Disclaimer: Characters are night mine.
Setting: Set somewhere toward the end of season 2...
Chapter 1:
Danny Messer reached the door of the small club on the fringe of the SoHo district and pushed out into the damp night. The level of noise in the small club mingled out with the night, even though the live band had played its last set nearly a half hour ago.
"So, what'd you think, Mon-tana?" has asked as she fell into step beside him.
"Nice," she tucked her hands in her pockets. "Definitely up there with nearly the rest of your list."
Danny laughed and slid an around her to pull her against his side in a quick, easy gesture that had become so natural between them. She stayed close, even after he dropped his arm.
"Nearly. You just didn't like the backup singer. The music was fine."
"Singing is part of the music. She sang with her—" Lindsay gestured to her own chest, in reference to the way the woman had sung—with her chest out, or bent over far enough that anyone who wanted to look could see whatever they wanted.
"It's an art form," Danny stole a glance at her and laughed at the look she shot him. "Admittedly, their lead singer picks his background singers separately than he considers his music. But the way the bass backs him up..."
"So, you just ignore the ...?" she waved her hand again.
"Ah ... some things you can't ignore. It's part of the ride," he gestured out and around him. He knew better than to try and lie his way through "Best city on earth, but pot holes, the grime, it all comes with it."
It had been nearly two months ago that he'd promised to introduce Lindsay to his top ten favorite dens of music. They'd been to different bars and clubs, all fairly small and away from the tourist attractions. There had been hard rock and blues, acoustic at an Irish style pub, and a fantastic three person strings unit—bass, cello and guitar—at a little place across from an all night desert place.
A few months in and they fell into a pattern. After long cases, long days—sometimes he looked in on her, sometimes she checked on him. They went out, and just ... rebooted, reset themselves.
He smiled a little, as they walked side by side in an easy, companionable silence. He wasn't used to being looked after. Most girls kept on him. His mother needled him. Lindsay was just ... there
No—she was more than just there. She needled him too, but knowingly. And she kept up with him, more than stayed on him.
There was just something sweet—even though she wasn't straight out sweet—and dangerous about a girl who carried around a buck knife, knew how to fly fish, and matched him in comic book knowledge.
"That was nine," she brought him back to the music. "One more to go."
One more, he thought. Then he'd have to come up with something else. Or change things. A list of top ten movies seemed a little dangerous, unless he—they—changed things. Hanging out in an inclosed space, off hours ...
He just wasn't sure ...
"Messer?" He glanced at her. "What's next?"
"A little jazz club on the fringe of Queens. Got a brass team you could die for. A little dancing."
He was hoping for a little dancing. Manny's. He'd held off. There were things he could see himself doing, steps he could see himself taking with her, in the darkened room with the sweet trails of jazz shimmering around them.
An excuse, he admitted, to getting his hands on her ...
If he changed things.
"You know, there's a really great pizza joint about two blocks over. Wanna grab a slice? They've got a great California Zinfandel ..."
Lindsay lifted an eyebrow. "California Zinfandel? Not just a beer?"
"It goes with pizza," Danny defended, but knew he hadn't pulled it off. "It says so on their menu."
And he'd picked up on it the last time he'd been in, had tried it—thinking of her. Wine with pizza. Danny Messer.
"Its your fault you know," he took her elbow as they reached the corner and picked up the pace as they crossed the intersection. "You were talking wine, about how you went to that wine tasting party and how there were so many more offerings here in New York—"
"And how you didn't notice."
"Why would I notice? Besides, who drinks wine with pizza?"
Lindsay laughed, and noticing the sign at the door that simply said New York's Best Pizza, like most other pizza joint in the city, she pulled open the door. "Didn't you just say—"
"I didn't say I drank it. Just that the menu said so." He shrugged. "But since it said it was the best, yeah, sure ..."
And he'd thought of her.
Their banter continued into the pizzeria, where the mood stayed light as she told him a story of growing up in Montana, and he tried to up her one with a story about Staten Island. The lighting was dim, the tables lit with small table lights. He was fascinated by the play of so many things on Lindsay's face. He wanted to tell himself it was the lighting, but it was more. She listened, she was interested, she was ...
He sighed when his phone buzzed against his hip. They'd just come off a string of long days and neither of them were on call.
He frowned as he pulled his phone out and saw that she did the same. She glanced at him, the frown deepening when she saw his out as well. "Something's wrong if we're both being called in."
He nodded.
"Come on. We need to take a cab."
~ny~
They had to run by the lab to get their field kits. It took some time as they hadn't been on call and neither of them had a chance to restock them. There was a rhythm in working in supply, Lindsay thought as she asked Danny to toss her a pair of gloves while she refilled their bottles of Lanolin.
She held out a hand, caught the gloves and grinned back at him when he smiled.
"Good catch, Montana."
"I've still got a few moves left in me," she twirled the lid around the top of the spray bottle, then tightened it. "Though, I really was looking forward to a little down time tomorrow."
"I don't get why they didn't feed us the information on the scene. Something's wrong," Danny shut the lid to his case and his eyes met hers across the small prep room. "Something's really off."
She'd noticed it. Their call in had been strange. They'd already clocked over time. But no one had called them with more intel; no one had given them a heads up that something was indeed really wrong.
"The lab's not buzzing," Lindsay said as she shut her case and met Danny at the door. "If it was something with one of the team—"
He shook his head. "Someone would have called. And we wouldn't be processing." He nodded toward the elevators. "Come on. No use worrying over it until we have to."
But the mood of the evening was gone. The high they'd rode on being out together, laughing, doing their thing was gone. Her third or forth wind that had kept her going was puffed out. The weariness had settled in.
They took an Avalanche to the scene, with no banter over who should drive. Lindsay just climbed in and curled up in her seat. She would grab a few winks on the way, if she was able. Ten minutes, she told herself, and she would be able to face the long night ahead.
Danny said nothing. She dozed, with only the sound of the truck moving over the wet streets. Must have rained that night. They'd been in the small club, the music surrounding them. Wet, thought, as she slid slowly into a light sleep, it had been wet when they'd walked out of the club.
She felt herself being pulled from sleep, as Danny said her name. "Montana."
Something in his voice told her something was not right. She sat up, blinked.
She stared at the street around them, at a dozen of bright police car lights blinking red and blue in the dark night.
Wordlessly, they got out of the car, got their field kits. Lindsay followed Danny through the mayhem of officers and dipped under the crime scene tape an officer held up for her. They walked together into the home, and back through to the kitchen.
Stella stood with Mac, camera in hand.
And there on the floor, eyes wide open in death, was Chief Sinclair.
Their boss...
5