DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: for “To Drag and to Hold.”
Bubble Wrap
By TexasWatermelon
You're letting go. That's what you tell yourself. Tom let go today. He said the words: I do, till death do us part, and every other fairytale line that little girls dream of hearing. He let go. So you can let go too.
You're not really sure when exactly "letting go" meant sitting around at your house drinking until you start to feel warm and a little dizzy, but as you down the last drop of beer number five you find you really don't care. Jill and Claire have already left- it has been quite a long day for Jill, you admit, and her situation is just a bit more pitiful than yours. You don't really mind drinking alone anyway.
Except, you're not alone. Not yet, and truthfully since Cindy Thomas' little red head popped up over the cubical wall during the Theresa Wu case, you haven't been alone. At first it was kind of annoying. Now, it's just expected. It makes you feel uneasy if she's not there. Lord knows what kind of trouble she might be getting herself into.
It looks almost wrong, you think, watching her pop the top on beer number something as you take your first sip of beer six. You feel like you're supplying alcohol to a minor, which is made worse by the fact that your gun and badge are sprawled across the coffee table, discarded as soon as you got home. They seem to be glaring at you, glinting in the low light of the living room. Or maybe that's just the beer. You're not quite drunk, but another few and you will be. It would be better for Cindy if she weren't here by that point.
The reporter is actually strangely quiet, deep in thought you assume, and you take the opportunity to examine her a little with your Heineken-tuned eyes. She does look young; younger than you and it makes you feel kind of old. But she also looks… almost wise. She knows things, more than you give her credit for. Even still, you feel like her protector, like she's a package and you're the bubble wrap trying to keep her from getting broken or damaged. You kind of like being her bubble wrap, but you feel like each second she spends with you is another opportunity for her to burst one of you bubbles, to knock down one of your walls. And she's good at it. You hate that about her. But you secretly love it.
"Can I ask you a question?" she asks suddenly and you sigh because you'd rather she didn't, but you nod to her anyway. "If Heather really is right and you really are moving on, then why are you sitting here drowning yourself in beer?"
She's not using her inquisitive reporter voice like she does when she's asking a question to fill that sucking magnetic vortex of information that you imagine her mind to be. She's using that slow, soft, caring voice that lets you know that she really does worry about you, which is strangely comforting. You don't need her protection, but the fact that she tries is adorable in a way. Still, you were quite content with ignoring the fact that your methods of "moving on" are very similar to brooding, and you have no good answer for her question.
So instead you snap: "And what would you suggest, with all of your infinite wisdom in this area?" Harsh, harsher than she deserved, you know, but she doesn't seem put off by your snippiness and you're thankful.
"You could go out, try to have some fun for once. But since I know you wouldn't dream of that, you could at least talk to me. I'm not here for my health, Lindsay. I'm trying to be a good friend," she says earnestly.
"You are a good friend," you relent with another sigh. "I just don't want to talk about it right now… maybe not ever."
"Then we don't have to talk," is Cindy's reply, and suddenly she's out of her chair, crossing the room, confiscating your beer. Before you can protest, she's straddling your lap, and the move is so startling that you're not quite sure what to do about it. She's looking at you with dark, serious eyes like her determination has finally caught up with her and she's not taking no for an answer tonight. When she kisses you, it's hot and slow, and it makes your already heavy eyelids feel like lead. You think she tastes a little like beer, but your own mouth is so sticky with it that you can't really tell, but you know there's something just a little bit sweeter underneath, like candy and cherries and cream, things that you think Cindy should taste like. When she pulls away, you know this is wrong; she's too pure for you and if you screw things up, there'll be nothing good in your life.
"Cindy, we can't do this," you tell her, though the heaviness of your breath and the tingle in your groin says different.
"Why not?" Cindy asks indignantly, frowning at you like this is most obviously the one thing that you should be doing. That's when you realize that you can't really put your reasons into words, and if you do, they'll sound completely ridiculous. But for her sake, you try anyway.
"You've been drinking, for one. I don't want to take advantage of you," is the first thing you say, and you agree with yourself that it definitely is ridiculous. She seems to agree too, by the look on her face.
"Lindsay, I've had two beers. I'm not even close to drunk. You, on the other hand, have had six beers, and are an emotional wreck at the moment, so if anything, I'm taking advantage of you," she points out. Not that you mind. It's kind of sexy that she has the upper hand right now, actually.
"You'll get hurt," you tell her seriously. Cindy looks a little taken aback by this, like she can't really believe it, but then she seems to find something offensive in the statement and scowls.
"That's not your problem," she argues, and you raise an eyebrow at her. She takes a deep breath and her face softens a little. "I'm not a little girl, Lindsay. I can take care of myself," she says quietly, and as you look into her eyes, you realize that she's not lying. You can't believe that this is the first time you're noticing how grown up she really is, how she's completely capable of making her own decisions. She wants what she wants, and you haven't known her to back off of something yet. And truthfully, you want this too. Scratch that, you need this.
You need her.
After you give her a small nod, she smiles, one of those beautiful smiles she has that used to make you think of a little kid on Christmas morning, but now it makes you think of a truly happy woman. She leans in again, and this time you're ready for it, but just before her mouth touches yours, she stops and whispers against your lips: "And sometimes, I can take care of you, too." And then she kisses you so softly that it almost makes you want to cry. But you don't. Not tonight. Not with her.
The End