Terra: Earth

Stubbornness

Sometimes he admired her stubbornness. That determination to close the case and catch the bad guy so the good guys could win, no matter what. That stubbornness that made her a good cop, a great CSI, an amazing person. That intense look it gave her that caused her eyes to darken and flash; that caused her mouth to set in a determined line that he wanted to kiss and kiss until it was laughing again; that caused her head to tip back ever so slightly, giving her a fraction more height literally, and a mountain of height metaphorically.

She would set her mind to a task and see it through to the end, not caring how long it took, how much overtime she clocked up, how many empty cups of bad coffee piled up around her. This shouldn't have been new to him – not in this line of work, where determination was the driving emotion behind every pair of eyes he encountered in the lab or the precinct (closely followed by exhaustion, more often than not). It shouldn't have been new to him – not after being partnered with Aiden for so long; not after working for Mac and with Stella, all of whom displayed the same stubborn determination on certain types of cases that, when he slowed down, always caught him by surprise, and made him feel prouder than ever that he worked with such people.

It shouldn't have been new, but somehow it was.

He was finding out all the levels of tenacity, determination and stubbornness that there were to find with his new partner, and it was like seeing the whole range of emotions anew. He realised that despite the sudden, intense feelings of pride he felt with regards to the people he worked with everyday, there was always the underlying fact that he knew them and their own mannerisms and emotions. But with her, he was constantly discovering something new.

Like when they thought they had a break in a case, which turned out to be nothing more than a very strange dead end. The results had come in and she'd frowned, passing them to him as she huffed a lock of hair from her face. He tried not to concentrate on the way her lip pouted, or how the wavy tendril stubbornly settled back down on her face, and instead glanced at the paper. He frowned.

"Well. Not quite the result I was hoping for…" he said, tossing the folder on his desk. She chuckled.

"Back to the drawing board then," she replied brightly, if with slightly more of an edge than usual. He nodded absently, thinking that it would be a good time for lunch. "You coming then?" she called from the doorway.

"What? I don't even get to grab a coffee?" She sighed at his pout.

"Fine, we'll stop by the breakroom on the way." And before he could open his mouth to respond, she was striding down the corridor, heels clicking purposefully. Within a few seconds he had caught her up, his stomach forgotten as he resolutely matched his stubbornness with hers.

Other times he despaired. Like the case with Sara - the 'mermaid' from Montana - that had her working completely flat-out: he'd practically had to tie her to a chair just to get her to eat something, and even then she refused to talk about anything but the case. And as well as feeling pride and admiration and (dare he say) attraction when they were interrogating the perp, he was uneasy as hell to see how much it distressed her. Everyone had their nightmare cases; the ones that got to you in ways no other could. This was hers. But even after the killer was taken away, her eyes didn't lose that stubborn resolve. And she refused to tell him why. Which culminated in a fiercely whispered argument in the precinct, and him asking Mac to check on her. Though later that night, she turned up on his doorstep as he was dozing in front of the TV, evidently having forgiven him for arguing with her.

"I went to see him."

Her voice was quiet and strong: defiant. He wondered if she expected him to yell at her then; ask her why she would do something so pointless, something that would only end up hurting her when she didn't find what she was looking for. And he wanted to yell at her. Ask her why she put herself through that, when she must have known how it would turn out. Ask her why she made him watch. He wanted to, but he couldn't.

Instead, he sighed, stepping forward to envelop her in his arms, holding her as she first stiffened, then relaxed, then finally slipped her arms loosely around his waist. When she eventually pulled back, she smiled gratefully up at him, placing a tender, lingering hand on his cheek, then disappeared into the gloom of the hallway.

II

Sometimes, he felt something more than admiration for her stubbornness. Like the time he went to pick her up for work, and she didn't answer her bell or her phone for ten minutes. Eventually, panic beginning to grip him, he buzzed her neighbour, asking to be let in. He found her on the fire escape outside the living room window, coaxing a small tabby cat from a tree opposite. It had taken her another ten minutes to entice it close enough that she could reach over and rescue the thing. She'd shooed him out of the way immediately ("I've been at it for forty minutes; I'm not having you scaring the poor thing off."), so he just watched and grinned, wondering what exactly this feeling should be classed as.

Other times he felt downright terrified at where her stubborn streak took her. Like undercover, into a room with a man who wouldn't, and hadn't hesitated to pull the trigger. She'd looked at Stella and Flack with imploring eyes and steely resolve. She'd gazed at him with eyes begging him to understand, which then softened to a silent promise that he hoped to God she'd keep.

She did, but only just in his eyes. He held her as she clung to his vest, waiting until her breathing – at first fast, shallow and terrified – slowed and deepened, before he pulled back to look at her, all the while keeping a hand on her waist.

"You scared the hell outta me."

"I know. I'm not apologising for what I did for those girls though," she replied, looking as though she was preparing herself for an argument. He gave a shaky laugh that was more like a sigh, and she visibly softened, closing the gap so they were a hair's bredth away and only he could hear her.

"But I am sorry for what it did to you."

Sometimes, it was impossible to pinpoint the exact emotion he felt when he saw her stubbornly refusing to back down, to cave in, to give up. Like in Bozeman. He slipped in the courtroom, immediately catching her shocked gaze, and praying he made the right choice. Within seconds, as shock gave way to delight, which gave way to a 'shoulders back, head held high' determination, he knew his instincts hadn't failed him. He also knew, as their eyes held each other across the room, and later, as she spoke calmly and confidently to reporters before allowing him to take her away, that admiration seemed to have mutated to utter adoration.

And Danny Messer couldn't help but wonder when exactly Lindsay Monroe's characteristics ceased to be of her influence alone.


AN: Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed: your comments are muchly appreciated! I had terrible trouble with that very last line - I know what I want to say, but I just can't seem to get it right.

Very big thank you to marialisa for the beta/read-over. -hugs-

As always, I apologise if the posting is not exactly consistent - I've had three exams so far, with one tomorrow and the final one on Thursday, and I'm doing my share of stressed out panicking in between bouts of revision.

Disclaimer, because I don't think I've written one for a few chapters, and I wouldn't want to put the folks at CBS through the hassle of trying to sue me, only to find I have negative amounts of money...