Hurricane – Chapter 2
"You wanna tell me why you did that?" she challenged as they pulled to a stop outside the crime scene.
"Did what?" he played dumb.
"Told Tidwell we were okay because we both know that's a lie," she shot back ire in her tone. She knew he was being deliberately obtuse about her discomfort.
"So now you wanna talk about that?" He queried turning in his seat to face her.
She scowled and pouted, "no," before folding her arms and closing her body off.
"No? You wanna talk? Let's talk," he rapid fired. "Cause for days I tried to talk to you. To figure out what I did, why you left. I called, I texted, I came by your place. I felt like a stalker," he shot back his own anger.
This seemed to permeate her armor and she winced at his description. He let the comment hang there filling the air with the strange color and sound of his pain. "I didn't mean that," she admitted dully. "To hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you," she repeated in an almost apology.
"I won't be that for you," he laid out his terms. "Your grudge fuck," he used ugly language that twisted oddly off his tongue. "I want us to be different," he explained.
"I just wanna get past it," she blew out frustrated air.
"What? Get past what? Us or your dad's death," he acted like his soul wouldn't be crushed if she chose both.
"There is no us. But I don't want to have to get another partner," she looked sideways at him. "I like my partner," she smiled slightly. "I need my partner," she confessed. "I'm no damned good at this Charlie. You know it and I know it."
"I don't think either of us have an impressive relationship track record," he replied tersely. "But I think there are things that you need to deal with about your Dad and how he died?" he offered cautiously.
"And how he lived. The things he did to people. The things he did to you," she explained. "And yes, I know those were his choices, not mine…"
"But you feel somehow responsible because of the path you chose?" he ventured.
"Kinda….yeah, I guess," she acquiesced. "I'm…"
"Struggling," he supplied the word.
She nodded.
"I know," he explained. "I know about the other stuff too," he told her staring through the windshield. "The liquor? The men?" he provided when she didn't own up to it immediately. Her chin dropped to her chest in agonizing embarrassment as her eyes slid closed. "It's not something you need to hide from me," he waited for her eyes to open, "but it's not good for you and I think you know that."
"I don't know what is good for me, Crews," she whispered.
"I am," he told her and reached for her hand. She pulled away out of instinct, but he tried again and she let him touch her the second time. She nodded her acceptance of his words and his gestures. "Now," his voice was sharper, "are we good?"
Her answer was hoarse from restraining emotion, but it was clear, "yes." But they both knew they were a long way from "good."
"Then let's go to work," he cracked his door, but waited for her to climb from the car first. He followed behind her, his long shadow covering her in darkness as they walked into their day.
The case was an open and shut domestic homicide. When someone dies the most logical suspects are always the person with the greatest motive to kill them. It's fascinating that what scares us most is the prospective of random, unmotivated violence – being the victim of a serial killing by a stranger. People are most commonly killed by someone they know, by someone they love and this is particularly true for women.
They worked through their theories talking aloud. The stream of consciousness they shared flowed together like two tributaries feeding the same river. They met in the deep water, but they swam in the stream together. This time when he reached for her, first with his voice and then with his hand, she did not resist. "Dani? I think we're done here. Do you wanna get some lunch?"
She nodded and came willingly. The anger was gone, but the caution remained.
Forty minutes later, they were eating tacos in the sunshine, but she continued to carry darkness within and he could sense it. He wanted to help so he began to bridge the gap in gentle entreaties. "My mother died while I was inside," he boldly offered. Her head snapped in his direction and she waited for him to continue.
"It gutted me. I'm not gonna lie to you. It was probably the worst time in my life," he admitted.
"If you're trying to cheer me up, you suck at it," she snorted a short false laugh.
He ignored her attempt to bat his inquiry away and pressed ahead. "You think it's the end of life. A loss that great? Even if you didn't like him… your dad. We never think of our parents as mortal, as fallible, as flawed – until one day we realize they are. That's hard, but it's not the end of everything," he paused waiting for him to look at him. He read the desire to know more in her eyes, so he gave it to her. "It's just the end of everything you know," he said calmly in a voice that let her know that he'd tread that same path in the dark alone too.
"Great," she sighed in annoyance. "So Obi Wan, wanna tell me how I go somewhere I don't know?" She asked incapable of holding the question inside but chaffed at the philosophical nature of their discussion.
"We all do it every day. No one knows what comes next, but everyone does it," he stated a matter of fact. He wasn't being glib, he was pointing out the obvious that we miss every day – quintessential Crews.
She glared demanding more with her eyes and that Reese stance that said "tell me everything you know or I'll garrote you with your tie," but she remained mute.
"You want me to tell you what to do," he offered. "But no one can tell you what to do," he watched her turn angry, "and anyone who does is guessing. They can't know what's best for you, when's time enough for you, only you can know those things."
"Then what the hell do I need you for?" she spat.
"To walk with you, to hold your hand in the dark so you'll know you're not alone. Maybe to protect you when you let me, to hold you close when you need that, to be your partner – not just at work," he boldly stated his intention remained that they would be together despite her insistence that they were not a couple.
"I don't think us sleeping together is a good idea," she countered. She watched as pain bloomed behind his eyes. "I'd be doing it for the wrong reason," she explained and the sharpness eased. "If we are going where you seem to think," she allowed the possibility and hope shined though him, "then shouldn't we both be in a good place to start?"
"Yes," he said simply. "Take all the time you want or need," he promised. "Just come back to me when you're ready. I'll be here."
She bit back the emotion that welled at his simple promise, "don't do that to me, okay?" Her question held a demand and a query.
"You're a masochist you know? You want me to just stand by and watch you fight when I have it in my power to help you and I won't do that," he was annoyed with her. Her normally imperturbable Zen master was pissed. That she could do that to him more than anything else let her know they were too close.
"What if I don't want your help?" she testily retorted turning her back to him and facing the ocean.
He appeared behind her as if he was teleported there. He wrapped him arms around her and held her tightly against him. "You might not want my help, but you need it." Everything from two weeks ago came rushing back to her. The heat radiating from his lean long torso, the strength there in coiled muscles and potential energy. The crisp scent of his cologne invaded her nostrils. She shuddered as the lick of his breath travelled along her jaw line as he spoke, "Why must you fight with me?" he murmured against her temple. He felt her relax briefly, just long enough for him to register her surrender. Then she stiffened and pushed him away.
"Lemme go," she elbowed him in the ribs, forcing him to release her and stalked away.
"I wish I could," he murmured to the wind that carried his comment away on the salt air. He wanted to help; she wanted help, but maybe not from him. He realized that while he knew she was what he wanted and needed; she might not feel the same way. He shook his head, collected his thoughts, schooled his features and returned to the car for that long silent ride back to the station. There would be no Zen, no fruit and no partners on that trip.
