Chapter 14

It's been two weeks since McCall sacrificed her relationship with Mitch to devote her time and attention to Hunter. She hasn't told him that Mitch is gone — his things cleared out of her house and the engagement ring he had given her placed back into its black velvet box and packed away somewhere amid Mitch's ties and belts — and he hasn't asked. She is at his bedside day after day, and that tells him all he needs to know.

She feels like she finally knows what it was like for Hunter nearly two years ago when she spent months in the hospital after being shot in the back — always coming and going, trying to spend time with Hunter as he rests and recovers, while at the same time trying to answer the Dinah Franks' suicide or homicide question.

"Hi!" McCall says cheerfully as she enters Hunter's hospital room. Gloria is still here. She has been by to visit him every day, but she's rarely here this late in the evening.

"Hello there, darling," Gloria replies as she walks over to hug McCall. McCall would generally consider herself an affectionate person, but Gloria takes it to a whole new level. Instead of being annoying, though, she finds it rather comforting and familial. "We were expecting you hours ago."

"I know. I got caught up at work."

"What's going on?" Hunter asks quickly. Not being involved in police work, stuck in a bed for days on end, is killing him. They spend most of their time together discussing McCall's cases, and she's happy to oblige.

"I brought in Musgrave for questioning. Three of us, and six hours, and we got nothin'. This guy may be the tightest lipped suspect I've ever interrogated."

"What did you find to bring him in on?"

"Remember me telling you how close Musgrave and his sister are? That she seems to take care of him: getting him jobs, he's lived with her off and on, she's the cosigner on both his car and his apartment?"

Hunter nods his head impatiently.

"I've spent some time digging into Kristin's life and found that she spent two months in a mental institution back in high school…immediately after her best friend committed suicide."

"So why are you questioning the brother and not Kristin?"

"Well—"

"Okay, okay, enough shop talk!" Gloria interrupts, waving her hands in the air just in case her words weren't enough. "I can't wait any longer. You two can talk about murders and suspects after I'm gone."

"Can't wait for what?" McCall asks, glancing back and forth between them.

"Well tell her!" Gloria exclaims when Hunter doesn't immediately start talking.

"Will you give me a chance?" He may be feeling better, but his irritability is rising. The exacerbated look he gives her makes McCall smile — it's a look she knows well.

"Sorry! I'll shut up know, let you talk." She covers her mouth with one hand and motions to him to begin with the other.

"I'm going home tomorrow. Finally get to fly this coup."

Unsure what this means, McCall gives a cautious "okay."

"And I'm also starting treatment with Dr. Patel."

"Oh," she says in surprise. "That's great. Dr. Patel, I liked him. I liked him a lot." McCall has taken it upon herself to seek out alternative doctors and treatments for Hunter's lymphoma. He's been largely unresponsive when she tells him about her findings, but he hasn't stopped her either. Apparently he has been paying attention after all.

"Well, he's not the doctor I would have picked, but…" Gloria trails off holding her arms up in a gesture of "it's out of my hands."

Hunter nods his head, acknowledging that he's indeed heard her protests already. Watching his mother, he explains her frustration "It's the riskiest. Experimental."

"Right…right, but he's had a lot of success. I think it was the right decision," McCall offers. She watches Gloria — taking in her tired eyes, her knitted eyebrows, the way one side of her lower lip keeps disappearing behind coffee-stained teeth for a quick nibble. How difficult it must be to watch your child suffer, to know that they will leave this earth before you do. It's hard to imagine that at some point Gloria held a tiny Hunter in her arms, cuddling him close and soothing away his tears. McCall can understand why, in her mind, no risk is worth taking. Experimental isn't good enough when you still see that helpless babe crying "mama" in the face of your grown son.

McCall holds out her hand for Gloria to take it. From her seated position, McCall's hand is almost level with her face and she presses their conjoined hands to her cheek like a hug.

"If this one doesn't work, we'll try another." McCall asserts, her focus on Hunter. He ducks her attempt at making eye contact, but gives her a begrudging nod of his head, thereby giving his approval of this makeshift cancer-fighting alliance.

XXXXX

The transition home and beginning the new treatment is tougher than anyone could have expected and the new treatment is no friendlier than the original chemotherapy had been. Daily McCall fears Hunter reaching his limit — calling it quits and waving the white flag. You win, cancer, I call uncle. I'd rather take my chances with Saint Peter and the pearly gates.

McCall has basically moved into Hunter's guest bedroom. At first it was just a night here and there, she'd be too tired to drive home or worried that he might need help during the night, but as more and more of her things litter his guest bath the reasons to go home are fewer and fewer.

The Dinah Franks' case is still unsolved, much to McCall's frustration. This case, along with the Michelle Clark case, may just be her biggest failures as a homicide detective. Both women's deaths were staged as suicides and they were both connected to Eddie Musgrave, but try as she might McCall has not been able to connect the murders or nail down a suspect, not even Eddie Musgrave himself. It's not that she can't do her job without Hunter, or without any partner, these just always seem to be the cases that get the shaft when Hunter requires all of her attention and energy.

McCall's inability to remain focused on work, her uncharacteristic lack of discipline and devotion are a source of frustration for Captain Devane, as well. Tensions have swelled, leaving McCall feeling even more isolated with Hunter officially on long-term disability.

It's a Friday night and McCall would love nothing more than to go home and soak in her bathtub, in her bathroom, in her house, until the water's cold and her fingers resemble prunes. But, Hunter started a new medication on Wednesday that has made him sicker than a dog, so instead of much needed rest and relaxation she is headed to Hunter's condo for a weekend of nursing care and laundry. Lots of laundry — she can't remember the last time she washed a load of clothes. She even had to hand-wash a pair of underwear last night just have a clean pair to wear today and she's hoping Hunter still has a clean t-shirt she can borrow when she gets there.

As she walks into his condo the place is dark and stifling. He's taken to running the heater at 82 degrees, unable to knock off the constant chill left behind from the chemo and the fact that he has no body fat or muscle tone left for insulation. She finds him attempting to raise himself from a chair and she runs over to help him, noticing the green hue to his face. He tries to wave her off, to get her away from him, but it's too late. McCall's gray suit, the only one clean enough to wear, is soiled before she even realizes what is happening. Without as much as a blink she helps him to the bathroom.

Once she gets him settled in the bathroom, she tries to clean herself up, but it's hopeless. Instead she finds a pair of her jeans and pulls out a plaid button-down shirt from Hunter's closet. He indeed has no clean t-shirts. Since she's in his closet already, she decides to sort the clothes in his hamper and get that mountain of laundry started. His phone rings as she contemplates how she ended up in a situation of handling Hunter's underwear and it seeming normal.

"Hunter residence," McCall answers.

"McCall, it's Charlie. We've got a DB in Sherman Oaks, I need you here ASAP."

"I'm off duty, Captain," McCall says, assuming the captain has his days confused. Now that Hunter is no longer working, she has returned to working her normal Monday through Friday shifts.

"I'm aware of that, Sergeant. I expect to see you here pronto," Charlie commands.

"But wait, Captain, I just got a new case two days ago. I can't be up again."

"Well, perhaps, if you could find time to actually solve a few cases and get a few murders off the streets you wouldn't have so many cases on your desk! The Chief is up my ass with speculation of a serial killer and my supposedly best detective seems to have forgotten how to be a detective! Now, do you think you can follow a command for once and get your ass here before I have to start pulling badges?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Charlie says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Though Charlie's accusations sting, it's his comment about a serial killer that sticks in her head the most. "Um, sir, serial killer?"

There is a long pause before Charlie's reply, but she can hear the hum of the chaos in the background so she knows he has not hung on up on her. "It's another strangulation made to look like a suicide. The MO is the same as the Clark and Franks cases."

"I'm on my way."

XXXXX

McCall has shown up to crime scenes wearing all kinds of attire from sequined cocktail dresses and full-length opera gowns to shorts and a t-shirt, but faded jeans and Hunter's favorite brown plaid dress shirt has to be an all-time low. It's not until she's weaving her way through the crowded crime scene and notices the stares from the other cops that she realizes which shirt she had quickly slipped into. He's probably worn this shirt twice a week for as long as she's known him. Although, the length of the shirt on her is probably a dead giveaway of it's rightful owner anyway.

She arrives in time to see the body being carried out and loaded into the medical examiner's van. She takes her time as she checks out the bedroom of the modest suburban home where Kimberley Snead had been found on the floor of the closet underneath a pile of clothes and hangers. The rod must have broken when the step stool, now lying on its side several feet away, had been kicked out from under her feet. It's unlikely there had been enough force to break her neck before the rod broke.

McCall continues to walk through the house looking for hints about Kimberley's life, checking out framed photographs, listening to messages on her answering machine and searching for any signs of forced entry. She's standing in the kitchen, noting what appears to be a to-do list on a small wall-hung chalkboard when she overhears her name.

"Did you see McCall when she walked in?" a man's voice asks, making no attempt to be quiet. He obviously has no idea McCall is just around the corner.

"Yeah. Wonder what she and Hunter were up to?" Another man replies and snickers. "There's only one reason a broad ever puts on man's shirt."

"I wonder if he calls out 'partner' or 'sergeant' while he's fucking her?" Both men laugh, one of them sounding like a seal as he attempts to hide his chuckles.

Cute. Real cute.

"You know she was engaged, right? I heard he dumped her because of Hunter."

"Exactly what do you two idiots think you're doing?!" Captain Devane's voice explodes into the room. "What part of that conversation has anything to do with your jobs? I don't even know why you're here at all!"

"Sir—" one of the men interrupts.

"I'm not done!" Charlie yells.

McCall takes a couple of steps toward the kitchen doorway, just enough to be able to see Charlie and the two uniforms he's dressing down. Charlie's face looks as though it's on fire. Not a whisper can be heard as all eyes have turned to witness the exchange.

"Who is your staff sergeant?"

"Ruiz, sir. Sergeant Ruiz." Laughing Seal answers, looking down at his feet instead of Charlie. His laugh matches his appearance: small head and large waist.

"I never want to see either of your faces again! You hear that?! Ever! You disrespect one of the best detectives in this department and expect to keep your jobs? Not on my watch!" Charlie screams, poking the overweight, aging officer in the chest. "You don't have a clue what you're talking about. You want to spread some rumors? Huh? Spread this: talk trash about a fellow officer dying of cancer and his partner who is a better cop in her sleep than you will ever be and you will never wear a badge in this town again." He continues with a sneer so grimacing he's practically growling, "Get out of my crime scene. Now!"

Both men scurry out of the house like scolded puppies with their tails between their legs, while Charlie places a hand against the wall as if he has just expended every ounce of energy he has. His nails claw at the drywall and McCall swears there is actual steam coming out of his ears.

The need to run and hide from all of the eyes looking right at her, all of the open mouths and unspoken accusations, is trumped by momentary paralysis. Her feet seem to have sunk in concrete because they will not move no matter how many times she tells them to.

"We have work to do here, gentlemen. Move along." Barney's voice breaks through the white noise ringing in McCall's ears. She's never appreciated the grumpy ME more.

XXXXX

"Captain?" McCall asks as she walks into Charlie's office with an update on her newest case. They haven't spoken since his outburst several hours ago and she's a little nervous about what his mood might be.

"Hey, McCall, come in," Charlie says with a slight smile.

"Um…sir…you didn't have to come to my defense like that. It's not the first time a woman officer has been heckled by the idiots in our ranks, and it won't be the last. I can handle it."

"But you shouldn't have to."

"Having my male superior defend me doesn't really help, though," McCall says sheepishly, focusing on the papers in her hand rather than him.

"I did lose it a little bit there, didn't I?"

"Just a tad," she says as she gestures with her fingers, her thumb and her index finger demonstrating about an inch of space between them.

"You and Hunter are like family to me. I might yell and scream at you two, but nobody else gets to damn it."

McCall smiles and lets out small laugh.

"But maybe you should wear your own clothes to work from now on?"

"I didn't really have an option, sir. It was this or what appeared to be cherry Kool-aide and carrots."

Charlie scrunches his nose and rubs his hand over his mouth when he figures out McCall's insinuation.

"Maybe I was a little too hard on everyone tonight," he says. His head is bowed but his eyes are focused squarely on McCall making sure she understands that he means her as well. McCall shrugs off the apology. "Times are tough right now for all of us. There's…it's…," he sighs, trying to find the right word, "it's heartbreaking seeing a member of the family in pain."

"Yeah."

"You know, I've been thinking about Ambrose a lot lately."

Lieutenant Finn's unfortunate death shortly after his wife's battle with a terminal illness last year is still felt around the precinct, but never spoken.

"Yeah, me too. It's like I know how he felt now. What he must have been going through with Sheila."

"Yeah."

"I guess a little piece of me understands how he just snapped. The world just seems so unfair, and you're just so…helpless."

"I know how much Rick means to you. I do. But I'm worried about you. I don't want to see you lose yourself in his illness. You and Rick, you both have a pretty large support system around you. Let us help you, because, Dee Dee," he pauses until McCall meets his eyes, "where he's going you can't follow. Don't sacrifice your life here, you're going to need it when this is over."

XXXXX

"Hey," she says softly, rubbing Hunter's shoulder to wake him.

He startles at the contact before relaxing when he realizes it's her. "Hey," he whispers. "What time is it?"

"It's after nine. Go back to sleep; I just wanted to let you know I was here."

"No, no, stay." He rubs his hands over his face and gingerly pulls himself up a little to lean against the headboard. "I just laid down to rest a few minutes."

She nudges her shoes off, letting them drop onto the floor, and settles into the bed next to him. "We finally got Eddie Musgrave for the staged suicides."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He finally made a mistake. A neighbor across the street from this latest one saw Musgrave walking around the house, thought he looked suspicious, so she wrote down the license plate number."

"I've told you before — you have to find the little old lady."

"Right." She smiles. "Kimberley Snead was a receptionist at a psychologist office back in the seventies…when Musgrave and his sister were patients there. He seemed to have kept tabs on her over the years. Shortly after he stopped receiving treatment at that office she had filed a restraining order against him after she saw him following her through a grocery store, but nothing ever came of it."

"So what made him kill her after all these years?"

"We haven't gotten there yet. Not specifically. All three of these women, though, have similar physical characteristic. Same hair color, skin tone, similar body type. And they all, also, look similar to Musgrave's sister's best friend who committed suicide in 1976. Eddie was fourteen, and apparently he had a crush on this girl and she picked on him for it. I think we have a shot at nailing four counts of first-degree murder on him."

Hunter lets out a low whistle. "Think there's any more victims out there?"

"Hope not. His sister is talking — says her parents suspected Eddie had something to do with her friend's suicide. That's why they sent him to a shrink. She lost touch with him for a long time, but they reconnected about three years ago and she hired him on at her bar to keep tabs on him. You and I ran that MO down months ago — if there are others it's not likely they are in LA. But, there's still a lot of unanswered questions."

"Tough week for you."

"Boy, yeah. How about you? How're you feeling today?"

"I was feeling pretty good earlier. I walked down the street and got some fish tacos."

"Good!"

"I brought some back for you, if you're hungry."

"Thanks. Maybe later. I ate with Charlie. But that's good, though, that you got out."

"When I got there I had to sit down and rest before I could even order the food like I was an 80-year-old man. I had walked two blocks. I used to run five miles before work every morning. I could bench press 225 pounds. Now, I can't walk two blocks to buy myself food."

"Your body is using all that strength to fight the cancer. You'll get it back," McCall says reassuringly. She insists on being optimistic, no matter what the doctors say.

"I hate this. I hate what I've become. My life isn't my own anymore. The cancer rules it. My doctors run it. I have to be taken care of like a child. I'm not a man anymore. When does it end?"

"You're still a man."

"Yeah? Some women came into the restaurant while I was sitting there catching my breath. Bikini tops and short shorts, you know." He gestures with his hands indicating the women's generous assets. McCall rolls her eyes and places her hand over his to make him stop. "A year ago I would have left with all of their numbers. Today? They didn't notice me and I didn't have the energy to care."

"That will come back, too."

"It's not about the girls. It never was. It was fun — the attention, the flirting, the game. There's no joy left. Every day is just about not dying."

She sinks down into the bed until their faces are merely inches apart. "I've been very selfish. I think we all have. I'm so worried about losing you that I'm not actually seeing how much you're hurting. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm glad you're here. I've had a lot of time to sit back and think about my life. I can't complain. It's been a pretty good one. But it's been better knowing that I've mattered to someone."

"Of course you've mattered," she whispers and cups her hand around the back of his head, the smoothness of it where there should be hair feeling odd to her fingers.

His eyes close at the contact, and noticing the involuntary response, McCall softly runs her thumb back and forth across his scruffy cheek. Regular shaving went by the wayside months ago, hiding the dimples that he had so often used to charm his way into the harts of so many women. He smiles now at the new sensation, and she's able to uncover a dimple beneath her finger. She's reminded of the times he caressed her cheek when she was the one on her deathbed unable to feel anything from the neck down. The human touch, the warmth and tenderness in it, had felt like heaven. It had been such a small gesture on his part, but had been the most amazing sensation to her — sending waves of warmth through her otherwise cold body. She had never told him the pleasure she had taken from his touch during that time, but she had been eternally grateful for each and every one.

It occurs to her that this man, used to having physical contact with women regular and often, hasn't had any sort of relationship beyond her in a year, and that relationship could at best be described as affectionately plutonic but definitely not intimate.

"Thank you. For being my partner," he says quietly, his eyes still closed in his small moment of pleasure.

She runs the tips of her fingers down the side of his face, and hearing a low, contented sigh from him, she does it again. "Thank you for asking me."

"Best risk I ever took."

She inches herself closer to him, and with her palm pressed against his cheek, she touches her lips to his. She's not sure exactly what she means to do, why she wants to kiss him. His rough, dry lips are unexpectedly different from the last time she had felt them against her skin, but when he doesn't jump at the contact she lets them rest there. When his hand cups the back of her head to keep her there and he presses his mouth harder against hers, she realizes that he might feel different but the man and the desire are the same.

It feels like the kissing continues for a lifetime, his lips now softened from the moisture and her face raw from his five-day beard. Her hand has found it's way inside his shirt, softly rubbing up and down the length of his back, just as her body has found it's way up against his. Where warm skin was once stretched across hard muscle, she now finds loose folds draped over angular bones like a cold tarp attempting to protect the framing of an abandoned house, and she feels the need to wrap her body around him to keep him warm.

His arms are wrapped around her back holding her close to him, making her feel protected and safe just as she's feeling the need to care and protect him. He's out of breath when he pulls his head away, his breath hot and forceful against her cheek.

"I don't know if I can do this," he says between pants.

Her hand stops its reciprocating, but he holds tight when she attempts to pull away.

"Not for lack of wanting. I promise," he says and then he pulls away form her to roll onto his back, his one arm still stretched out underneath her. "I'm not sure…I don't know…if everything still…works."

The weight of this admission is not lost on McCall and she watches him as he refuses to look at her. "That doesn't matter. Whatever happens or…doesn't." She leans into him and continues the kissing, which doesn't take much convincing for him to kiss her back. "We can figure it out."

He shakes his head, "No. You should probably leave before this gets embarrassing."

"Shhh. I've had you when you were healthy and strong, and it was great." She waits for him to finally make eye contact with her. "This is something completely different."

...to be continued...

A/N: A quick note of thanks to my awesome beta reader. You have been such a big help the whole way, but your work and patience with this chapter deserve a special shoutout. So thank you.