindy would be released from the hospital, which was a damn good thing, because Lindsay was fairly certain that any extension of her sentence would result in Cindy going not just stir-crazy, but crazy for real. As she’d so eloquently put it, “Do I really have to be monitored every hour while I do nothing? Can’t I watch crap TV at home?” With luck, there would never be an occasion for Cindy to find out that the length of her stay had everything to do with Lindsay’s demand that the doctors keep her there long enough to ensure that everything was as okay as it could be. Apparently that magic time period was one week. Cindy had been more than ready to make her escape from day two.
So, Lindsay called in one last favor from Jill and Claire, though they had seen it as part of their friendship duties, not as a favor, and ventured, rather reluctantly, into the real world to handle some less than pleasant tasks. Halfway through them, she was all but desperate to be back at the hospital. At what point two hours became the length of time she could stand to be apart from Cindy, she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t just anxious, she was getting downright twitchy.
She knocked softly on Tom’s door, pushing it open, and he looked up, giving her a small smile. Very small. No one’s smiles had been very sizeable around her of late. Even Jill and Claire. The huge grins they would display in front of Cindy would become instantly stilted as soon as they were out of her sight. It was such an extreme disparity, it was almost like talking about her behind her back.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Tom got up from his desk and walked over to meet her.
“Come on in,” he said. “Sit down.”
She did as directed, despite the fleeting thought that remaining standing might get her out of there quicker, and Tom closed the door behind her, returning to his seat, appearing somewhat hesitant to start.
“Everything go okay at the FBI?” he finally asked.
Lindsay had planned to wait for Cindy’s release before going to FBI headquarters, but, once she’d made her decision, she found she couldn’t wait to unload Kiss-Me-Not.
“Yeah,” she told him. “I disclosed it all. What they didn’t already have at least. They found Ashe’s notes in his car. There was barely anything left for me to say. It’s their case now. For real this time.”
Tom took her words in, his arms crossing before him, the posture shielding. She hated having to tell him this, because it had to hurt, hearing what she had done, what she had chosen to do, for Cindy and her, that she‘d never been able to do for the two of them, letting go of one thing in order to hold onto the other.
Or maybe she had done that.
“How’s Cindy?” he inquired softly.
“When I left she was playing UNO with Jill and Claire,” she answered.
“So, she’s doing okay?”
Lindsay observed the expectation on his face, sighing deeply. The commission of dashing everyone’s hopes wasn’t exactly one she was enjoying.
“When I left she was playing UNO with Jill and Claire,” she repeated.
She couldn’t give him anything beyond that. It’s all that she had.
As Lindsay had struggled to walk out the door, Cindy was complaining about her handicap, claiming one since she couldn’t use both arms, as if that had anything to do with her terrible playing of the game. A faulty limb was hardly what had her so behind in points. She just didn’t have the vicious heart for the game. No matter which way the circle was going, she didn’t have it in her to nail either of her friends with Draw Twos or Skips.
“I bet you’d like to hurry and get back.” Tom seemed uncharacteristically nervous.
“As soon as I can.”
“Okay,” he nodded, finally uncrossing his arms, though, instead of it dissipating, his tension seemed to multiply. He leaned forward, his hands folding solemnly in front of him. “I’m going to need to know, Linds. Everything. You can’t leave anything out.”
She swallowed. So this was it then.
“Internal affairs?”
“Yeah. They want to talk to you.”
“I figured,” her voice was barely a whisper.
“I’d really like this not to escalate, if at all possible, and I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have to know. So will you tell me? Please.”
Lindsay stared across Tom’s desk. It was a real plea. He was trying to help her, and this was the information he needed in order to do that. As much as she didn’t want to go over it again, she did know how. She sucked in a breath, and sometime in the midst of releasing it, she turned off. Completely. She had to. It was the only way she could go back there.
It was exactly the way that she had told Jill and Claire, in the hospital hallway not far from the door of Cindy’s room, as far as she’d been willing to venture, while Cindy slept inside. She just narrated, standing emotionlessly, as if immune to the facts, to Jill and Claire’s crying, to the way that they had to lean into each other for support. It was as if she was an outsider to the grief.
She would cry later. It had become like a mantra. Everyone was counting on her to be strong. Especially Cindy.
So, once again, like a phantom, she traveled a few days back in time. She walked through the parking garage, got the upper hand on her colleagues and protectors, intimidated them, bound them. She drove through town, eluding any followers, and listened in horror to Ashe’s escape on the scanner. She lost it temporarily, long enough for Ashe to have time alone with Cindy. Then she remembered the photo on Tom’s desk, something he’d probably already figured out for himself. She went to their old house, climbed the old tree they used to play on, back when she had play left in her, broke into a house she used to live in. She went to the attic. And, in the attic, she found Cindy, trapped and vulnerable. With Ashe. And Ashe wouldn’t stop touching her.
Lindsay flat out refused to feel it. She just relayed it, everything, as Tom had asked her to. Mechanically. By the book.
About the time that Ashe started his exploration of Cindy’s body, Tom propped his elbows on his desk and let his head hang between them, clasping his hands behind his neck. After she got Cindy down from Ashe’s apparatus and the paramedics arrived and she got into the ambulance to ride to the hospital with Cindy, the beginning of that journey the end of what Tom needed to know, it took a while for him to lift up from his position. When he did, he looked across his desk at her, a barely masked fury on his face, and pushed up from his chair to pace.
She wasn’t surprised that he was mad about this, at her for choosing to get even, making it more difficult for all of them in the process. Internal affairs. Inside investigation. Tom forced to cover or not cover for her. She wasn’t asking him to. There was a possibility that he would have two good cops off of his force after this. But she wouldn’t apologize. She couldn’t.
When he’d decided that he’d worn enough of a trench in the floor beside her, Tom finally stopped at the corner of his desk and looked down at her. She didn’t wait to be ordered. She looked up immediately to receive her reprimand. She found Tom’s jaw set tight, his fists clenched at the front of his thighs like there was nothing he would like more than to just wail on something until it learned a new definition of pain.
“But she’s alright?” he asked hoarsely.
“I don’t know,” Lindsay answered.
Any other response would have been a stock answer, and, more than likely, untrue. She didn’t know how Cindy was doing. Cindy hadn’t talked about it much. She’d said the most that first day. Then she’d been unusually mum on the subject, as if ignoring it might make it never have happened.
Tom nodded once, stiffly, and returned to his pacing. There was a certain tell in his face as he turned from her. He wasn’t angry at her, Lindsay realized. It was Ashe. Yet again she was reminded that hers was not the only heart that Cindy had won over. Even if there was a period of jealousy, as was to be expected, Tom liked Cindy, and, like everyone else who liked Cindy, he hated Ashe for hurting her. It was a popular sentiment these days.
“So, Cindy got herself out of the way,” he started, trying his best to return to his post as lieutenant. “You shot him, realized he was wearing a vest…”
Lindsay waited for it. Even when she was doing it, she’d known it could never go away quietly. You don’t release your wrath on a perp and not anticipate consequences.
“You didn’t know Jacobi had come up there…”
He was her biggest concern. She would take the heat from whatever fires they could build, just as long as Jacobi walked. There were so many ways to explain his involvement. She was shooting when he came in. He had no reason to believe that Ashe was unarmed. She knew that she could make it work. Jacobi had been on the force for so long, nothing but decorated in his service. He didn’t deserve to be sent off in disgrace. Not that many officers would see it that way… but some would.
“Ashe came forward, drew his weapon…”
Lindsay’s head lifted, almost of its own accord. Surely, he had to know that Ashe didn’t have his gun in hand when he was killed.
“You both shot at the same time. Jacobi went high. You went low.”
Tom stopped and looked down at her again. She raised her eyes to his, trying not to give too much away.
“It’s understandable that you wouldn’t be thinking straight and would just aim outside of the range of the vest. I mean,” Tom faltered in his lieutenant persona for just a moment, ”who could be thinking straight after that?”
Not really sure if Tom was expecting an answer, Lindsay shook her head and shrugged.
“It was really just an errant shot.”
Hardly.
As inaccurate as it was, Tom’s recitation of events was preferable to any she could offer. It made her seem a hell of a lot less culpable at any rate. But how would it fly? Wasn’t there evidence against his theory?
Tom stepped back to lean against his desk.
“His gun was right beside him,” he stated in a way that made it very clear he didn’t care if it had been the entire time or not. “It would be open and shut. It was only your shot that drew I.A.’s attention. Once they know the whole story, I don’t think they are going to delve too far into this. I’d guess most of them can imagine your position. And none would want to be in it.”
Lindsay just nodded in response. She didn’t know how or why this was working out in her favor, but she would accept it, because she needed to be free to take care of Cindy, and it kept Jacobi out of trouble.
The next moment was weighed down in such a heavy silence she could hear the sound of Tom picking at the molding on the edge of the desk and the occasional noises from the officers still at work below. She shook off the shock that had settled over her in reaction to Tom’s presentation of events and remembered why she had come in the first place.
“I need some time off,” she said.
“I assumed. How much?”
“I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
Tom nodded at her, grasping that she wasn’t working on her own timeframe, but on Cindy’s.
“As of now, you are on extended medical leave.”
“How can you -”
“I can do anything,” Tom cut in. “I’m the boss.”
He smiled down at her, her first real one in days, and she returned it.
“I should get back,” she said, getting up.
“Where are you guys gonna stay?”
The words stopped her cold. That was a good question. She hadn’t actually thought about it. She probably should have.
“Cindy’s place, I guess. It’s kind of our only option.”
Cindy never had to know that Ashe had been there to collect the flowers. The times that he had been in her apartment in the past, invited, maybe they could be ignored.
“I can get you a place,” Tom said. “Something in a fancy building with a terrace and a pool and a doorman. For a month or two. If you think that would help.”
“Really?”
“Really. She’s gotta have some peace after everything.”
“It would help,” Lindsay acknowledged. “A lot.”
“Done. I should be able to secure something by tomorrow.”
It was an above and beyond thing to do, he didn’t have to, and there were really no words for her gratitude, so Lindsay walked over. Tom held his arms out as he pulled himself upright and she walked into them. It was warm and comforting, and didn’t feel anywhere near as right as it once did.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling away from him. “I should go.”
Back to Cindy.
“Lindsay?”
Tom’s whisper made her turn back with her hand on the door.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to believe you about Ashe. I don’t know how I would have lived with myself if… we didn’t make it.”
That made two of them.
“We did,” she replied.
It consoled Tom some. She was getting quite adept at that.
“Tell Cindy I said to get well soon.”
“I will.”
She smiled at him.
Tom being on her side was no guarantee that Internal Affairs was done, but somehow, as Lindsay walked out of his office, she knew that, from an investigatory standpoint, Ashe’s shooting would never come up again.
TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as a total fabrication. (1/?) 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. 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)
Cindy had a black eye.
She was hiding it beneath large, gaudy, celebrity-style glamour sunglasses that were all wrong on her, but Lindsay was paying close enough attention that every time Cindy turned her head, she caught the edges of the bruising.
On impulse, she grabbed Cindy by the arm, holding one finger up to Jill and Claire in a ‘we’ll be right back’ fashion, and dragged Cindy through the crowded station and into an interrogation room, where she was forcibly, but not roughly, put down in a chair.
“What did I do now?” Cindy whined.
Lindsay stayed right at her side, fearing that her subject would run away with a swiftness given the opportunity.
“Take off your sunglasses,” she ordered.
Where, in Lindsay’s perfect scenario, there would have been instant sunglass removal, Cindy merely squirmed with telltale nervousness.
“I can’t.”
“Are they glued to your face?”
“No,” Cindy replied, actually nervy enough to let a scoff leak into her tone. “I have photophobia.”
“You’re afraid of pictures?”
Cindy looked up with what Lindsay could only assume was a small glare from inside the big black bug eyes.
“Extreme sensitivity to light,” Cindy educated her.
“Really?” Lindsay didn’t know whether to be irritated or amused. “Since when?”
“It can come on at any time. Lots of medications cause it.”
Since Cindy was right on the edge of her sputtering, “I will prove this lie to you no matter what I have to do” style of argument, Lindsay was definitely leaning in the direction of amusement.
“Excellent,” she replied simply. “I love learning new things. And I’m glad to hear you’ve been reading a medical encyclopedia. Now take off your sunglasses.”
“Lindsay, I really don’t see why you would force me to take them off when I’ve already told you…”
While Cindy continued to think that she stood a chance of talking her way out of it, Lindsay reached out, pulled the sunglasses from her face, and set them on the table in front of her, placing her hand beneath Cindy’s chin to pull her face back up when Cindy instantly tried to look away.
“Nice shiner. Where’d you pick that up?”
“Rio. I like to pick up all my black eyes in South America. It’s one of the few places left with a favorable exchange rate.”
And now, apparently, onto Cindy’s smartass argument technique. If that’s how Cindy wanted to play it, fine. She had a few methods of her own that always seemed to work on her fidgety friend.
Lindsay just smiled down at her target, before walking around the table and taking a seat. She leaned back in her chair and stared at Cindy. Just stared. Unflinchingly. If necessary, she could have done it for hours, but, unsurprisingly, it took only a couple of minutes.
“Alright!” Cindy shouted as if she were actually being interrogated. “I might have been in a bar fight.”
Lindsay laughed, but the way that Cindy bit her lip and averted her eyes was testament that she was telling the truth, and the laughter died on her lips. She pushed up in her chair, leaning forward across the table.
“You got into a bar fight?”
“Don’t be mad,” Cindy pleaded.
“How in the hell did you get into a bar fight?”
“I didn’t get into a bar fight. Not really. I was just kind of there when it started.”
“And you were there because?”
“Research.”
“And you were there alone because?”
“Because that’s how I do all of my research.”
“That’s right. Of course,” Lindsay muttered. “You always rush off into dangerous situations on your own. That’s how you do research.”
“It wasn’t exactly a dangerous situation,” Cindy defended herself, sounding, in Lindsay’s opinion, a little cocky now. “It was just a bar.”
Lindsay crossed her arms, shook her head, and looked away. The reporter was never going to learn. That’s all there was to it. And while she could lock her up any time she wanted, she would need help keeping her there for an extended period, and she somehow doubted she could get Jill to indict Cindy on a charge of “arrogance to the point of personal injury,” though it would be absurdly easy to prove. Regardless, with or without Jill’s help, the next time Cindy did pull something that was a punishable offense, Lindsay was going to make the absolute most of it.
“Lindsay?”
The soft call pulled her from her thoughts.
“What?” she sighed.
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
She didn’t have a right to be mad. Cindy was a grown woman who did, however, have the right to go into a bar whenever she felt the urge. She should probably just be grateful that Cindy had gone in looking for information instead of other things. Not that it would have, in any way, been her business if Cindy had gone looking for those things readily available in a bar setting.
“But you know,” she heard herself saying, which was interesting, because she hadn’t actually planned to keep talking, “you don’t always have to do your research alone.”
“I do actually. I don’t have an assistant. You have to have a little more clout for that. Or be a magician,” Cindy quipped.
Lindsay smiled. She couldn’t help it. The damn girl always did that. She would try to be all in command and intimidating, and then Cindy just had to go and use her considerable charms to end her badass charade with a whimper.
“Be that as it may, you shouldn’t be going off to a place that has even potential danger by yourself.”
“I didn’t know it had potential danger. Sometimes I do, but this time it really was just your standard, unexpected, stupidity-laden bar fight. I just happened to be present and get in the way of someone’s fist.”
And it looked like it. A big someone, Lindsay suspected, with a really mighty right hook.
“Are you pressing charges?”
“Nah. Seems like a lot of work. They were pretty apologetic. I could have chugged my weight in free beer if I’d wanted.”
Lindsay imagined that was a possibility any given night of the week without Cindy having to take a punch first.
“Hurts, huh?” she asked, examining the eye.
“It doesn’t feel good.”
And now Cindy actually had her feeling sympathetic about the whole thing.
“Listen, even if you don’t know if it’s an unsafe situation, if it seems risky…,” she fumbled slightly, not entirely sure why. “If you need backup… you can always call me.”
“Okay,” Cindy said slowly, her brows furrowing slightly in confusion.
Lindsay understood that, because she was slightly confused herself. What was she trying to say exactly? She was rather busy with her own work. It’s not like she would just drop everything in the middle of a homicide investigation to rush off and help Cindy go do story research. Would she?
Of course, if she was in the middle of a homicide investigation, she could pretty much be assured of Cindy’s location, stuck firmly to her side where she could get the inside scoop, so, the probability of ever having to make a choice between finding a killer and aiding Cindy was comfortingly slim.
When she glanced across the table again, she was met with the same overly inquisitive look she saw on Cindy’s face whenever she thought she was onto something that could be potentially mind-blowing. It made Lindsay surprisingly uneasy to be on the receiving end of it.
“We should get back to the case,” she announced suddenly, jumping up.
“Agreed,” Cindy returned much more evenly.
The fact that Cindy was so calm was really frustrating to her for some reason. But then Cindy lifted the sunglasses off of the table, twisting them back and forth between her fingers, and glanced up at her. She seemed to decide that she wasn’t going to get in trouble again, and returned the glasses to her face.
Lindsay laughed lightly as Cindy got to her feet and walked out the door, once again utterly disarmed by the redhead’s easygoing antics.
Wait.
Disarmed?
When the hell did that happen?
TITLE: Inamorata (25/?)
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. 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.
“Hold up,” Jacobi ordered.
Lindsay slowed without protest. She’d been waiting for just such a command. Jacobi never would have asked her to leave Cindy if he didn’t have a purpose.
She turned his chair a quarter circle, parking it against one wall in the deserted corridor and walked across the hallway to lean against the wall opposite him, still too drained to stand for any real length of time without some kind of prop.
Jacobi looked his age, older even, and sick and tired and a dozen other things suggesting he shouldn’t have made the voyage from his bed again to check on Cindy.
“How’s she doing?”
Lindsay took a deep breath, though it didn’t feel particularly cleansing, and let her eyes fall from his. She found focus on the contrast between the hospital-issued gown, exactly like the one they’d put Cindy in, and the white robe that had somehow come into his possession.
“Remarkably well… considering.”
Because it kept her vision occupied and her thoughts somewhat at bay, she stared at the same spot for so long that the gown’s pattern started swirling before her eyes. Jacobi’s focus, on the other hand, was steady when she glanced back up.
“It got bad, didn’t it?” he asked.
She just stared at him, until her gaze went through him, then dropped her head. The floor blurred instantly.
That was the question, that’s what everyone would want to know, “how bad did it get?”, and she would be the one to have to tell them. They would ask her, because they would never ask Cindy. No one would make Cindy relive it just so they could be well-informed, but, still, they would need the answer. If they were left to imagine, they would conceive far worse scenarios. She should know. And what happened was bad enough without adding falsehoods.
Now Jacobi was the one Lindsay wanted to lie to, but she couldn’t to him either.
“It got bad,” she whispered.
She made no effort to hide the tears that weren’t going to fall, but were very much present, as she raised her head again. There was no buffering of his reaction. It was plainly written in his features. If Ashe weren’t already dead, Jacobi would be getting up out of that chair again at this very second to go hunt him down.
But Ashe was dead. He had already seen to it.
“You didn’t have to shoot him,” Lindsay uttered, with a ferocity that took even her by surprise. “I was going to.”
“I know,” Jacobi responded. “That’s why I shot him. I think you’re carrying around enough guilt without adding to it. Don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t have felt guilty about that,” she firmly stated.
“Not consciously. Consciously, you probably would have been somewhat pleased. But it would have weighed.”
“It won’t weigh on you?”
Like those times when he came face-to-face with individuals responsible for acts so horrific they didn’t deserve to see any human sentiment being directed at them, Jacobi’s face turned to stone.
“That bastard wasn’t about to see another day. It had to be one of us. I would rather it be me. I had as much right to it as you did.”
That part was true. He was entitled. But it was the other part of this discussion, the part that they weren’t going to have right now, that made her wish he’d just let her take the shot. The consequent part. There was no way that this was going to go down as a good shoot. As much as he deserved what he’d gotten, someone was going to pay for Ashe.
“Now let’s talk about that other guilt,” Jacobi quietly changed the subject to the one she highly suspected was the real reason they were engaging in this exchange at all.
“I don’t want to,” she said with what she hoped came across as finality, and crossed her arms, trying to appear impenetrable.
“Well I do.”
His words easily broke through. Because the defenses she had worked so hard to build up had been weakened. Possibly beyond repair. By Cindy.
“Don’t tell me that what happened to her isn’t my fault, Jacobi. I am the one he came here after. I’m the one who had what he wanted.”
“And you’re the one who let Cindy get close to you when you knew that it was dangerous.”
Lindsay turned her head toward the soft swish of pant legs, grateful for the disruption. The approaching orderly smiled and nodded, lingering on Jacobi for only a moment as he passed between them, and then they were alone again.
“What would have made you feel less guilty?” Jacobi picked up almost immediately once the man was out of sight. “If you had kept her at arms length, or further, Ashe had decided she was a good target anyway, taken her anyway, maybe killed her anyway.”
“Fuck, Jacobi!” Lindsay shouted, looking around to make sure she hadn’t drawn out any spectators, and seething in earnest as she looked back at him.
How could he even say that out loud?
“Yeah, it isn’t pretty, and it could have happened just like that.” He was furious too. She could hear it in his voice. He lifted a steady hand and pointed right at her, and suddenly he looked strong again. “The only difference would have been that you would have spent the last days not with her instead of with her, and then you would have felt guilty about that. He was determined to get in somewhere. When you were pushing people out of your life, thinking that would keep them safe, you also thought that it was someone who didn’t already have the inside knowledge. Ashe knew his options, Lindsay. Where in that situation could you have won? Do you really think that you would feel any less guilty if it had been Jill or Claire?”
“I don’t know,” she muttered. She really didn’t. “I should have just given him what he wanted in the first place. Then it might not have been anybody.”
Jacobi may or may not have understood that. He didn’t know about Ashe, that he wasn’t Kiss-Me-Not. Or maybe he did. It was hard to know what he knew, but she didn’t want to have the full question and answer session now, because it only prolonged her getting back to Cindy, something she was already well aware wasn’t going to happen until Jacobi had said his piece.
“Or it might have been. You can’t know. It might have even been you.”
“That would have been better.”
“Would it? Do you think that’s how Cindy feels?”
Lindsay kicked the floor, the sole of her shoe making a loud squeaking sound and a scuff mark on the linoleum. It was childish, but it provided her momentary solace.
Of course that’s not how Cindy would feel, because, from the very beginning, Cindy was far too munificent when it came to her. Even when she didn’t deserve it. Maybe more so when she was undeserving. Because Cindy loved her. Cindy had always loved her. Brazenly. From the start. And it didn’t take long to respond to it, open to it. She wanted it, Cindy’s love. She did. She needed it. But what if she didn’t have the capability to make good on an investment like that?
“I can’t help but think that she deserves better,” she breathed to the only person she would ever tell those fears.
Jacobi’s eyes were too attentive. It’s not like she hadn’t just put her insecurity on display, but why did he have to look so intently at it?
Finally, he gave a small shrug, effectively downplaying her doubts.
“Well, she wants you, so it doesn’t really matter what you think,” he returned, and Lindsay didn’t know if it made her feel better or worse. “Let me give you some advice.”
She didn’t want it… at all… but she looked up at him anyway.
“Get over it.”
The gruff statement shocked her into actually listening.
“You might have made some bad judgments. Or you might not have. It might have changed everything or it might have changed nothing. You did not put Cindy in that attic. You didn’t hurt her. Ashe did. She survived this and she is going to survive this, but to do that, she is going to need you to be there for her.”
“That’s all that I want to do.”
“Then do it.”
He made it seem so much simpler than it was, and she couldn’t stop the reflexive shake of her head as she looked away.
“You can’t do that for her?”
And that just made her angry. It made it sound like a choice, like she just wanted to walk away and leave Cindy to fend for herself, but when she opened her mouth to speak, she found that the anger wasn’t sustainable. It was replaced by the acrid taste of fear, burning her throat and chest. A few of the tears finally spilled over onto her cheeks. She wiped them quickly away.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted quietly.
She got no response, and by the time she found the courage to look at him again, Jacobi had lost all anger too. He looked almost as sad as she felt, and like he wanted to take it, the burden, from her. Hadn’t he already taken his share?
“He was going to take someone. He was going to do something. You’re right,” Lindsay conceded. “But, what he chose to do, Jacobi… it was because of me. He wanted me to see that. But I just had to see it. And I don’t know what to do for her.”
“Me neither,” Jacobi replied. It would have been truly valued wisdom if he did. “But I think she’ll let you know.”
Lindsay gave a slight nod. It was possible she guessed. The movement loosed another drop to make its way down her cheek. This time she didn’t bother to get rid of it.
This wasn’t supposed to be their conversation about Cindy. Jacobi had known, and she’d known that he’d known, but there was still supposed to be a conversation. Of courtesy. An instance of jubilant boasting. She found herself grieving that missing moment. And needing it.
“You know, Jacobi,” she husked, smiling a little. She didn’t have to fake it. Or force it. She just imagined what it could have been like in a favorable scenario, and remembered what it was like in the evidence room and Claire’s office and the late night phone conversations full of Cindy’s unique take on all things life. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m kind of with Cindy.”
He squinted up at her. Maybe it was somewhat cruel to switch tracks on him like that when he had only a partially functional brain. But then he smiled too, slowly, just a little, and leaned toward her.
“With?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
“You know…” she said, her hand circling in a leading motion, “…with.”
“Ah.” Jacobi shifted back in his chair. “She finally got to you, huh?”
“She did,” Lindsay confessed.
“Who knew those walls were surmountable?”
It was a soft segue, carrying them back from the momentary delusion to their current reality.
“She did,” Lindsay responded in a hushed whisper.
And, with that, her soul was laid open. I love her so much it scares me… I don’t think I could live without her… I don’t know what I would have done if things had gone wrong… they were all present in the space between them, summed up concisely in two words. Because Cindy had done what no one else had been able to do.
Jacobi understood that.
“Now, wheel me on back, would you? I could really stand a return to my own pain meds.”
Primed to go at the moment she was dismissed, Lindsay kicked off the wall and walked around the wheelchair. Whatever guilt she was harboring, and she was, as undeserving as she may feel, she still wanted only to get back to Cindy. It was a strange paradox.
When she reached for his chair, Jacobi turned and grabbed her hand.
“You can do this,” he assured her, giving a firm squeeze before releasing her hand.
God, she hoped he was right.
TITLE: Inamorata (24/?)
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. 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.
The feel of Cindy’s hand ripping from hers jerked Lindsay abruptly from sleep. Full awareness was slower in coming, but it still took her only seconds to recall where she was and why she was there.
That reason was currently gasping for breath, having some difficulty coming to terms with her own surroundings, and looking the kind of startled that could be expected after what she’d been through.
As much as she wanted to, Lindsay knew better than to touch her. Instead, she waited for Cindy’s eyes to find her. When they did, those eyes lacked recognition. But only for a moment. Then they filled with recollection, relief, and such stark need that Lindsay’s breath caught in her chest, even as Cindy’s began slowing back to normal.
“I’m sorry,” Cindy whispered.
It really didn’t need apology.
Cindy’s hand reached out to her again, in offering. Lindsay took it, lifting it slowly to her lips and placed a kiss to Cindy’s fingers, once again suppressing tears.
Not here. Not now.
There were so many issues at hand, but one thing at a time.
“How are you feeling?” she gently asked, holding Cindy’s hand between her own and allowing herself the small luxury of letting her cheek rest against it.
“Tired,” Cindy responded, sounding every bit of it. “A little confused.”
“That’s the medicine.”
Cindy’s gaze shifted from Lindsay to her injured arm after she made an attempt at lifting the appendage and was met with difficulty.
“You had to have surgery to repair some nerves in there, but they said you’re gonna be fine,” Lindsay quietly informed her.
The arm held Cindy’s attention for an extended period. Lindsay could see her overactive mind trying to fight its way out of the haze of drugs and emotional exhaustion to form a cohesive thought.
“How long did he have me?”
The hesitant question was one of many that Lindsay presumed she’d have to answer at some point. Her strong preference was to postpone the conversation, but she knew it was too much to ask for Cindy to take time out to just heal. It wasn’t in her makeup, one of the many unfortunate traits they had in common.
“Almost two days.”
The actual timeframe, when spoken aloud, sounded so diminutive in comparison to how that time had felt. Every minute was like an infinite span. Every conversation went on forever. Every one of Ashe’s absences was an eternity, filled with limitless opportunity. Two days? It was hard to believe.
“I don’t remember,” Cindy started in a volume that was audible only because of Lindsay’s close proximity. “I just remember him shooting Jacobi. I saw him coming. I thought he was just walking up to talk to us, and then he shot him. But I thought that I saw him… Jacobi… when we were there.”
From her delivery, it was obvious how unlikely Cindy believed that to be.
“You did,” Lindsay told her. “Jacobi is okay.”
Cindy’s eyes finally returned to her. There was a surprising hopefulness in them.
“He is?”
“He’s hurt, but he’s… he’s Jacobi, you know?”
“Yeah,” Cindy breathed. Then she smiled. It was tiny, but it was there, and it felt miraculous. Sadly, it was short-lived. “Where was he shot?”
For half a second, Lindsay thought about lying, believed it might be better if Cindy didn’t know. But she couldn’t do it, lie, not to her.
“In the head.”
“Jesus,” Cindy exclaimed, horrified.
“Cindy, you saw him,” Lindsay soothed. “He was there, walking on his own. He’s going to be fine.”
After a few seconds, Cindy nodded, her eyes drifting down to the white blanket covering her as she nibbled reflexively on her lower lip. The highly typical action brought her uncomfortably close to the six small puncture wounds from the needle. Lindsay couldn’t stop watching the space between white teeth and the tiny red dots.
“Then what happened?” she questioned softly.
Cindy’s gaze moved back up to her. The unconscious biting ceased.
“He pulled me out of the car and put something over my mouth. I guess it made me pass out.”
Lindsay just listened. She didn’t need to confirm. Cindy knew what she was talking about.
“Then he woke me up not long before you got there.” She looked away again, struggling with the next words. “He made me take my clothes off for him.”
Lindsay closed her eyes, held on as tightly as she dared to the hand in hers.
“You saw the rest. But the time between, I don’t remember anything. I don’t know what happened.”
What he did to me, those were the words that went unspoken.
“Nothing,” Lindsay cut in right away. She didn’t want Cindy’s mind going there. Her own mind had spent enough time going over those possibilities for both of them. “You have been thoroughly checked out. There is no indication that he did anything when he was alone with you. And he wasn’t alone with you much. He was with me most of that time at the station.”
“So what I remember… that was it?”
“It was enough,” Lindsay declared, barely able to keep the sudden flash of fury in check. It was more than enough. It was the very reason she had taken the time out to punish before aiming to kill.
Tentatively, she reached up to run her thumb over Cindy’s cheek, incredibly grateful when Cindy didn’t jump at her touch. The physical sensation brought Lindsay right back to the moment. Ashe was gone. Any residual rage could be dealt with at some other time. Right now, it was just Cindy, and while there were emotions that could probably do her some good, anger wasn’t one of them.
“Look who’s awake,” the nurse greeted as she walked through the door, far too jovial in the current atmosphere, but unaware of her out-of-place-ness as she walked up behind Lindsay. “Can I get in here for just a second?”
Lindsay looked to Cindy for the okay before releasing her hand, then moved from the chair and stood back watching, arms crossed, feeling an unresolved tension rolling through her back and shoulders.
Cindy was lying there, appearing, for the most part, safe and healthy. The injuries lacked in comparison to what had actually transpired. Lindsay’s eyes moved up Cindy’s frame, over her arm and to her lips. The wrist and her mouth, they would heal, if well cared for with negligible scarring even, but there were scars inside that would persist long after those she could see faded into near nothingness, and she didn’t know quite how to deal with them.
Cindy was interacting relatively normally with the nurse. It seemed quite abnormal given the circumstances. Of course, with the amount of painkillers they were pumping into her, it was somewhat anomalous.
The nurse took her time, monitoring monitors, asking insignificant questions, and Lindsay suddenly remembered that there were other people in her and Cindy’s world. She tried to remember where her phone had ended up, since all of her clothing had been taken away at her own request. She didn’t want to see it, or have Cindy seeing anything that she was wearing the night before, ever again. She finally found her phone on the window ledge, just as the nurse finished up by elevating Cindy’s bed to a more upright position.
“All done,” she said, turning to go.
Lindsay smiled at her, as much of one as she could manage anyway, on her way back to her spot at Cindy’s bedside. She resumed her position in the chair as the nurse disappeared back through the door.
“I’m just going to let Jill and Claire know that you’re awake.”
Cindy nodded at her, and Lindsay struggled to pull her eyes away to send the message. Even as she typed, she was unable to stop glancing up every few seconds. That’s why she saw Cindy lift her hand to her face, witnessed her fingers finding the marks left by the needle above and below her lips. The sight made Lindsay pause in her task, before imparting her hands with a burst of speed. She finished the message fast, probably misspelling most of it, and put the phone on the bedside stand as she got to her feet again.
“Can you make room for me?”
Cindy looked up at her with a softly open gaze that told Lindsay she was glad to be asked, and scooted over on the bed. Lindsay slid into the space generated. She was almost scared to put her arm around her, but when she did, Cindy instantly turned into her, melding against the side of her body, Cindy’s cheek burrowing into her chest. In her efforts to get closer, Cindy struggled to lift her bandaged arm, so Lindsay helped, pulling it carefully over to rest across her waist.
“Is this okay?” she asked, partially in regards to the arm, and partially unsure if Cindy wanted to be held this close so soon after… everything.
“It’s good,” Cindy responded with a sigh, her able hand clasping onto the fabric of Lindsay’s shirt between them.
She was only quiet for a couple of minutes, which wouldn’t have been surprising under any circumstance, but this time Lindsay suspected that Cindy’s need to converse was actually a need to remind herself whose arms she was in.
“Did you solve the case?”
The light words drifted from below her chin, and Lindsay was more than a little confused, since she was currently holding the proof that they had.
“Was it someone getting even with the photographer?”
It was so unexpected, and so Cindy, a laugh actually made it past Lindsay’s lips.
“That case was kind of back-burnered,” she uttered quietly.
She ran her fingers through Cindy’s hair, reveling in being so close to her, for the first time without the threat hanging over them. Though they now had so much more to deal with, she could hold Cindy at least, and it didn’t matter where or when or who saw them.
“Linds?”
“Hm?”
Cindy was slow in following up. Lindsay could feel the telling shifts in her body, the slight rigidity,
