Reckless Burning
The tiny flame always ignited the same.
"C'mere Pretty Thing."
And in those subsequent moments she wouldn't know who or why or what or where she was, only that the flame burned brighter and whiter until the sparks leapt from her fingertips and she flew to the skies where she would be accused again of …
Reckless Burning.
She awoke before the alarm, the heavy ripeness of her body deterring sound sleep. She sought one of the few comforts left to her, snuggling back into him, but anxiety threaded through her consciousness when she realized he wasn't there. Glancing at the clock and noting he should have been home hours ago, she threw a blanket around her shoulders as she lugged the weight of two from the bed.
She found him; posture slumped into the couch, head thrown back, a hand clasped loosely around a half empty bottle of beer that had settled between his thighs.
She swept a gentle hand down the side of his face before she tugged the bottle from his hand, setting it on the coffee table behind her.
He startled then instinctively wrapped his arms around her, urging her down to his lap.
"A bed and sleep, Cowboy, that's what you need."
Drawing her back into the couch with him, cushioning his head on her now ample softness, he mumbled, "I'm good here, thanks."
His warm breath fanned across her skin, heating her, and she allowed herself a few lingering moments to feather her fingers through his sleep-spiked hair. There weren't enough hours in a day especially when they were working opposite ends of the clock, and soon, they would be sharing their hours with another.
As if in punishment for her errant thoughts, a cell phone reverberated from somewhere between the couch cushions. She dug deep, retrieved it and pressed it to her ear with a sigh.
"Messer's phone."
"Linds, it's Stella. Is Danny around?"
She looked at him, considering he hadn't stirred at the sound of the cell phone or her subsequent jostling of him as she retrieved it; she decided not to disturb him.
"He is Stella but I'd rather not wake him if possible. It's been a long week of even longer shifts. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Well I'm at a scene and it's …unusual. I could use a second pair of eyes to back me up and everyone else is tied up."
"I'll do it. Where are you?"
"What? No, Linds, I couldn't. Absolutely not. Not only would Mac have my head for breaching protocol, but Hawkes would be lecturing me for putting undue stress on very expectant mother and I shudder to even think what Danny would do if he found out I'd allowed you to come to a very nasty crime scene carrying his first born."
"Listen Stell, I'm a grown woman capable of gauging what my body can and can't do. And today I need a bit of fresh air, and time away from the office and that big stack of files on my desk."
"I don't know …"
"C'mon on Stel, I promise I'll just eyeball the place. I'll touch nothing and process nothing." Lindsay, hearing the capitulation in Stella's sigh, reassured, "No one even has to know I was there."
It was in that moment when he crossed the threshold to lock his door for the day that he felt that familiar feeling of being The Watched. It had been years but callback was excruciating. The wave of heat – from somewhere behind him – heat that raised the faded and fading scars, then, the sweeping chill that thickened his blood, causing his fingers to fumble the key into the lock. So many years ago, and so many years of her, watching him, and he watching her so that when she flinched he would know to duck and run. And she would step into the fray to save him. And he was ashamed.
For however long those memories had been playing, there were others that were sharper, though shorter running. Memories of how he had failed not one, but many, reminded every time he looked at the fading scars, perfectly shaped but maliciously formed, reminded every time he looked at the faces, day in and day out, the faces of those whose faith he had destroyed and whose lives he had endangered.
And he knew it was true, he'd always known it was true, and he would always know it to be true: that he, Adam Ross, was, is and would always be a coward.
"Good, you're here," Stella's words were as tight as her features.
"So when you said unusual, how unusual did you mean?"
"Too unusual for us to risk bringing the remains to the morgue." Warning, Stella handed her a pristine white handkerchief. "You'll need this."
Lindsay took the handkerchief, mimicking Stella as she held it firmly over her mouth and nose. Even before she entered the room, the stench – pure and unadulterated – assaulted her senses: watering her eyes, burning her throat, horrifying her mind. She glanced –warned but still unprepared – at the sight: charred and sooted, the length of an average height; intact foot on the right, partial arm with an attached hand on the left.
She felt a ripple through her belly that ended sharply at a nerve and she squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the handkerchief tighter but still trying to breath through the pain.
"Lindsay." Stella reprimanded herself, "I knew I shouldn't have let you come."
"Stel, it's just the baby rolling and hitting a nerve." Her eyes flickered open again as she muffled the explanation through the handkerchief.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Let's take a closer look at the remains of the remains."