Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written for fun and not for
profit. Only Maggie, the events surrounding her, and Mr. and Mrs. O'Hare
belong to me. All other characters belong to CBS/Viacom and the creators
of Diagnosis Murder. If they decide to sue me, I will be flattered because
it means they think I am good enough to pose a threat. I will also be flat
broke, but hey, what's new about that? So, please, guys, don't sue me.
There's nothing to gain.
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This is the sequel to an as-yet unwritten story, however, I have provided sufficient details for it to make sense on its own. The unwritten story takes place a few months after the episode "Love Is Murder." This story takes place several months after that.
The following summary for Love Is Murder comes from http://www.tvtome.com/DiagnosisMurder/season3.html#ep48, and is quoted without permission but with undying gratitude for the hard work and diligent research of the individual who compiled all the information for wannabe authors like me who have trouble keeping their facts straight.
In Love Is Murder, "Steve heads up the investigation when a serial cop killer is on the prowl, while inadvertently [sic] dating the killer."
I have tried to keep the Spanish simple enough for everyone to get it from context, but if you're stumped, or if you really want to double-check me, I suggest going to a Spanish teacher or a native speaker because most of the translation programs I've seen suck. Of course, you could always e-mail me.
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Their sweat-slicked bodies slid against each other, and Steve moved faster. He felt the familiar tightening in his groin at the same moment his lover stiffened. He moaned, she screamed, and they fell off the precipice together.
Several minutes later, she mustered the strength to roll over on her side and snuggle back against him. They lay spooned together, warm, and content.
She sighed. "Oh, Steve. ¡Qué bonito!"
"Mmmmm, Lynn."
He felt her spine stiffen as she went rigid in his arms. Hastily she rolled over and moved away from him. Clinging to the edge of the bed, she said his name again, in a much different tone. Angry, demanding, confused, hurt. "Steve?"
He drew his brows together in a confused frown, and finally opened his eyes to look at her. Jet black eyes stared warily out of a lovely, delicately formed, olive-skinned face.
*SHIT!* His heart stopped as the curse ricocheted through his brain and shredded the blissful clouds that had formed there.
"Maggie, I--"
Slender fingers hushed his mouth. The very fingers that were tracing trails of fire on his skin moments ago now felt ice cold.
"Don't you dare say another word!" Her voice was tight, controlled, pissed as all hell.
She lay beside him for a moment panting, though clearly not from passion this time. Steve could see her nostrils flare slightly with each breath. Then she rolled off the bed, deftly taking the comforter with her even as she left the sheet still covering him. He slid over to her side of the bed and sat up, catching her wrist to keep her from leaving.
"Mags--"
Fire landed on his left cheek. He saw stars, heard bells, tasted blood.
"¡Hijo de puta!"
She grabbed her robe and slipped out the door before he realized he'd been slapped or translated the epithet.
Steve sighed. She was right; he was an SOB. He'd met Margarita Sara Oviedo Hyman about three months after he'd been forced to shoot Lynn Conklin. He'd been at the bank, thinking of Lynn and regretting what had happened as he waited in line to straighten out an error on his statement when all hell had broken loose. The lovely Latina infectious disease specialist for the FBI had dived to the floor at his side and enlisted his help to stop the robbery. Then she'd proceeded to give him full credit for making the bust just to get out of doing the paperwork. She'd said she was in the process of switching jobs, and didn't want to get tangled in any loose ends at the FBI.
When it was discovered that the robbery was just a small part of a larger operation, her supervisor had held her to her thirty days notice and made her investigate. Captain Collins had gotten permission for Steve to work with her on the investigation, and Steve had found they made a good team. He was still an open wound when they'd met, sad, angry, and a little afraid to trust any woman with anything; but somehow, through patience, good humor, remarkable competence, and absolute honesty, Maggie had gotten him to trust her. They'd been friends while they worked together on the case, but when it was over and she started her new job teaching interns and treating patients at Community General, Steve had decided he wanted more.
At first, Maggie had been reluctant. He hadn't told her much about Lynn, but she seemed to know he had been deeply hurt. Though she didn't really believe he was over Lynn, she had allowed him to woo her, and finally, tonight had been their first, and regrettably probably their last, time together.
This was supposed to have been a weeklong vacation for both of them. His dad was out of town at a conference, and they were going to spend their days at the beach house, sunning, surfing, and well…they hadn't made plans for the evenings. All through dinner, he knew, and delighted in the fact, that it had been Maggie smiling at him and giggling. When they sat in front of the fireplace and split a bottle of wine after dinner, and when they made their way to the bedroom after that, it was all Maggie. As he lost himself in his own arousal and climax, he got lost with Maggie, but as he basked in the afterglow and wandered into the edge of that blissful dream world, it had been Lynn's image hovering in his mind's eye.
He was definitely an SOB.
He found his boxers and pulled them on and went out to the living room to talk to her. She was stalking back and forth in front of the doors that opened onto the beach, her long, tanned legs repeatedly peeking out through the folds in her robe. Moving with catlike grace and ferocity, she reminded him of a jaguar. He knew her reflexes to be just as fast and deadly, so he kept his distance.
She warned him off anyway.
"Fair warning, gringo. If you don't want to be picking teeth out of your stool, you'll stay beyond arm's reach."
In spite of himself, Steve felt hopeful. 'Gringo' was her pet name for him, and he couldn't believe she'd be using it if she were about to walk out of his life forever.
She was smoking a cigarette. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. He'd seen her smoke once before, on the steps of the bank after the robbery. She told him then she knew it was a filthy habit and she'd nearly quit, but about once a month her nerves got the best of her and she had to have just one. She took a last deep drag and threw the butt into the fireplace. She was still exhaling smoke as she drew the pack out of her pocket and, hands trembling, lit up another. Apparently, what he had done was more upsetting than getting shot in the ass in a bank robbery on her way to a job interview.
He tried to talk to her using words she'd taught him.
"Querida…"
She lashed out with the first thing that fell to her hands. It happened to be a baseball from his little league days. The first homerun he'd ever hit. He turned away from the missile as it hurtled toward him, and it thudded painfully off his left shoulder blade. He grunted at the impact and sighed as he heard the ricochet shatter glass and knock over only God knew what. His shoulder throbbed already. She had a hell of an arm.
Steve couldn't help but be a little amused. Though she hated stereotyping with a passion, Maggie herself fulfilled almost every stereotype there was about Hispanics. She was hot tempered, loved spicy food, and had a passion for baseball. She enjoyed tequila, Corona, and sangria; and occasionally took an afternoon siesta. She played one hell of a classical guitar, and now he also knew, she was phenomenal in the bed.
And she'd feed him his testicles with a spoon if she knew what was on his mind right now.
He tried again.
"Corazón…"
This time she threw a book.
"Maldito gringo. ¡No me hables!"
"Huh?" His Spanish lessons hadn't gotten that far yet, but he didn't think it was good.
"Don't talk to me."
"Oh."
He watched in silence as she paced. Finally, he could take no more. He decided to risk it.
"I never made love to her."
A potted plant came sailing through the air at him, scattering dirt across the living room as it went.
"You just did, cabrón."
Steve sighed and nodded. Yes, all right, he was a bastard too.
Misinterpreting the gesture, Maggie went ballistic. She yelled some unintelligible curse at him, threw the door open, ran out onto the beach and down to the waves. At the edge of the tide, she shucked her robe and disappeared, naked, into the Pacific. Steve was several yards behind her, and she was out of sight in the dark water by the time he got there. He picked up her robe and clutched it to his chest.
"Maggie!!!!"
"Shut up!!!" Her voice carried back across the waves.
"Maggie! Come back in! It's dangerous out there in the dark."
"No! I can swim, and I'm not talking to you any more right now."
"Maggie!…Maggie?…Dammit, Maggie, come back in….Maggie!"
Steve stood at the water's edge for several minutes, calling out occasionally and getting no answer. He was worried sick. It really was dangerous on the water at night, and he knew there was no way he'd find her in the dark if she suddenly needed help. Finally, he went to sit on the dry sand above the high tide line, clinging miserably to her robe. He buried his face in it and inhaled her scent, spicy and exotic, a heady mixture of tropical scents, sandalwood, musk, and something distinctly Maggie. He'd been a bit surprised when she'd brought it with her tonight; neither of them had mentioned her spending the night. Still, she was a woman who knew her own mind, and he was entirely flattered when she'd taken the thing out of her beach bag and casually said, "Shall I hang this in the bedroom?"
After what seemed like hours, she came walking out of the water toward him, tall, naked, and gorgeous, her wet black hair sticking to her breasts and hanging nearly to her waist. He held out the robe, and she took it. Turning away from him as she put it on, she said, "Go back and wait for me, in the bedroom. Close the door. I can't stand to look at you right now."
Steve's guts went awash with acid, and, devastated by her harsh words, he did what he'd been told without a word of protest.
*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
This is the sequel to an as-yet unwritten story, however, I have provided sufficient details for it to make sense on its own. The unwritten story takes place a few months after the episode "Love Is Murder." This story takes place several months after that.
The following summary for Love Is Murder comes from http://www.tvtome.com/DiagnosisMurder/season3.html#ep48, and is quoted without permission but with undying gratitude for the hard work and diligent research of the individual who compiled all the information for wannabe authors like me who have trouble keeping their facts straight.
In Love Is Murder, "Steve heads up the investigation when a serial cop killer is on the prowl, while inadvertently [sic] dating the killer."
I have tried to keep the Spanish simple enough for everyone to get it from context, but if you're stumped, or if you really want to double-check me, I suggest going to a Spanish teacher or a native speaker because most of the translation programs I've seen suck. Of course, you could always e-mail me.
*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
Their sweat-slicked bodies slid against each other, and Steve moved faster. He felt the familiar tightening in his groin at the same moment his lover stiffened. He moaned, she screamed, and they fell off the precipice together.
Several minutes later, she mustered the strength to roll over on her side and snuggle back against him. They lay spooned together, warm, and content.
She sighed. "Oh, Steve. ¡Qué bonito!"
"Mmmmm, Lynn."
He felt her spine stiffen as she went rigid in his arms. Hastily she rolled over and moved away from him. Clinging to the edge of the bed, she said his name again, in a much different tone. Angry, demanding, confused, hurt. "Steve?"
He drew his brows together in a confused frown, and finally opened his eyes to look at her. Jet black eyes stared warily out of a lovely, delicately formed, olive-skinned face.
*SHIT!* His heart stopped as the curse ricocheted through his brain and shredded the blissful clouds that had formed there.
"Maggie, I--"
Slender fingers hushed his mouth. The very fingers that were tracing trails of fire on his skin moments ago now felt ice cold.
"Don't you dare say another word!" Her voice was tight, controlled, pissed as all hell.
She lay beside him for a moment panting, though clearly not from passion this time. Steve could see her nostrils flare slightly with each breath. Then she rolled off the bed, deftly taking the comforter with her even as she left the sheet still covering him. He slid over to her side of the bed and sat up, catching her wrist to keep her from leaving.
"Mags--"
Fire landed on his left cheek. He saw stars, heard bells, tasted blood.
"¡Hijo de puta!"
She grabbed her robe and slipped out the door before he realized he'd been slapped or translated the epithet.
Steve sighed. She was right; he was an SOB. He'd met Margarita Sara Oviedo Hyman about three months after he'd been forced to shoot Lynn Conklin. He'd been at the bank, thinking of Lynn and regretting what had happened as he waited in line to straighten out an error on his statement when all hell had broken loose. The lovely Latina infectious disease specialist for the FBI had dived to the floor at his side and enlisted his help to stop the robbery. Then she'd proceeded to give him full credit for making the bust just to get out of doing the paperwork. She'd said she was in the process of switching jobs, and didn't want to get tangled in any loose ends at the FBI.
When it was discovered that the robbery was just a small part of a larger operation, her supervisor had held her to her thirty days notice and made her investigate. Captain Collins had gotten permission for Steve to work with her on the investigation, and Steve had found they made a good team. He was still an open wound when they'd met, sad, angry, and a little afraid to trust any woman with anything; but somehow, through patience, good humor, remarkable competence, and absolute honesty, Maggie had gotten him to trust her. They'd been friends while they worked together on the case, but when it was over and she started her new job teaching interns and treating patients at Community General, Steve had decided he wanted more.
At first, Maggie had been reluctant. He hadn't told her much about Lynn, but she seemed to know he had been deeply hurt. Though she didn't really believe he was over Lynn, she had allowed him to woo her, and finally, tonight had been their first, and regrettably probably their last, time together.
This was supposed to have been a weeklong vacation for both of them. His dad was out of town at a conference, and they were going to spend their days at the beach house, sunning, surfing, and well…they hadn't made plans for the evenings. All through dinner, he knew, and delighted in the fact, that it had been Maggie smiling at him and giggling. When they sat in front of the fireplace and split a bottle of wine after dinner, and when they made their way to the bedroom after that, it was all Maggie. As he lost himself in his own arousal and climax, he got lost with Maggie, but as he basked in the afterglow and wandered into the edge of that blissful dream world, it had been Lynn's image hovering in his mind's eye.
He was definitely an SOB.
He found his boxers and pulled them on and went out to the living room to talk to her. She was stalking back and forth in front of the doors that opened onto the beach, her long, tanned legs repeatedly peeking out through the folds in her robe. Moving with catlike grace and ferocity, she reminded him of a jaguar. He knew her reflexes to be just as fast and deadly, so he kept his distance.
She warned him off anyway.
"Fair warning, gringo. If you don't want to be picking teeth out of your stool, you'll stay beyond arm's reach."
In spite of himself, Steve felt hopeful. 'Gringo' was her pet name for him, and he couldn't believe she'd be using it if she were about to walk out of his life forever.
She was smoking a cigarette. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. He'd seen her smoke once before, on the steps of the bank after the robbery. She told him then she knew it was a filthy habit and she'd nearly quit, but about once a month her nerves got the best of her and she had to have just one. She took a last deep drag and threw the butt into the fireplace. She was still exhaling smoke as she drew the pack out of her pocket and, hands trembling, lit up another. Apparently, what he had done was more upsetting than getting shot in the ass in a bank robbery on her way to a job interview.
He tried to talk to her using words she'd taught him.
"Querida…"
She lashed out with the first thing that fell to her hands. It happened to be a baseball from his little league days. The first homerun he'd ever hit. He turned away from the missile as it hurtled toward him, and it thudded painfully off his left shoulder blade. He grunted at the impact and sighed as he heard the ricochet shatter glass and knock over only God knew what. His shoulder throbbed already. She had a hell of an arm.
Steve couldn't help but be a little amused. Though she hated stereotyping with a passion, Maggie herself fulfilled almost every stereotype there was about Hispanics. She was hot tempered, loved spicy food, and had a passion for baseball. She enjoyed tequila, Corona, and sangria; and occasionally took an afternoon siesta. She played one hell of a classical guitar, and now he also knew, she was phenomenal in the bed.
And she'd feed him his testicles with a spoon if she knew what was on his mind right now.
He tried again.
"Corazón…"
This time she threw a book.
"Maldito gringo. ¡No me hables!"
"Huh?" His Spanish lessons hadn't gotten that far yet, but he didn't think it was good.
"Don't talk to me."
"Oh."
He watched in silence as she paced. Finally, he could take no more. He decided to risk it.
"I never made love to her."
A potted plant came sailing through the air at him, scattering dirt across the living room as it went.
"You just did, cabrón."
Steve sighed and nodded. Yes, all right, he was a bastard too.
Misinterpreting the gesture, Maggie went ballistic. She yelled some unintelligible curse at him, threw the door open, ran out onto the beach and down to the waves. At the edge of the tide, she shucked her robe and disappeared, naked, into the Pacific. Steve was several yards behind her, and she was out of sight in the dark water by the time he got there. He picked up her robe and clutched it to his chest.
"Maggie!!!!"
"Shut up!!!" Her voice carried back across the waves.
"Maggie! Come back in! It's dangerous out there in the dark."
"No! I can swim, and I'm not talking to you any more right now."
"Maggie!…Maggie?…Dammit, Maggie, come back in….Maggie!"
Steve stood at the water's edge for several minutes, calling out occasionally and getting no answer. He was worried sick. It really was dangerous on the water at night, and he knew there was no way he'd find her in the dark if she suddenly needed help. Finally, he went to sit on the dry sand above the high tide line, clinging miserably to her robe. He buried his face in it and inhaled her scent, spicy and exotic, a heady mixture of tropical scents, sandalwood, musk, and something distinctly Maggie. He'd been a bit surprised when she'd brought it with her tonight; neither of them had mentioned her spending the night. Still, she was a woman who knew her own mind, and he was entirely flattered when she'd taken the thing out of her beach bag and casually said, "Shall I hang this in the bedroom?"
After what seemed like hours, she came walking out of the water toward him, tall, naked, and gorgeous, her wet black hair sticking to her breasts and hanging nearly to her waist. He held out the robe, and she took it. Turning away from him as she put it on, she said, "Go back and wait for me, in the bedroom. Close the door. I can't stand to look at you right now."
Steve's guts went awash with acid, and, devastated by her harsh words, he did what he'd been told without a word of protest.