Extreme Sensitivity… as an indicator of greatest affection. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 7

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as an indicator of greatest affection. (7/?)
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.

(Lindsay’s POV)

Cindy was amazing.

This wasn’t exactly news to Lindsay. Whether discovering some obscure and nearly impossible to track down piece of information that broke one of her cases wide open, somehow managing to be everywhere at once, or recalling relevant facts that she learned back in the third grade on cue, Cindy had proven herself a veritable treasure trove of useful and impressive characteristics.

Now, though, Lindsay could add a whole new piece of evidence to the argument concerning Cindy’s unique awesomeness. The never-ending stream of things that Cindy could come up with to talk about in order to avoid talking about THE thing was nothing short of extraordinary. Lindsay was feeling remarkably well-versed in stolen European artwork, some long dead Russian poet, gardening, New Kids on the Block’s pre-reunion repertoire, and a whole host of other touched upon topics that had streamed in and out of the conversation over the last two hours.

Of course, conversation was a somewhat misleading term. It was more like a series of lectures where Cindy was the over-caffeinated brainiac and Lindsay was the less-than-interested student who listened so intently solely because she had a mad crush on the professor.

When Cindy veered into auto mechanics after a short stint in the flora and fauna of the South American rain forest, it was only the overwhelming soft spot she had for the reporter, of which she was suddenly that much more aware, that kept Lindsay from pointing out the fact that, if Cindy knew that much about the inner workings of her car, she really could have been changing her own oil.

Instead, Lindsay just sat there and listened, because as much as she liked to pretend she found Cindy’s habit of constant speech grating, listening to Cindy talk nonstop about something that she found fascinating was actually one of her favorite ways to spend an hour. Or several.

While Cindy’s stories were always, at the very least, entertaining, and her delivery often splendidly comedic, Lindsay’s amusement at the current moment stemmed not from the animated account of Cindy’s latest hard-won battle with her most competitive colleague, but from just how far Cindy was going to avoid all mentions of what had happened between them. She was so totally obvious in her attempts at not being totally obvious.

When Cindy told Lindsay about interviewing a witness while the woman was being treated for a panic attack, she made several references to the back door of the “van,” which Lindsay was pretty sure was actually an ambulance. Anything that might lead one to make an inference to a hospital was clearly off-limits. Lindsay was also fairly certain Cindy was avoiding words that even rhymed with kiss.

It humored her. Greatly.

After the table was cleared, Lindsay suggested their move to the couch, thinking it might actually cease Cindy’s need to fill the silence with data to defer the real discussion that loomed before them. Once they were more comfortable maybe, once they were sitting closer, without the wooden barrier between them, and the tension had a chance to settle back in, Cindy would give in and just accept the inevitable. They had to talk about what happened eventually.

Though part of her plan had worked, the tension had most certainly returned and multiplied, and Lindsay was certain that Cindy was well-aware of the inevitable, she sure wasn’t submitting to it. Her invisible shield of encyclopedic knowledge was deflecting the coming tempest quite nicely.

Lindsay wasn’t going to push the subject either. The babbling was just too endearing in an exasperating and time-consuming kind of way. Plus, there were better ways of getting her point across… possibly no more effective, but certainly more fun.

Instead of blatantly intervening in the blitz of words, Lindsay rested her elbow on the back of the couch. Leaning her cheek onto her hand, she purposely tilted forward, breaking into Cindy’s protective bubble. The stumble over Cindy’s next sentence was reward in itself.

So many possibilities, all equally delightful, filtered through Lindsay’s rapidly-working mind, but before she could decide on a singular course of action, Cindy provided her a perfect opportunity she just couldn’t resist.

“You’ve had a truffle from Chocolate Heaven right?”

There was a period in her life when Lindsay lived on those things, unhealthy as it may have been.

“No,” she easily lied.

“Really?” Cindy was understandably aghast. “I have to buy you one. They are so good. There’s, you know, raspberry and strawberry. Double chocolate. Butter cream…”

And dozens of other flavors Cindy could probably tick off without a single repeat, but Lindsay didn’t give her the chance.

She moaned. Convincingly.

Fighting the proud smirk that threatened to overtake her face in response to Cindy’s falter, lengthy pause and throat clearing that followed, Lindsay stayed right where she was, hovering in Cindy’s personal space, allowing all fondness for great chocolate and cute redheads to transmit through her voice.

“You know, now that I think about it, I have had truffles from there. Pier 39 right?”

“Yeah,” Cindy responded, a little breathlessly, Lindsay delightedly realized. It was nice to know the tone wasn’t lost on her. “Do you go down there much? I really love it, but it’s just so… busy and… there are… so… many… tourists…”

Something was definitely affecting Cindy’s ability to speak. Whether it was her reaching over to pick a piece of fuzz from the collar of Cindy’s shirt, her fingers lightly brushing skin in the process, Lindsay couldn’t say with absolute certainty, but the timing did lend credence to the theory.

As Cindy’s words slowed, Lindsay could feel the decrease in vibration against her knuckles. She finally pulled her hand away, pretending to drop the non-existent lint in her fingertips to the floor behind the couch, and there was suddenly no more sound.

That was much easier than she’d expected.

“Are you done?” she asked in the lull. “I was starting to think you were going to talk all night.”

Cindy glanced over, embarrassment instantly setting in.

“I’m sorry,” she said abashedly, cheeks coloring in kind.

“It’s not that I don’t like to listen to you,” Lindsay assured her, trying hard to wipe that look of mortification off of Cindy’s face, “because I do. But there are other things we could be doing.”

She let her hand fall to Cindy’s arm and felt the heat go right through her. Cindy’s eyes went instantly to the hand.

As long as she had known her, Lindsay had never seen Cindy incredibly unnerved. Even when she had said that she was nervous, she never particularly looked it. Not like she did now.

“Rummy?” Cindy asked, failing miserably in her attempt to seem casual. “Movie?”

Lindsay could practically hear Cindy’s swallow, which was really more of a gulp. The panic was so real that she just couldn’t bring herself to force the issue. Not yet.

“Sure. We can watch a movie,” she conceded and released Cindy’s arm.

Cindy all but flew off of the couch toward Lindsay’s stash of DVDs and started digging. Trying not to get too much satisfaction out of Cindy’s clear distress, Lindsay just studied her as she found a movie and popped it into the DVD player, wondering what might be going on inside that massive brain.

Regardless of what popular opinion said, the ‘fuck ’em all’ attitude Lindsay had been assigned wasn’t an all-encompassing thing. There were a select few people whose opinions of her actually mattered a great deal. Jill and Claire’s did. She needed Jacobi’s respect, openly, and, grudgingly, Tom’s.

And it mattered what Cindy thought of her.

From the very beginning it had mattered. At first, she had really tried to fight it, but eventually she had to quit trying. What was the use? If Cindy’s opinion mattered, it mattered, and there wasn’t much she was going to be able to do to stop it.

Every time Cindy said something nice to her, something overly flattering, it had left Lindsay with a giddy feeling that she no longer felt the need to deny. Facts were facts. She was extremely sensitive to Cindy’s view of her. She’d had an acute affection for her from the get-go, and now it had turned into something more, and Jacobi was absolutely right. She should have been ashamed of herself for making Cindy make the first move.

The fact that Cindy picked out something that she had already seen numerous times was perfect, because Lindsay had no intention of watching what was on the screen. Ever since Cindy had kissed her, she’d developed a newfangled fascination with watching the redhead do any and everything. She had been very taken at the table with the way Cindy chewed and now, apparently, Cindy’s mode of watching TV was going to prove utterly captivating.

A fleeting thought that she should have been annoyed at the way Cindy continued to weasel out of any kind of ramifications to her actions came and went. Lindsay just didn’t have it in her to be. Maybe if she had more concern that Cindy might be trying to back out of the situation, Lindsay would have put a stop to it, but this wasn’t the kind of angst that came from regret. It was the kind that came from desperately wanting things to go perfectly in the aftermath.

Lindsay got that. She did.

Plus, the air in the room was so thick with anticipation, and the tingly feeling it produced all over her body was so wickedly pleasant, she kind of didn’t mind making the suspense last.