Love Alone Is Worth The Fight
A Cold Case fanfic by oucellogal
Author's Note: Wow! Hello! Is anyone even still here? I feel like I'm emerging from a coma and am stunned to see that it's been (gulp) about five years since I've written anything of substance. The last time I wrote, I'd just had a baby; that baby will be starting kindergarten in the fall! He now has a three-year-old brother and a sister who just turned one.
Like the rest of you, I was bummed when they canceled Cold Case, but totally stoked when Danny Pino got the SVU gig. I followed him to that show, and inspiration struck with the recent episode 'Amaro's One-Eighty.' I couldn't help but ask myself, "What if that had happened to Scotty on Cold Case?" As we all know, 'what-if' questions usually lead to fic. This is the result.
If you've seen 'Amaro's One-Eighty,' you know some of what will happen in this story, but you don't need to have watched it for the story to make sense. (Although, if you haven't, and you're a Danny Pino fan at all, do! He knocks it out of the park).
This story is simultaneously a return to my Lilly/Scotty shipper roots and an experiment. I've discovered that taking a plot from one show and trying to apply it to another is harder than it looks. It's sort of like trying to alter a garment. At first, all you think you'll have to do is take out a few stitches and re-sew, but you end up ripping far more seams than you thought you'd have to. This is brave territory for me, not least because I just used a sewing metaphor when I do not, in fact, know how to sew.
Timeline-wise, I'd put it in the later part of the series, if not after it ended. Lilly's shooting happened, but it's comfortably in the past, and nobody's angsting about it. Not much, anyway. Frankie did not happen, nor did Saccardo, Moe Kitchener, Lilly's dad, the return of Christina, or any of the rest of the crap-storm that was the final two seasons.
Disclaimer: The Cold Case characters are the property of their owners. The main plot of the story is from Law & Order: SVU, which I also don't own. Any plot holes are the responsibility of the SVU writers: I don't know enough about law or order to know how realistic most of this is. I kept what served my story and let the rest go.
Enough intro-babble. I just wanted to say hello, I'm still alive and well, and apparently, I am still inspired by Cold Case. I hope the same is true for all of you, and I sincerely hope you enjoy this story.
Chapter One
Containing Some Good Scotch and an Angry Cabbie
"I can't believe Vera actually proposed."
Scotty's words chase puffs of vapor from his lips as we head down the front steps, the cold night air seeping through our overcoats and nipping at the lingering warmth from the engagement party we've just left.
I chuckle in reply. "I can't believe Miller said yes."
"No kiddin'." Scotty winds a gray woolen scarf around his neck, his deep brown eyes twinkling with mirth. "I figured Nicky'd have had to grovel a whole lot more than he did."
With a light heart, I fall into step with my partner. After all our years together, keeping up with Scotty's purposeful, long-legged stride has become second nature. "Sounds like Miller made him grovel plenty."
Scotty's lips curve in a boyish grin. "Yeah, well…he had it comin', after lettin' the cat outta the bag the way he did."
I smile, remembering the panic-stricken look on Nick Vera's face three weeks back, when a text meant for Miller's eyes only had instead mistakenly lit up the phones of the entire Cold Case squad. Further interrogation of the blustering, heavyset Vera revealed that he and Miller were not only dating, but together—serious—and had been for several months. None of us were sure the relationship, or Vera, for that matter, would survive the night. But the next morning, when Miller had arrived with an almost girlish gleam in her eyes and a sparkling diamond on her finger, it was clear that all had been forgiven.
"Y'know what I really can't believe?" Scotty interrupts my walk down memory lane.
I quirk a brow in his direction. "What?"
"Vera served us somethin' tonight besides cheap vodka and Natty Light."
"Yeah, no kiddin'." I'm far from a connoisseur, but that scotch was some of the best I've had. "How'd he swing that on our salary?"
"I think Boss and Will went in together on it." Scotty issues a short bark of laughter. "Ain't every day one of us hits the romance jackpot, let alone two."
He can say that again.
"Well, this is me." We've arrived at my train stop, and I dig through my wallet for my train pass, then glance back up with a smile. "'Night, Scotty."
Scotty stops, too. "Wanna ride?" A jerk of his thumb to the left. "It's no trouble; I'm parked just around the corner."
Tilting my head slightly to the side, I pause to study my partner in that way I know he hates. He's been doing this a lot since my shooting, this…I'm not sure what to call it. Offering me rides, walking me to my train stop, looking out for me. At first, all this protectiveness annoyed the hell out of me, but lately I've found it…well, something of a comfort. Let's face it, I've never had a line out the door of people wanting to take care of me.
"It's twenty minutes out of your way," I point out. Why do I do that?
"I already said it's no trouble," Scotty retorts. "Now are you comin', or are you gonna freeze your ass off waitin' for the train?"
With a sheepish smile, I close the distance between us, and he tosses me a cocky grin as we fall into step once more. It really is freezing, but the companionable silence, the slight whiff I catch of his aftershave, the warmth I can feel radiating from his body…it kinda takes the edge off a little bit.
He glances over at me. "Hey, you wanna-?"
"Stop! Police!"
Footsteps pound behind us. I whirl around just in time to see a shadowy, hoodie-clad figure sprinting across the street a few feet away, a uniformed patrol officer in hot pursuit. Brakes squeal, a car horn blares…and then the shattering of glass and a sickening thud as a taxi slams into our comrade, flinging him high into the air. My stomach wrenches as his limp body falls back to the roof, bounces off, and tumbles to the ground.
I let go of Scotty's arm, which I don't remember grabbing. Adrenaline coursing through our veins, we rush into the fray. The still-rolling taxi honks its horn again, almost as though it's pissed off at the audacity of a fallen law enforcement officer who dared impede its mission.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Scotty yells. Equally pissed off.
I put a hand up. "Stop!"
The taxi finally rolls to a halt. Scotty takes just a second to glare at the furiously gesturing driver before he kneels at the officer's side.
"Hey, you all right?" He runs a quick, gentle hand over the uni's ribs. "What's goin' down?"
Our colleague grimaces in pain. "That kid—we saw him do a deal. I think he's got a gun."
I'm on my feet before he finishes his sentence. "Okay, Scotty, call it in," I toss over my shoulder. "I'll go back up his partner."
"Wait, you saw a gun?" Scotty's hand on my forearm stops me.
"Partner did," the officer groans, before his head falls back on the concrete with a painful-sounding thump.
"Then you stay, Lil. I'll go." Scotty's eyes meet mine for the briefest of instants, and in their bottomless depths I read the thousand reasons why any protest I might offer will be a waste of everyone's time. Without another word, he takes off, the rapid staccato of his footsteps disappearing into the midnight chill.
Heart racing, I kneel next to the officer and grab his radio. "Ten-thirteen, officer injured. We're in the five-hundred block of west Tenth Street, and we've got a plainclothes officer in pursuit." A frisson of worry shoots the length of my body as I take a breath for the next words. "Suspect may have a gun."
This done, I turn my attention back to the officer, whose face has paled in the moonlight, and force myself to take a deep breath. "You're gonna be okay, Officer…" I squint to read his name badge.
"Dragin," he rasps. "Mike Dragin."
"Dragin. You're gonna be okay." Maybe if I repeat myself, it'll be true. "Where are you hurt?"
Dragin moans. "Head…back…legs…"
I run my hands over his right leg, and he cries out in pain.
Dammit. First aid was never my strong suit. I'm wracking my brain for every last scrap of my training when I feel the weight of a hand on my shoulder. "Ma'am?"
To my right, there's a tall, bearded man in jeans and a Phillies jacket, flashing an identification badge. "I'm a paramedic. Off-duty. I can take it from here while we wait for backup."
I think I call my thanks over my shoulder as I sprint in the general direction of where I last saw Scotty. Naturally, a crowd has already gathered, and I jerk my shield from my belt and flash it at random. "Philly PD," I shout. "Where'd they go?"
A couple of the bystanders point toward a high-rise apartment building. I run in, yanking the double glass doors open and taking the stairs two at a time, squinting from the sudden onslaught of sickly fluorescent light.
I've just reached the second-floor landing when I hear the pop-pop-pop of gunshots. Swearing under my breath, I find another gear and sprint up the last of the stairs, just as a woman's pained shout reaches my ears.
Heart pounding, I crouch just outside the door to the hallway, listening. Waiting. They're still firing.
The shooting stops, and the woman moans.
"You okay?" I allow myself to feel just a smidgen of relief at the sound of Scotty's voice through the door.
"I'm shot," the woman gasps.
I don't need to hear any more. I burst through the door to see another uniformed officer writhing in agony on the cold tile floor. Dragin's partner. She's young. Fresh-faced. Can't have been out of Academy more than a year or two. The air is thick with blood and gunsmoke.
"What the hell happened?" I demand.
Scotty's pressed flat against the white concrete wall of the hallway in a defensive stance, gun out in front of him. His eyes meet mine, simultaneous concern and gratitude shimmering in their depths. "She's shot."
Tell me something I don't know, Valens. I crouch beside the fallen officer. Her face is contorted in pain. Blood oozes from a spot just below her left knee, and she lifts her hand from it so I can check the wound. It's messy, but it could be a lot worse. My heart aches for her, knowing the road she's got ahead.
"Keep pressure on it," I instruct her. She grimaces, moans again, and puts her hand back over the wound.
Scotty tosses a questioning glance over his shoulder, and I hasten to reassure him. "She's all right." Turning back to the officer, I meet her eyes and will her some courage. "Backup's comin'," I tell her softly, then draw my gun and take my place behind my partner.
Scotty's shoulders rise and fall with his rapid breaths, the tension in his muscles evident even through his woolen coat. At the sound of anguished wailing echoing through the hallway, he peers around the corner, then looks back at me. Jaw set, he nods, then creeps around the corner. I follow him, a few paces back.
"Keep your hands where I can see 'em." Scotty's voice is rough. "Show me your hands!" I yell similar instructions, our voices bouncing off the cement block walls, mingling with the shouts from down the hall.
When I round the corner, I see a man and a woman kneeling beside a fallen figure. The shooter? My eyes scan the floor for the gun.
"Get your hands up," Scotty orders, then jerks the man to his feet by his elbow. The man ricochets along the wall. I train my gun on him for a couple of seconds, then turn back to help Scotty.
The woman still isn't listening to us. Can she hear us through her sobs? Does she even speak English?
"Ma'am," I say, with a little more gentleness than Scotty had. She's still wailing in-is it French? I can't make it out. I draw her to her feet and put her by the wall next to the man.
Scotty crouches next to the shooter. "Secure the gun!" I still haven't spotted it.
Panic edges my partner's voice. "Where's the gun? Where's the gun?"
When I turn back to look, Scotty's got the shooter's shirt pulled up. There's blood all over the left side of his abdomen, from his gray T-shirt to the plaid yellow-and-green boxers peeking up over the waistband of his pants. To my right, the woman's hysteria increases by the second.
Scotty's fighting to stay calm. "Suckin' chest wound. Call it in." He rips the woolen scarf from his neck and presses it to the wound.
Only then do I look at the kid's face. It's-oh, my God, he really is just a kid. He can't be more than fifteen. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. No wonder Scotty sounded panicked.
The boy moans, and the woman next to me falls sobbing to her knees.
Scotty glances over his shoulder at me. The muscle in his cheek is twitching, his face etched with worry. And his eyes are dark with what I know we're both thinking.
This looks bad.
Really bad.
We've got to find that gun.