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.
She's Not The One With A Getaway Box
By thrace_
She can't keep doing this. Lindsay thinks it every time she wakes up in bed with Cindy and stealthily pulls on her clothes. She never spends the night, because that would mean something, and Cindy would expect things from her and would probably try to bring her breakfast in bed and cuddle.
She tries to cuddle already, always right after they collapse onto the mattress in a post-orgasmic haze. And Lindsay lets her, for a little while; lets Cindy pull Lindsay's arms around her so that they're loosely spooning, lets her twine their fingers together and trace patterns on Lindsay's palms. Lately she's even been drifting off in the warmth and comfort of Cindy's bed, only to wake up at progressively later times and force herself to leave.
She's been coming to Cindy's apartment for months now. The first time Lindsay had felt like she was doing something wrong; the girl—and she was a girl—was too young, too eager, too much. But she had been there, in Lindsay's apartment, inviting and pretty and just...smooth. She's so smooth and soft all over that sometimes Lindsay likes to run her hands from Cindy's shoulders to her breasts and hips, to her legs and feet and back again. And that first time, fresh off a month-long case that had left her trembling with unspent rage in the precinct bathroom, Cindy had been so understanding and solicitous of her feelings that it nearly made her cry. And she'd been convenient.
It's not convenient when Lindsay goes out of her way to clear evenings, to find a way to meet up with Cindy in a bar or at her apartment. It's also not convenient when Lindsay has to interrupt what could be a good night's sleep to go back to her place. She never brings Cindy back to her place, not since the first time, because she would have to kick the girl out of bed, and she doesn't have the heart for it. She would let Cindy stay, and then...the ick.
She feels Cindy breathing slowly in the circle of her arms, a deep and steady sound to override the late night (early morning) traffic outside her window. She's such a solid sleeper, which is perfect for escaping undetected. Inch by inch, Lindsay pulls herself away until she's lying free on her side of the bed.
Her side. She has a side—she's always on the right side. Cindy sleeps on the left, even without Lindsay. Lindsay noticed the sheets were pulled back only on the left the first time she was over, and that the mattress carried a little more sag there. Cindy needs to flip her mattress, but it's a big king-size bed. It's almost too big for her bedroom, an indulgent piece of furniture that Cindy likes for its sheer decadent size. She leaves her laptop and her notes spread out all over the bed while she works, piles and piles of information to register and categorize.
Lindsay sits up on her side and nabs her underwear with her toes, drags them across the floor and slips her feet into them. She pulls them on without standing, a quick lift of hips, and then she's searching for her jeans. They're at the foot of the bed where she stepped out of them. She picks them up, shakes them out gently, pulls them on too.
Her bra and shirt are in the living room, where Cindy pulled them off. They'd already been pulling at each other's clothes as they'd banged through the front door; Cindy, happy to see her, and Lindsay, needing some solace. She finds the clothing on the couch, dresses herself in the half-dark living room. There's a streetlight right outside of the windows that glows dull yellow.
Socks and shoes next, not far from her gun and badge, which sit on a table next to the front door. And last of all, her jacket, the smell of takeout in the precinct and a hundred crime scenes beaten into the leather.
She checks her cell phone: no messages. She doesn't expect any at this hour, unless Claire's working late and has a breakthrough in an ongoing investigation. Jill once drunk-dialed her from a bar where a group of ADAs were celebrating a case, but it was a one-time thing. She checks her phone again for the time; it's almost two-thirty in the morning. She catches herself debating the merits of driving home for four hours of sleep or just staying here. She has a change of clothes at the precinct.
Suddenly there's a loud honk outside—some impatient asshole at an intersection. Linsday winces; a few moments later, she hears her name drift out of the bedroom. "Linds?"
She walks back to stand in the doorway. "Hey," she says.
"Hey," says Cindy from her prone position in the bed. "Leaving?" There's a whole conversation in the way she says the word.
Lindsay fiddles with the hem of her jacket. "Yeah. I've got an early start."
"You can sleep here if you want," mumbles Cindy, still a little bit asleep.
Lindsay doesn't answer.
"Or not." She sighs, which turns into a yawn, which turns into a drawn out "That's oookay."
Something about Cindy's sleepy resignation draws Lindsay to the bed. She sits on Cindy's side, strokes her bare shoulder. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Don't do me any favors," she says, but she's smiling.
Lindsay smiles back and, overtaken by the moment, leans down to press a quick kiss to Cindy's shoulder. "Only if you stop asking me pesky questions."
"My questions are never pesky," says Cindy.
"Go to sleep," says Lindsay, and stands up. "I'll see you tomorrow."
It's chilly outside and she zips her jacket up to the neck. She sits inside her car, turns on the engine, and proceeds to hesitate for the next fifteen minutes. She can't go back inside. She can't keep doing this.
Slowly, she pulls away from the curb and drives home.
The End