Disclaimer: Don't own em.
Author's Note: This was an image I had in my head that expanded into a small ficlet. If you get the chance, check out the song mentioned, "I don't know" by Ruth Brown. Lovely old bluesy soul music.
The highway stretched out before him in the desert. The only lights were his headlights. The night seemed only darker for the heavy tint on the Denali's windows. Anyone else would be creeped out, but he would never admit that; he was too cool. He was merely uncomfortable. He was used to the fake daylight of Vegas, the town that never knew real night. Maybe it was the complete emptiness of the night before him, or maybe it was the memories of the scene they had left behind.
They were at least an hour outside of Vegas. The wear and strain of three nights of double shifts were showing on him and his partner. The ride to the scene had been mostly silent, none of the usual small talk that accompanies road trips. They had peacefully listened to the radio, both settling on a station that specialized in 60's and 70's soul music.
The mansion they had gone to was in an improbable location. The gardens around it were equally improbable.
"Looks like the vic made her own oasis," he said. His partner made a wry face.
"Looks like it didn't help her," she said. He had to agree.
The scene was as violent as he had come across. It was rape and murder with extreme prejudice. Examination of the body seemed to show mutilation. He would have to wait on the coroner's report to know if it were pre or post mortem. Looking at the blood spatter everywhere, he would be inclined to say pre. Looking at the rage evident in the scene, he might guess both.
He knew she took these kinds of scenes hard. They all did, but she seemed to take them a little harder. She was hiding it well today, empathy hidden behind a cool exterior of science. They processed the scene efficiently, neither having to say much. It worked that way with them. They always seemed to know when the other needed some light, or an extra swab. By the time David had arrived, they had been done with most of the scene and moved on to the rest of the mansion. No servants, no friends and no relatives were evident. A landscape service had made the discovery. The detective had already interviewed the guy.
"I'm estimating TOD at 12:00 noon yesterday, based on liver temp," David had said. His partner had only nodded. He could read the weariness and fury in her hazel brown eyes.
"Whoever it was didn't worry about cover of night," she said. "He must of have known he had time. No signs of forced entry. You would have to know this house was here. I'm thinking she knew her killer," she said. He nodded his head in agreement.
They had moved to the outside, now that the cops and Super Dave were gone. He loved the way that Nick called the assistant coroner that; now they all seemed to think of Dave that way. They were walking through the lush gardens. It was a cursory search when he heard a vaguely familiar popping sound. Then all at once the water began hissing from the sprinkler system. He was out of the path, but she got soaked. The popping sound had been the sprinkler heads emerging from their embedded positions.
He would have laughed if the scene inside had been different. He would have laughed if it didn't seem that the water had washed away the last of her resolve and strength. He would have laughed if he could have been sure that the water on her face was all sprinkler water and not tears. But he wasn't sure, so all he could do was offer her a change of clothing. She had accepted his offer with a few choice words for the sprinkler system, and a few more choice words for the clothing he had.
That was why now she was curled up in the passenger side seat in his oversized sweatshirt and gym shirt, looking for all the world like a 12-year-old girl in an older brother's borrowed clothes. Her dark hair was curling around her face as it dried, and she appeared to be sleeping. She looked more peaceful that she had looked all day, but he suspected it was because he couldn't see the hurt in her eyes. Suddenly, he felt a burning need to protect her from this and everything else. He didn't know where this was coming from – was it the need to feel connected in the dreary darkness? Was it her vulnerability? Was it the way her pale legs glowed in the blue light of the Denali radio or the incomparable Ruth Brown's version of "I don't know" coming through the speakers?
Whatever it was, before he knew what he was doing, he placed a hand on her leg, marveling at the contrast of his dark skin against her white in that blue radio glow. Her warm presence instantly reassured him, and to his surprise, she intertwined her fingers with his, and held his hand. Maybe the weight of his hand reassured her as well. They rode in the empty desert, back towards the garish lights of Vegas, listening to the sweet sounds of soul, grateful for the cover of night.
A/N:
Is this W/S or W/S friendship? I just had to put the image down in writing. I can't decide what it means. So let it mean what you would like for it to.