A/N: Whooo, been a few months! Gotta thank Assantra for picking up my old story, "I'll Be Coming Around," because her new chapters reminded me how awesome these two are. I whipped this up last night, so I hope you like it. :)

Diner Days

She really loves his diner.

She has memories there, and she loves that. There are so few places in this big city where she truly feels at home, but Walsh's dingy diner is more homey than her pristine apartment.

She loves the bar where she fell asleep after that awful milk-drinking contest, groggy and nauseas and satisfied. She loves the shower where she washed away his blood after a particularly grueling—terrifying—case. She loves the bedroom where she meandered while he rifled through his closet for a pair of sweats that weren't sopping wet.

It's a retreat, somewhere she can forget her last name and the strings attached. People strolling by the grimy window look inside and don't know she's rich. Walsh just doesn't care. It's so hard to find someone who genuinely doesn't care.

She loves that.

She loves that damn diner.

And she's going to kill the person who burnt it to the ground.

Casey squinted into his dark bedroom, feeling the wall blindly. A switch flicked, a stuttering bulb stabilized into steady yellow light. She blinked a few times against the glare. Case files. She scanned the room for a manila folder or a box of evidence.

"Quick trip, my ass," she grumbled, stepping over dirty clothes, boxes of bullets, newspaper clippings. The comforter to his bedding spilled onto the carpet. His dresser was covered in dust and empty picture frames and shell casings.

No case files.

Cursing Walsh's name—and outright laziness—"the junior detective runs the errands," he'd said—, Casey began sifting through his shit. It was a careless process, but she doubted she was making the mess worse.

She tripped over a gun safe and cursed loudly. "I miss Beaumont," she told the walls. "At least you could walk in here back then."

She found a pile of cookbooks in the corner and was momentarily distracted. The "dinner for two" recipes were enticing. It'd been a long time since she'd tried something new, and that strawberry spinach salad looked delicious.

Glass shattered, and Casey jolted, snatching her gun on impulse.

Then something roared. She careened down the hallway and skid around the corner. Her eyes widened at the wall of flames. The whole bar was alight with fury, blazing and crackling as smoldering heat nearly brought her to her knees. Smoke was filling the room. She already couldn't breathe without coughing.

"Shit," she said, holding the crook of her elbow to her mouth and nose.

Something collapsed towards the front of Walsh's diner, and she knew her escape route was gone.

"Double shit."

Brown intercepts the detectives as they stroll towards the bullpen. "Walsh, Shraeger! Tell me you have something on the Hayes case."

Walsh steps into the office, but Casey barely glances in their direction. She mutters something about "later," and stalks to her desk. He watches her drop into the rolling chair and duck behind the computer monitor.

"Walsh," Brown says again, impatient.

He redirects his attention and says, "We don't have anything on Hayes."

"What?"

"I'm a bit preoccupied. Insurance is a bitch," Walsh says. Brown narrows his eyes, and the detective tacks on a semi-respective, "sir."

"And Shraeger?"

"I told her to look into the jackass who torched my diner."

Brown leans against his desk and folds his arms, glaring at Walsh. "So you're telling me that my two best detectives are too distracted with personal matters to do their damn job?"

"Don't let you hear Shraeger say that we're the best, sir, or she'll never work again. Compliments go to her head."

"I don't give a shit," Brown says, stalking forward. His eyes are piercing as he stares Walsh down. His nostrils flare. His lips purse. "That bastard murdered someone, and our evidence is thin at best. Now, the trial's in two weeks. If you don't get me something before Friday, I'm putting Alvarez on this and you two will have traffic duty for a month. You read me?"

Walsh squares his shoulders and says, "I read you."

"Get out," Brown replies.

Walsh strides to Casey's desk. She's hunched over her keyboard, replaying the one video they've found of the arsonist. She's seen it a hundred times by now, he's sure, but her eyes are glued to the screen, enraptured. He flicks her shoulder.

"Shraeger."

"Busy," she says. He snorts and wheels her chair back and positions himself in front of her screen. She yelps in indignation. "What?"

"Brown just chewed me out. Shouldn't I be the one tracking that damn arsonist while you handle the real cases?" He folds his arms and holds her gaze. If he looks at her eyes, he doesn't have to see the painful burns on her arms and neck.

She huffs, "I'm doing both. I can multitask."

"Not very well."

"Shut up."

He rolls his eyes, but she shoves him aside and replays the video. He rubs his forehead in exasperation, sits at his own desk, and checks his notes on Hayes.

It was unbelievably hot. The diner was becoming a furnace, and Casey was left desperately trying to find another exit. There were bars on Walsh's bedroom window. The bathroom one was too high to reach and too tiny even if she could. There wasn't a back door—though there really should have been, she thought wryly.

It was the front of the diner or she would roast in here.

Casey gritted her teeth and grabbed the comforter off the floor. It was wrinkled and musky, but it would do the job. She ran to the bathroom and turned the bathtub faucet. The water was cool, and she thrust the comforter underneath, swishing it around the bathtub. By the time the fabric soaked through, she was sweating bullets and could hardly breathe.

She heaved the large blanket over herself, coughing harshly into her elbow. Her eyes were watering, her nose ran, and she tripped twice as she felt her way towards the front of the diner. She was literally walking into the fires of hell.

But she didn't have much choice.

Her arm brushed against the wall and it burned through the blanket. She yelped and drew back, stumbling over her own feet. It was dark and the smoke was seeping underneath the comforter and she was hot, too hot, and oh god this is what burning alive must feel like.

Her feet smashed into rubble and her hands blistered on debris and she was blind in this black inferno. She didn't know if there was space to crawl. She didn't know if the whole front of the diner was blocked. If she found somewhere to the outside world, could she even fit? Or was she trapped here?

A sob erupted from her chest.

And someone grabbed her arm.

Walsh lets himself in to Casey's apartment to find her staring blearily at her laptop. There's a plate of half-eaten food by the sink and an uncorked bottle of wine on the coffee table. He glances at the clock. Midnight. Considering she's been working half-days since the accident, she should have been asleep hours ago.

He drapes his leather jacket over one of the barstools and says, "Shraeger, if you're not working on the Hayes case, so help me, I'm going to break that laptop."

She slams it shut and hides it behind a pillow, trying to look innocent, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure," he replies, dropping into the chair adjacent to her couch. "What the hell are you doing up?"

"What did you tell Brown?" she asks instead.

He massages his temple and lies. "That we hit a few roadblocks, but we're tracking down a witness who might have the evidence we need."

She regards him in disbelief, and he gets the distinct impression that she knows he's lying to her. Hell, she probably knows he lied to cover her ass in Brown's office, and that's why she's asking about it now.

But that's what partners do, and he'll be damned if she has to deal with Brown less than a week after the fire.

"And he bought that shit?" Casey says drily.

"Nope."

"Figured."

Silence falls, and Walsh watches her lean against the couch cushions and close her eyes. He stares at her burns. They're bright red and a few are blistering, and guilt coils in his stomach, a festering reminder that he almost lost everything.

"You okay?" he asks.

Casey groans and says, "Yes, Walsh. I'm fine. God damn it, stop asking me. You're the homeless one, remember?"

"It just means I get to enjoy this place. Granite counters and hardwood floors and a bed that doesn't squeak? I should have had the diner torched ages ago." He's trying to lighten the mood, but her expression sours.

"Don't joke about that."

Guilt flares again.

"Casey—"

"Don't pretend like you don't even care that it's gone. Your diner, Walsh. Your home, burned to a crisp. All your things, all those memories, gone with… with one Molotov cocktail and a… gallon of accelerant."

He watches as tears leak from her eyes. He watches her sniff and rub her cheek and tug the laptop from behind the pillow, once again hiding behind a computer screen. He watches her pointedly ignoring him and realizes there's more to this than post-traumatic stress.

He slides onto the couch beside her and reaches to close the laptop. Before it clicks shut, he catches a glimpse of her notes, details on the arsonist. The document is crammed with words.

She won't look at him, but he's a patient guy. He waits, letting the minutes tick by, and when another tear slips down her cheek, he wipes it off with the pad of his thumb.

"Casey." She looks at him, and his brows knit together. "What's going on?"

"It's gone, Jason," she whispers. "I loved that place, and now it's gone."

He wonders if she's equating the diner to their partnership, if she's scared that one day that too will be consumed and crumble. If something dangerous happens, as it often does, and one of them never recovers.

He fears the same thing, thinks it every time they run into a fight, more recently sees it every time he looks at those damn burns.

Then he wonders if he's over-thinking this.

"Things come and go all the time," he says steadily.

"But not the diner," she replies, clenching her eyes shut. Her voice shakes. Her shoulders tremble slightly. "You made me pancakes there."

Walsh smirks, "I can make you pancakes here. It was just a roof over my head, Casey. I didn't have anything to miss in there." He pauses, considers, and amends, "Well, nothing but you. Thanks for the heart attack."

She laughs and sobs at once, sounding very broken. He pulls her against his chest, tucking her head underneath his chin.

"Alvarez can have Hayes. Tell me what you have on the arsonist."

Casey welcomes the distraction.

He pulled her—dragged her, really—up a mountain of concrete and mortar. She couldn't find her footing, so she fumbled and stumbled after him, mind hazy with smoke and body burning with fire. At the top, he gave her a firm shove and she fell hard onto the sidewalk.

She rolled out of the comforter and blinked at the night sky, dazed. Fire roared behind her, sounding like a camping trip gone wrong. He scooped her up and hauled her away from the diner, away from her beloved bar and shower and bedroom. She was crying and coughing and choking on clean air.

A crash echoed behind them. The diner was gone. Casey didn't have to see the wreckage to know it'd crumbled. A crowd of people mingled across the street, gasping at the commotion, gawking as Walsh's home destroyed itself. She was laid on a stretcher and a paramedic hovered nearby.

"Stand back," he ordered, and her rescuer stepped aside. She figured it was Walsh—no one else knew she was there, and he always seemed to keep her out of trouble. She opened her mouth to thank him, but the paramedic thrust an oxygen mask onto her face.

She coughed again, and this time she couldn't seem to stop. Even with the mask she was gasping in air, unable to catch her breath, and she panicked for a whole different reason. She flailed, felt someone holding her down, pressing her hair off her face. Her vision tunneled, her ears roared with the flames, and darkness washed over her.

With the two of them, they have the arsonist jailed in a week. His name's Jimmy Smith, and he was hired by Hayes to distract the lead detective working his case. Smith agrees to testify, and with the "attempted murder" of Detective Shraeger tacked to the list, Hayes will be in prison for a long time.

Brown rolls his eyes and hands them another case file and says, "Nice job. But don't let that get to your head, Shraeger."

Walsh hides a smirk at his partner's confused expression.

She lets him drive her home, but he makes a wrong turn right out of the precinct. She says something, but he turns up the radio and ignores her, easing the squad car into traffic. Eventually she settles into the seat and hums to the music, letting him do what he will.

They park on a quiet street about three blocks from her apartment, and Walsh steps out of the car. He doesn't wait to see if she follows. He simply strolls along the sidewalk. The street is lined with brick buildings and wrought iron fences and manicured shrubbery. He stops a hundred paces from the car and turns on his heel.

"Walsh, what—" Casey cuts herself off, following his gaze. It's a two-story townhouse wedged between an apartment complex and an office building. The ground floor's been converted to a tiny restaurant with tinted windows and a "we are CLOSED" sign. It's more of a pizza parlor than a diner, but Casey bites her lip anyway.

Walsh watches her, feeling satisfied. When she looks back at him, he pulls the key ring from his pocket and tosses it to her. "Go on. It's better than my last place."

She opens the door with shaking hands and he follows her inside. The place is dusty and only big enough for three round tables. There's a cash register tucked in the back, a pair of bathrooms, and double doors leading to the kitchen. Just behind the walk-in fridge, a set of stairs climb to his new apartment.

"What is this?" she asks, sounding almost giddy. She bends over one of the tables, admiring the view out the window. Then she skips to the door and flips the "we are CLOSED" sign around.

Walsh shrugs a shoulder, "I can't live with you forever, Shraeger. I got the insurance payout and figured I'd try something new."

"It's perfect," she says, grinning. She runs her finger over the dust on the table and peeks into both bathrooms. Then she ducks into the kitchen and yells to him, "Maybe this time you can actually run a successful business!"

"Nah," he puts his hands in his pockets and leans against the cash register. "I still don't like cooking."

"You like cooking for me."

He smirks, even though she can't see it.

But she's right.

She woke up in the ambulance with the oxygen mask secured around her head and Walsh gripping her hand. She groaned and coughed, her throat utterly raw and her skin aching with sharp, unforgettable pain.

"Give her more morphine," Walsh ordered. His voice was harsh to the untrained ear, but she recognized the fear in his tone. She wanted to reassure him, but she couldn't speak.

The diner was gone. Every physical trace of their partnership, wiped away in a ball of flame. Tears trickled out of her eyes, dripping past her ears to pool in her hair. Walsh squeezed her hand.

"Calm down, Casey. You're out now, and you're gonna be fine. Just breathe." He squeezed her hand, yelled to the paramedic. "Didn't you hear me? Give her something!"

She wasn't crying because of the pain, but he didn't know that.

Somehow, that made her cry harder.

A/N: I really think the diner is a big metaphor for their relationship, so I kind of wanted to explore what would happen if the physical place were destroyed. I'm not sure how well I accomplished it, considering I wrote this at 2am, but I had fun regardless.

Thanks for reading! :)