"Jesus," Holder says, and he knows he's been saying it for a while. "Jesus, Jesus Christ, Jesus, Jesus."
Linden is facing out away from Skinner, away from the car, away from Holder. Her gaze is blank, fixed on the horizon, and when she speaks her voice is so very calm. "Stop freaking out, Holder."
Holder feels something snap in his mind. He crosses the distance between him and her in three big strides, grabs her with one hand splayed on her waist and the other digging in to her shoulder. He shakes her so hard her bottom lip gets caught between her teeth, blood welling up in a thick black drop. "Stop freaking out, Linden? You seriously got no idea what you done just now? You splattered his brains out with his gun clipped to your own belt."
Linden meets his eyes, and they glint metallic in the faint light. "It won't reflect back on you," she says, soft. Some of the blankness falls away from her face, and she gives him that sliver shiver quirk of her lips, a genuine smile he's seen so few times he could count them on one hand and still have enough fingers left over to play piano. "I wouldn't do that to you," she says, and he's suddenly aware that her sweater has ridden up her body, his thumb cold against the tip of her hipbone.
Holder steps back and scrubs his hands over his face, the scruff of his beard and then through his hair, limp from sweat and from grease. He needs a shower. He thinks about the ways this could play out. Thinks about Linden seeing her son through prison glass, or worse, trying to write letters drugged up the way she was in that hospital, remembers the rasp of her voice when she asked him to stay, the way it quivered just so when she begged him not to look in the trunk.
"Give me his piece," he says. Linden blinks at him.
"What?"
"Gimme his fucking gun, Linden," he snaps, but she steps back, shakes her head a little. He grabs her around the wrist, hard enough that her bones grind and she sucks in a quick breath, and feels around her belt until his fingers find metal. He pulls Skinner's gun out and steps back, eyeballs the angels. He wraps Skinner's hand around the trigger and buries two bullets into a tree behind where he figures she was standing and sees her jump from the crack of the gunshot.
"Holder-" she says, and he lets the gun fall out of cold fingers. He kicks it further away and then stops. Reconsiders. He picks it up again and turns to Linden.
"Do you trust me?" he whispers. Clears his throat, his heart pounding in his ears. "Do you trust me, Sarah?"
Linden searches his eyes for a long second. She curls her fingers around his wrist, feels his pulse thunder. "I do, she says.
Holden takes a deep breath. "Good," he says, and hits her across the face with the butt of Skinner's gun.
/
Holder waits for her outside the hospital, chain-smoking his way through the better part of a pack and cussing out Internal Affairs in his head. He brings his hands up to light another cigarette and sees flecks of Linden's blood under his nails. The cigarette falls from his fingers, sparking, and he stares at his fingers. He can't get his shirt twisted up flat enough to clean them, and without thinking he sucks it out from under his nails, her blood against his tongue.
He presses his hand to his mouth and takes deep breaths through the urge to vomit. A nurse comes out, one that had smiled prettily at him when he'd asked after Linden. Her mouth is a flat line now, and she tells him Linden is ready in a tone that implies she would very much like to step over rats feasting on his dead body.
Linden is signing paperwork at the front desk, and Holder's step falters at the sight of her, the swelling of her face in full glory. He smoothes out his gait and leans on the counter next to her.
"I guess it does hurt when you fall from heaven," he leers, and when she smiles she winces from the pull of her bruises.
"My doctor gave me a brochure on how to overcome battered women syndrome," she says, wry, and signs yet another piece of paper. "Unofficially it's been declared a good shooting," she adds casually. Holder feels some of the stress bleed out from his spine.
"Them nurses are planning my demise, Linden," he drawls, "you gotta protect me."
"Well," she says, low, "I owe you."
Holder's breath catches, and he forces a smooth slide along the counter until their shoulders bump. "Nah," he murmurs, "that ain't no thing." He touches her face, under her jaw and under her eyes. "Lemme look at you, Linden." There's a row of stitches on her forehead, slanted along her eyebrow where he hit her with the butt of Skinner's gun too hard, and the eye's swollen shut, dark purple marks staining her jawline, across the bridge of her nose and along her cheekbone.
"You're grinding your teeth," Linden says, and Holder stops. A nurse comes over to collect Linden's papers and give Holder the stink eye, and he lets his hand fall back to his side.
"I'll give you a ride," he says.
/
He drives to his place, and when he turns the engine off Linden tries to arch an eyebrow at him. It turns into a pained flinch, and when she reaches for the door he blurts, "Stop." He thumps his head back against the seat. "Jesus Linden, what I done to you…"
Linden grabs his wrist again. "Listen to me, Holder," she says, and waits until he looks at her. "Thank you." They stare at each other for a long moment.
"Yeah well," Holder says finally, "I always had a weakness for petite strawberry blondes." Linden's eyes narrow and he feels a real smile break over his face. "you can have the couch," he says. The doors creak as they open them, water running over the rubber seals and dripping on their shoes. It's starting to rain.
"Pizza," Linden says as they climb out, pulling back in on herself, putting her walls back up. Holder digs the housekeys out of his pocket. "I'm buying," she concedes.
"Sounds like a deal, partner," Holder says, and they close the car doors in unison.