Hmmmm... It's been a long time, I gone and left this, without a dope beat to step too, step too, step too... I had to go there.

But fuck it's been ages since I posted to this place. The writing has been off and Darth Real Life has been rather prominent. And... well, anyway, on the prowl for some fics and thought I'd post something anyway. Something original that I jotted down in the car while sitting in traffic this one bright and hot-as-fuck afternoon in my new city bound digs. 

I dreamt again last night,
of seeing you here,
A cool amass of physicality
warm and weighted under
the skin of my fingertips.
This nightly image serving
as a constant shrine of
you to me.
Only in darkness do you seek me.
Only in darkness do you reach me.
Only in darkness do I
blaze alive in flaming, living glory.
Brought so with the curve
of your smile,
The comely vibration of
your voice,
The sultry promises made
clear in your gripping eyes.
My living dream,
Always with me in mind,
Only alive to me by the night.
Now I've come to yearn
for your nightly vision
in the blurs of my daylight.

This is hardly a decent return. I still strive for one of those. But it never was a leave in first place. Must return here more often and check these circles out again. *smirk*

Just a quickie to acknowledge the all important 21st celebration of birth of a very dear LJ friend of mine. Someone who keeps me on my toes with their awesome story plots and chapter teases. Someone who knows the south side of the hemisphere in the great land of Oz as well as I do. Someone who is so completely smitten with a fandom I mutually share that our email convos are so much more enjoyable for that.

To Sophiemae, AKA Fireangel, AKA Katrina!

On this, your twenty first, which is kind of actually tomorrow as I wirte this but there's no harm in getting to things early, now, is there, I wish you an awesome day devoted solely to you by all your friends and family. Make many wonderful, hazy-as-hell memories. Make much chaos and mischief and mayhem as is approrpiate on all twenty first birthdays. But most of all, enjoy the day as yours and please accept my warm well-wishes to a new friend who has become such a wonderful source of fandom gushing, a fiction-writing supporter, and all around interesting person to conversate with.

Make lots of memories!

Live no regrets!

Forgive me if any of this comes off as reeking quite pungently of cheese. *smile/wink - or as I like to call it, a swink*

Many birthday wishes and tasty birthday treats from the madness of

Angelfire.

So I'm watching the box this one, ordinary, dull as fuck night in the middle of July - which is Winter in the land of Oz and therefore undesireable and cold - and this bloody ad for the new season of Australian Idol comes on. I'm bored. I'm thinking, god, another fucking year of Idol. Of semi-good to good singers on the box, singing the occassional good song, butchering nearly all of the great ones they think they can wrap their lips and lungs around. Yay! Another hour of the box sucked into the ether. An hour where if I'm particualrly desperate, I might sit down to see if there's any real talent on it.

Previous alumi of the show don't necessarily speak highly of the potential the show is meant to utilise and sky-rocket. I mean, the first year, when it was all new and we were like, oh my god did you see Australian Idol this week and did you hear this one person sing this one song and be like dot, dot, dot... we got two pretty good singers at the end of it. They were good for the show they were on. But seriously, what the fuck has Idol winner Guy Sebastian done since his first album. (Maybe he has done something but I just don't like him. Not enough to care if he has achieved something other than Idol winning in the least.) The Idol runner-up, Shannon Noll, has more bloody hits than him and even he has pretty run-of-the-mill bloody songs. Then we had Casey Donovan, winner, who we have yet to hear another song from and Anthony Callea who's gone into the world of theatre because, granted that his songs were kinda catchy, no one has it in them to listen to The Prayer, his best vocal performance, every fucking day for the rest of their lives. And don't even get me started on the Diva's. Or whatever they're called.

(It seems like one must think I have a hate on for Idol. I don't. I really don't. I'm just waiting for Australia's Kelly Clarkson to come on the show.)

Anyway, jumping off the OT Express, I'm watching the box and an Aussie Idol ad comes on the telly. It's got a room full of singers. Some look pretty promising. Then BANG! Bloody. Fucking. Blown. Away. Not just by potential talent. But at the sight of one of my oldest mates, and I'm talking old here. I'm talking growing up in the same hood, running 'round like rats since we were like five, went to school together from Kindy to Year 12; that kind of old. But one of my oldest mates just happens to be on this ad, grooving her chops off to the kinda lame song the Idol producers made them sing. But then this fiery young blitzer of a singer can get her voice around any lyric and make it sound smooth. And that's talent.

So I'm blown away by my old mate, a bloody brilliant singer and that's not just the bias talking, singing the shit out of the Idol song, among a hundred others that rounded out the Top 100. I'm thinking, fuck yes, now I'm excited. In the middle of July I was hoping August would get its rush on so I could see her groove and smooth and blues her way into the Top 100. Alas, my hopes were not answered and August was a shit month. Totally beside the point.

The show comes on, she sings the shit out of her songs, manages to rightfully earn a place in the Top 24 to duke it out on telly so the audience can vote for her to join the Top 12. Last night, she was a wildcard selection for the show. And tonight, proud and with fingers crossed, I got to watch one of my oldest mates join the Top 12 of Australian Idol. Not only that. But she was the first wildcard selection, by the judges, who are all eating out of herpalm by now. This by no means is not her only peak in an awesome singing career. She crooned and blues'd all the way through High School. She's been overseas for her voice. She's done and seen and experienced a lot for her to get where she is. And if the truth should be known, I've never thought she needed Idol to get her to where she wanted to be.

But fuck me am I proud to see her numbered as one of Australia's Top 12 singers for this year's season of the show.

And I honestly think she could take 'em all out, one by one, as the weeks whittle on down to the last two singers. Because really, half of  them are all cutesy like and can't really sing like a pop-artist should. And nobody wants anything remotely cutesy like out any kind of respectable pop artist. Particularly one who I strongly beleive only got voted in to the Top 12 because he is quite a beautiful looking boy. BOY being the operative word here. BOY as in he's got a few more years for his voice to mature and grow. BOY as in all the twelve to sixteen year old girls voted for him because he knows how to wrap his pretty-boy lips around a shitty boy-band song.

But boy, is Roshani Priddis going to rock his - and their - fucking socks off. Not to mention the rest of the country. Nay, the world, as she sings her way to total Billboard 100 domination. It's just going to happen.

So, being that I've spent a good ole few paragraphs talking about her, I suppose I must show pictures. Yes I do have a couple of them. But most of them are group shots. Therefore, there are other people populating the pictures. Therefore, I will also post the address to Aussie Idol so anyone who knows and loves their music, might just boogie on over to hear her and see her sing the song out of the judges and audience alike. (Totally one of those shows where they have footage for streaming straight after airing.)

But I'm going to put up the best/respectable pic I have of my dear, blues blaring, groove groaning, bell-chiming over a still, clear lake singer of a bloody good old mate. (Yeah, let's see that syntax make any kind of sense, whatsoever.)

Roshani Priddis, the world is now your entree. Go slow. Save some room for the main meal, my old friend.

(From Left: Roshani, Gill, Sarah, Amanda, Sam, Miranda, Me, Laura.)

So, group photo. Here's the deal. We're all dressed to the nines. Very rarely will this ever happen again. Sometimes, there is just no occassion. But, on the far left, like the charismatic singer that she is, is Roshani, deep blue dress and bright white smile. One of the coolest people you will ever meet. One of the most mellow and down to eath people that you will ever meet. She's soul, right down to the ground. And I honestly couldn't picture her any other way.

So if anyone's curious, here's the website for Aussie Idol. Have a check around for her, see if you can't catch one of auditions or performances.

www.australianidol.com.au/Roshani-Priddis-profile.html#

So, Roshani, old friend, not that I think you particularly need it, but it won't hurt anyway, you get my best wishes and any kind of luck I can scrape from the Karma gods and the Lords of the Vocal for you and your time on the show. I'm more bloody curious about the songs you're going to to sing than about the rest of the comeptition. I mean, really, boy-band wannabes with a few jazz-like modus pop crap nothings ain't going to be keeping this funk and blues and groove singer from reaching for the gods of all things vocal and song-minded. I'll be seeing you in the Top 2, crashing your preparation at the Opera House come the end of the season. Because I just know you'll be signing at that Opera House. And breaking into the place would just be way more fun. Congrats and luck and wishes of well.

This has been another tasty toast - one of praise for change - and a cut off the jib from Angelfire-08.

I kind of don't know why I'm posting this. It had been my intent to make the next post a definite Chapter Three to The Courtship of Lindsay Boxer. Unusually, the chapter I am diligently working on is being a particular brand of "C" word to work on. I'm so not happy with the many hundreds of starts I've had to make, and now that I am happy with this new start, there has been little to no time to fully pan out this start. Utter. Fucking. Frustration. Writing is a very focused release for me and without the necessary release writing brings for me, I end up a very broody and unhappy  little fucker that ends up doing stupid fucking idiotic things. Case in point: one bandaged hand, in a particular vein of 'Cindy Thomas style' bad luck one in the same hand I fucking write with; unattractively skinned raw knuckles which I'm sure will end up adding to the plethora of scars on my hands; the inability to clench a proper fist; the utter humiliation of not being able to twist off the tops of all bottle glass-like and a definite hold on my ability to type really really fast.

So, the point, is that I have a good few pages of a chapter I am so fucking intent on finishing, and after scanning through my saved pictures of all things Women's Murder Club, because I was looking at certain stills for inspiration, I found this little ditty I did up a little while ago that made me smile. So I thought I'd share. I am in no way an artist of wallpaper/icon-making/internet-artwork caliber, yet I really want to learn how to do that. And this isn't so much a manip as something I thought of when I first saw this picture as a potential blooper of the show. Speaking of bloopers, anyone know of any Women's Murder Club bloopers floating around out there in cyberdom? Anyway, I'm thinking I might start posting these pictures I have, with funny, or not, little imbued quotes thrown in for the measures of momentary entertainment. If you are so moved, then allow your opinions to flow. But if any of you have any idea about how to Photoshop/GIMP pictures into wallpapers, banners, icons, avatars, what have you, and you feel I could use some tips, or website addresses which teach me how to be better at this, then I'm all eyes, ears and fingertips to learn. Either way, this is me just screwing around while I work hard, hard, hard, on a new chapter and a brand spanking new story idea for Lindsay and Cindy in all things WMC-universe.




I don't know, I just thought of something like that happening the minute I saw this picture. And I giggled. Which is something I don't often do, so that means something. Either way. I know there are other icons out there with this image. One in particular about Cindy submitting to a rule about Lindsay being able to touch those. It's fucking hysterical. And I'm thinking if there's no where else but my livejournal to be juvenile, then SO BE IT.

(Side Note: must stop watching Pump Up The Volume.)

Just another tasty cut of the jib from Angelfire-08.

(Side Note #2: must make text bigger.)

Hmmm... I've been thinking about this all day. Should I? Shouldn't I? Is this really necessary? Blah, blah, fucking blah. Well, I'm sitting here with a belly full of grog, including a fine Cognac I sweet-talked into getting cracked open, and I'm wondering/thinking well fuck it. You're only twenty one once, you know. And I probably won't do this when I turn twenty two a year from now. And this is me just blowing off some well-earned steam from what had been a rare, great, brilliant, amazing fucking day. So I feel it's worth a mention.

Hence, I'm actually doing a Birthday Shout Out to me. It's a bit sad. But I have the urge to post. And this is certainly not standard procedure. But thus I am doing it for my best mates, so it is good enough for me. So, I turned twenty one today. I don't feel like I'm any kind of adult. I am certainly not happy that my immaturity get out of jail free card has been officially revoked. But yeah, twenty one, it is important, so people have told me, and I feel for once I can mention it here. Plus, I feel kind of accomplished. Twenty one. It's got a certain ring to it. A pinache, if you will. It's a little more official than eighteen. I know when I turned eighteen I was lucky if I could walk straight let alone type properly. It's just something... I don't know. More, maybe? Anyway, I turned twenty one today; I am official 1987 vintage and very fucking proud of it.



And I'm using this image as a representation of my future plans of world domination. It's all falling into place... slowly, carefully, steadily...

Anyway, twenty first Birthday Shout Out to little old me. I'm a fucking adult now. Still don't feel like one. This may be a cause for concern in the near future. But that's something I'll think about later. Right now, it's WMC and blockbuster movies and best mates and a weekend off this weekend. I must have lucked out with the karma gods on that one. Anyway, this is enough. It's the cherry on top of what has been a fucking awesome day. Here's hoping that my twenty first year is the kind of year that when you remember it in the future, the memory is one of those seary, haze-type things where it's all just one big moment. Like a year long moment. We'll leave it for twenty two for me to grow up.

Just another crazy cut of the cake from Angelfire-08.

The Courtship of Lindsay Boxer.

By Angelfire-08.

Rating: R to NC-17 for scenes of fluffy wooing, sickly romance, perhaps some inappropriate and hopefully hysterical comedy, possibly some bad words, and lastly, sweet seduction. Angst may also rear its ugly head.

Fandom: Women’s Murder Club.

Pairing: Cindy/Lindsay.

Timeline: Let’s say, after episode 1.13. And also, that there’s not so much fiasco with the Kiss-Me-Not killer; just some fallout and such. Nor Pete. In fact, Lindsay and Pete never went past their two weeks and Lindsay didn’t see him off at the airport.

Genre: Romance/Comedy.

Spoilers: Everything up to the last episode.

Disclaimer: Lest we forget, I, as a fanfic writer, don’t own anything to do with Women’s Murder Club. But this stuff is mandatory. I don’t wish to make money off something that isn’t mine. I just write to suit myself. And the term starving artist was coined for a reason.

Author’s Note: My first foray on many accounts. I hope its smooth sailing. I hope some small spark of enjoyment is derived from my offering to the WMC fandom gods. Anyway, this idea struck me in the middle of a nine-hour shift at the bowling alley where I work when I was in desperate need of an imagination vacation. Continuous exposure to tenpins getting slaughtered by fourteen-pound bowling balls; who’d have thought it could insight inspiration? That and I may be just a little bit insane. Works for me. Enjoy… I hope.

Chapter 2: Remedies of the Wise, All-Knowing Sage. 

“Welcome to the dog house,” the reckless lead crime reporter, Cindy Thomas, mused evenly to herself.

Her reflection in the Homicide Department’s bathroom mirror agreed wholeheartedly. Two red-rimmed eyes, one of them blue and colouring straight to black, took in the developed damage her mug shot had alluded to last night, and stirred a sigh to whoosh as gently as possible from her sore, stiff, and aching abdomen. She was a sight alright. And she felt like shit. But what happened to be bothering her the most at such an early hour of a new San Francisco morning wasn’t her condition or the overnighter in the holding cell. 

What was bothering the ever-curious reporter was waiting outside the bathroom door: a vision of leather and jeans and boots and dark, wavy curls. And caramel. Leather and caramel. She’d never noticed it before this morning, and Cindy suspected it was the result of her new, heightened awareness of all things Lindsay Boxer. But this morning, in the light of a new day and a fresh Inspector Boxer yanking her unceremoniously out of the holding cell, Cindy had discovered that Lindsay in the morning had the unmistakable aura of leather and caramel. It was a combination she should have noticed before, she thought, but given that it had suddenly revealed itself to her now, she was glad she hadn’t. Noticing beforehand would have been a warning sign to imminent trouble as subtle as an avalanche. Noticing now was the kind of revelation that tempted her curiosity into wondering what else she hadn’t noticed about the woman she now found herself gooey over.

Wait, gooey? 

Surely that wasn’t the best she could do in an effort to describe it…

And yet… 

There was that headshake of self-ridicule she was waiting for. She was one, full-blown step away from pathetic. And she was so off topic of her original line of thinking. And, good god, she was gooey. Gooey all over for leather and caramel and the woman who embodied it standing, no doubt impatiently, outside of the bathroom waiting for her.

Was there ever going to be a moment in the very near future where she didn’t think she was going to be fucked… and not in the good way? 

Another sigh, bringing with it a first class ticket on the train of pain, broke past her lips, stinging the gorge carved into the bottom one, and blew cool against the surface of the mirror. What was bothering the ever-curious reporter was the fact that sub-zero temperatures had penetrated her skin, seeped into the very marrow of her bones, and was refusing to let her go at the reception of Lindsay Boxer. The Inspector’s shoulder couldn’t be any more colder than that of an Artic winter. Cindy shivered hard, and not pleasantly, at the thought.

So she’d tuned out of Lindsay’s savage, rage-induced rant the night before. So what? It wasn’t like she hadn’t been barraged by various other versions of it. And it wasn’t like she did it on purpose. More mind-grabbing and life-affecting revelations were occurring to her, agreeably at the most inopportune moment, but occurring none-the-less. Was it really her fault that she hadn’t received the message Lindsay was so graphically trying to expound on her? Was it really necessary for the woman to give her nothing but ice and glares and hard, crushing grips on sore, upper arms as she dragged the bothered reporter from one place to another? 

When the bathroom door was thrown open with a most unnecessary force, Cindy answered  those questions with a hard, guilt-induced yes. Her forehead came into contact with the smooth, cool glass of the mirror as the weight of the Lindsay Boxer doghouse settled well and truly on the shoulders of the unapologetically ambitious reporter.

“Get comfy, Cindy,” she whispered very softly to herself against the surface of the mirror, fogging briefly with each exhalation from her aching ribs. “Looks like it’s going to be a long stay in the rain.” 

“It doesn’t take fifteen minutes to pee and wash your face, Cindy! For Christ’s sake, what the hell are you doing in here?”

Suspicions confirmed. 

The dogged lead reporter wished she had energy enough to muster up some kind of emotion in the vein of annoyance or frustration. But she just couldn’t seem to do it. It might have been the result of no sleep mixed with aching limbs and sore muscles. Cindy was more inclined to think it had something to do with being ambushed by that intoxicating and sinful combination of scents she’d discovered before. Either way, the conclusion was this: Lindsay was still royally pissed in addition to the ice lacing her voice; a fact which wasn’t about to change in any concept of the near future.

And Cindy? 

Well… gooey made a reappearance in the swirl of her mental blank and the sudden lurch into spin-cycle her stomach decided to take. That, and the Lindsay Boxer doghouse suddenly felt a hell of a lot more un-fucking-comfortable than before. A dreamy little sigh from between her lips at the sound of Lindsay’s voice, and the protesting of her ribs at the love-conscious action, might have had something to do with it. Cindy couldn’t be too sure in this current state of mental atrophy. The only thought that was conscious enough to make any kind of dent was the hope that Lindsay hadn’t heard that little exhalation of breath.

“Am I going to get a god damn answer or are you going to be as oblivious as you were last night?” 

From yelling to growling. Cindy Thomas was on a one-way trip to the fiery pits of Lindsay Boxer hell if she didn’t gain some kind of control on her verbal faculties. It really said something, though, that the woman could render her speechless. And again, disgust reared its devil-head at her lack of verbage.

“Thomas, I swear I’m-” 

“I’m finished, Linds,” Cindy cut her off, and surprisingly, with not an ounce of gentleness in her tone. Perhaps she was finally tapping into that pool of annoyance/frustration with the entire situation. “Besides, you’ve released me, haven’t you? Is there any reason why you’re waiting around for me?”

A pair of crackling, dark wells of solid brown turned suddenly rock hard at, Cindy could admit only upon immediate reflection, her thoughtless question. 

This was another thing that could get the reporter into trouble: her ability to run her mouth off without former knowledge of the words circulating in her head was an old and always constant way for her to cement any kind of trouble she could sniff out for herself. Sometimes she wished she could keep her gabby trap shut. But then in a moment of returned annoyance/frustration at the situation, half of that guilty feeling, or maybe at least two thirds, vanished into the ether. To meet Lindsay’s cold shoulder with a frost of her own, perhaps she couldn’t entirely achieve, but she could always fall back on her reliable method of getting under Lindsay’s thick skin and setting off her temper. She’d rather take that, on any day of the week, at any hour of the day, then the blizzard of ice she’d received the first thing upon waking that morning.

And yet the stonewall of dark-as-night-brown showed the reporter that she may not have achieved even that slight reprieve. 

Really, was it too much to ask for lady luck to pull her sorry ass back into her corner for a change?

“Waiting would assume I want to see you right now,” Lindsay snarled across the open space at her. Cindy withheld the urge to cringe, for once, but didn’t summon the decency to pull her forehead from the cool surface of the mirror and face Lindsay’s tongue lashing. “Waiting would stand to reason that I’m only mildly annoyed at the fact I can’t walk into the bullpen anymore without seeing you sitting on the other side of those god damn holding cell bars. Simply waiting would assume I’m not at all the least bit cranky with you, or your condition, or your inability to take any of this seriously. Do you honestly think I’m waiting for you to hurry your ass up so I can send you trotting off back to The Register?!” 

Maybe, Cindy thought, but dared not enunciate it. She finally pulled herself out of her perch over the sink and turned her tired eyes on the reflection of the towering inferno of dark, curly waves. She was a little more prepared for the wow-factor of seeing Lindsay in all her gloriously enraged beauty. God, she was head over heels if the woman’s all-encompassing anger could send her into a spiraling frenzy of gooey-ness. And again with gooey. Cindy really need to get a grip on this love-sickness thing or…

Claire. 

Finally, the return, if only momentary, of the intuitive little reporter she could be. The Force was with her once more.

“You’re making me go see Claire?” Cindy murmured. 

Her tone was flat and monotonous, even to her perception, but the thought of seeing Claire right now, in all her currently injured glory, brought about a mixed reaction of reluctance and salvation. Sure, the woman was going to tear shreds off her for getting herself into such a physical mess. But then it was Claire, and Claire gave good advice, and cleared confusion and uncertainty up like Advil expunged the nastiest of headaches. Which Lindsay was steadily turning into for her if the subtle throbbing growing behind her sore eyes and the lowering temperature of the bathroom were any indication.

“Making you would assume, in some sick and twisted parallel universe, that I trusted you enough to take the elevator all by yourself down to the morgue,” Lindsay returned acidly. 

Okay, so her ability to meet ice with ice was clearly not up to standard. Her inability to piss off the chill of the Inspector was currently laughable. Maybe – just maybe – if she threw in the head-tilt? A lock of red tress fell across her darkening eye as she dared to launch the major weapon in her ‘you-know-you-want-to’ arsenal. Lindsay’s eyes narrowed instantly and Cindy felt quite literally pinned to the bathroom mirror with full, unbridled and absolute unwavering laser vision. Her tender abdomen went taut at the image; her fingers once more started to twitch and itch with the desire to touch something so outright forbidden. And yeah, to top that all off, she sighed… dreamily… again. God, send her to the hospital. She was one o’clock half-struck with the gooey-ness of the ‘IN’ love virus.

Better yet, she should just get her ass down to see Claire. While the risk of enduring gut-wrenching, soul-despising disappointment in the elder woman peaked the heights of Mount Everest, the need for good, calm, confusion-clearing resolution topped out everything guilt-related she was sure to become acquainted with once her eyes found the courage to look back at Claire’s. And maybe, if lady luck could get her ass into gear, maybe Claire could understand? 

The small shred of hope that bloomed to bursting life in Cindy was enough to have her accept the momentary, or at least she hoped it was only momentary, frostiness of Inspector Lindsay Boxer.

“You honestly don’t trust me to get off on Claire’s floor?” the dogged lead reporter asked with a pinch of her good ole’ sarcasm. 

“I honestly don’t trust you to wait in her office for her to get here,” was the swift, and painfully terse reply. “She’s got another fifteen minutes in traffic tops. Another five to get to her office. That gives you twenty minutes to figure out what you’re going to say to her that you obviously couldn’t say to me.”

By this point, her Inspector had stalked her long-legged way over to her side and claimed, once more in one of those patented crushing grips, her upper arm in order to walk her to the elevator. So it was easy enough for Lindsay to ignore the reporter’s hiss as the result of the force with which she’d taken her arm. For Cindy, though, it was the almost undistinguished hint of what she’d put good money on was hurt in the Inspector’s tone, which brought forth that tiny reaction. Could Lindsay be upset, not because of the reason, but because of Cindy’s expert and totally unintentional clamming-up of the subject last night? 

It was food for thought during the elevator ride…

Speaking of food, Cindy’s stomach rumbled with the need of sugary sustenance as an oblivious Uni waltzed by with a chocolate iced, purple sprinkled Krispy Kreme treat wedged firmly between his teeth. Her doe eyes glistened greedily for a morsel, her body instantly floating in the direction of that circular delight in the hope of finding more. Oh, how she could go for some cop food right now… But Lindsay, ever on top of that whole escort-thing, yanked Cindy away with a little more force than necessary and practically dragged her over to the gaping elevator doors. 

The groan of disappointment was unintentional and, Cindy thought, inaudible.

Lindsay’s snide, “Heel, girl,” was not. 

Cindy Thomas: valiantly bearing arms against the first wave assault of the Abominable Snow-Lindsay.

And then the elevator doors were closing with a gentle slide and ever-observant Cindy Thomas realised too late that she was trapped in the claustrophobic space of Lindsay and leather and caramel. 

Oh, Fuck!

Her instinctive reaction was instantaneous. And lest she forget, decidedly primal. She could feel the tiny – imperceptible to the human eye – sweat droplets start forming at her temples. That sinful scent invaded every sense she possessed. She wondered if her eyes had glazed over with the stupor that had fallen on her highly aware perception of the world around Lindsay Boxer. Her breath, growing more laboured, was steadily pulling on all of the sore muscles located anywhere in the vicinity of her aching ribs. And god damn it if she couldn’t control the sudden tremble that had assuaged her bruised and scraped hands. All because of that pungent… delightful… entrancing… leather… caramel… 

Her mouth watered. Literally watered at the intoxicating aroma. And that was when she knew she was in the express lane heading straight for trouble-city.

Oh, please, please, please let this not be the longest elevator ride in the history of elevator riding, Cindy silently prayed to the deities. Her preference had been to the ‘Love’ one, but she’d settle for any who would listen. Because lord, help her, if she didn’t get out of that tiny, little, suffocating, space… 

Her doe eyes, the traitorous little things, slowly turned until Lindsay was all that she could see. And what a sight to couple with that potent, sinfully delightful scent. Lindsay with her trademark jeans, boots, dark button-down and leather jacket; her tall and lean silhouette and with those long waves that were just dying to have her writer’s fingers run softly through them. And all of it mixed with that fucking scent. Really, could Cindy Thomas be blamed by a court of her own peers if she happened to say, jump, the unsuspecting Inspector? Was it really any fault of her own that she lacked an iota of self-control?

The chime of the elevator and the opening of those gaping doors really couldn’t have come any sooner. The minute the cool air of the lower floors swept into the open space and swallowed the remaining shred of all things leather and caramel, the frustrated for an entirely different reason reporter gulped, very loudly, and mentally breathed a sigh of relief. The bodily action wouldn’t do her any favours at the moment and it was better not to incite anymore chill from the woman dragging her down the hall. 

The rustle of keys and the various ‘clicks’ and ‘clacks’ of turning locks signaled an end to Cindy’s torment of being in the presence of such tempting fare. For now, at least. But it was with life-affirming clarity that Cindy knew this thing, this gooey-ness, this harbouring of deep and searing affection for one, Lindsay Boxer, was only going to get worse the more she was exposed to the cause and the more time she spent doing absolutely nothing about it. However, this small burst of reprieve? Was nothing short of what she definitely needed to calm her raging, riling nerves and the resulting, itching urges to touch… caress… grab… rip open. And at that, she just had to slam hard on the door of those dangerously gooey thoughts.

So she wasn’t too offended – much – when a sharp barb was tossed her way by the problem in question – 

“Sit and stay, Cindy! If I see Claire later and she tells me she hasn’t seen you… Need I spell out what I will do to you? Or where Jacobi and I will bury you?”

– before the office door was rammed closed, and locked Cindy heard with more than a little insurgent indignation, and a clomping of the boots spoke of the retreat of ice-monster Lindsay. 

Alone and unsupervised in the sanctum of the Chief Medical Examiner, sitting on a roiling stomach for two very different reasons, a bout of mischief seized the over-tired, injured, dogged lead reporter of all things crime. It very briefly occurred to Cindy that her best option available right now would be to sit and wait, as patiently as an impatient reporter could, for Claire to arrive. It also occurred to Cindy that sugar was needed if she were to stand any kind of chance of drumming up the courage she felt she needed in order to meet that woman’s gaze and talk. Harmless mischief clearly won out. Grabby hands, sore, stiff, and whining from all kinds of movement, went in search of that skull in Claire’s office. It was no Krispy Kreme. And it was certainly was no form of wake-up drink. But the treats she swindled from the elder woman’s morbid candy-jar were enough to seat her in good stead for the kind of conversation she was daring to embark on and quell any future tummy rumblings of the hunger oriented kind.

And Cindy wasn’t thinking at all about ridding herself of the Lindsay Boxer induced tummy rumblings. 

Twenty minutes later, to the second, the sound of locks ‘clicking’ and ‘clacking’ brought her attention to the arrival of club-member number two.

Cindy Thomas: suddenly gripped by the idea she was facing yet more trouble. Her red-rimmed doe eyes widened with the intake of a stabilising breath before they closed in time with the door to Claire’s office. Her hearing picked up the elder woman’s quick footsteps and the gentle, inquisitive mumbling of a rhetorical question. 

“I wonder why my office smells like a holding cell?”

Sheer affection kept any offence the comment could wield well and truly outside of the box. Cindy tried valiantly to withhold the resulting smile, hissed when it didn’t work, and thanked the powers that be she had chosen not to greet Claire face to face as the woman came into her domain of all things ‘Medical Examiner’. 

“Hmm. Smells like she’s been in the holding cell. Looks like she’s been in the holding cell. So Cindy Thomas must have spent the night in the holding cell,” Claire voiced in a tone which, the reporter was sure, would have set club member number one off into a dizzying rage the likes of which she so effortlessly caused. That, and the tone spoke of the woman holding entirely too much information to just know nothing about the situation.

“Sorry,” Cindy returned, infinitely dreading what she was about to do next. “Didn’t think the ‘inside’ would leave itself on my outside given I was only in there – what? Eight or nine hours.” And with that, she turned to face Claire Washburn, Chief Medical Examiner, a friend beyond the level of best, the unrepentant mother-hen, and promptly grimaced at the look that instantly coloured the elder woman’s formerly affectionate gaze.

“Cindy, what in the hell-” the immediate cringe at the bark of concern broke off Claire’s question and instantly changed the track to song number two. “Sweetheart, let’s get you over here so I can fix you up.”

And lady luck finally pulled herself back into the game. 

A thankful sigh, no less pain inducing but relief bearing, worked its way past her split lip and Cindy allowed herself to be directed to the chair nearest Claire’s first aid kit. The Medical Examiner took her time surveying the injury-laden reporter, disapproval warring with a curiosity that damn near rivaled hers. So Cindy decided, against all of her concerns and better judgment, that she was going to be an honest little Polly and sing the tune to which her healer asked of her.

She had one card up her sleeve, one card that could serve to trump any negative reaction garnered by what her big mouth was about to communicate. She chanted a few deep, painful breaths, summoned up her sugar-charged courage, and immediately chickened out as Claire brought a cotton-ball swathed in alcohol straight to the split in her lip. 

The move had come so far out of nowhere that it was an honest, knee-jerk reaction to yank her head away and feel tears water her sore, red eyes.

“It’s got to hurt to heal, honey,” Claire soothed with her ‘I’m a mother of two with a surrogate third’ tone. “And I thought I’d start with the one that would sting the most.” 

“What? You couldn’t warm me up to it?” Another knee-jerk reaction; this of the verbal kind.

Claire raised one sculpted eyebrow in that ‘I-know-best’ manner which only women who had borne children had the right to possess and express. Cindy had no leg to stand on under that powerful look and promptly crumpled. She did her best to grit her teeth even though she had to relax to allow Claire to do what she was doing, bravely raised her chin, and fought back that nasty hiss when the cotton made contact again. She felt the alcohol wet her lower lip as it sought out the impressive gorge, stinging its way through the split and killing off any and all germs. She forced her eyes to clear when they glistened again. She wasn’t sorry for how she ended up in this mess. And there was no way on this earth that she was going to cry. She wasn’t going to confuse Claire into thinking she’d made any kind of mistake last night. 

For two minutes, painfully longer than their allocated sixty seconds, Cindy kept her gumption and let Claire do her work.

After that, it was all about the cuts on her cheeks, the bruising, the scrapes and cuts on her hands, how painful it was to breathe; each and every obtained injury. Claire asked her where it hurt repeatedly and Cindy conveyed honesty every time. With one club member pissed off at her, she wasn’t about to tip the scales out of her favour, particularly when it was this club member she really needed to talk to. 

“You wanna tell me, willingly I might add, how you got this banged up?” Claire asked, gently examining the darkening eye with careful fingertips. “Or you wanna tell me why Lindsay left you in the cells last night, then proceeded to blow my ear drums out in her spit of a rage?” 

Cindy’s curious gaze widened at that slip of the tongue. She knew it. What’s more, Claire knew she knew it; knew more than she was letting on.

Then again, why wouldn’t she? Claire was the keeper of everyone’s problems, misunderstandings, confusions of all flavours. When you wanted to bang out a hypothesis, or a lead, or the basis for a story, you went to Claire. When you needed to hear the absolute truth about something you were happy not to know about, so clearly involved in the self-denial process, you went to Claire. When you had to expound misplaced rage and clear your head for the sake of your own sanity, you went to Claire. 

When you had to confess that you recently discovered, at the most inopportune of moments, at the most agitated of times, that you were desperately, inexplicably and absolutely bonkers-mad in love with a mutual best friend, and you weren’t sure what in the hell you were going to do about it or how your other friends would react to it, then you went to Claire.

And in Cindy’s case, she being clearly of the last example, you hoped to god Claire didn’t kick your ass more black and blue than you already were. 

Though given the resounding silence from a question that Cindy knew Claire not only wanted, but expected, an answer to, the possibility of getting that ass kicking was gaining more and more potential every second that went by without her voice spilling all the contents of her jumbled thoughts.

“There might have been a misunderstanding on my part,” Cindy murmured, voice hoarse with ninety percent resilience to the sting of her split lip, and ten percent fear of Claire’s reaction to the answer. 

“I believe the words Lindsay used were stubborn, oblivious, and something about you saying it was a ‘reception problem’.”

“It was for a good reason,” Cindy hastened to defend herself. 

“Honey, there’s no reason in the world to ignore Lindsay when she’s trying to impress upon you-”

The reporter couldn’t handle the rebuke anymore than she could handle the disappointment so clear in the M.E’s warm and caring gaze. So she cut her off, brave in the action, though wary at the abrupt jarring of Claire’s calm tone. 

“Trust me, Claire, it was for a good reason. I just… I couldn’t help it. I found myself dealing with something I never expected would hit me while…” she trailed off momentarily, gently shaking her head as if to settle the upheaval of her thoughts. Self-directed sarcasm burst into colourful life when Cindy picked back up again, her head down even though her gaze hadn’t broken from Claire’s. “Any other time. It could have been any other time. But no. I just had to realise the most important thing I’ve ever realised while simultaneously getting dressed down in a room full of busybody cops and traitorous Homicide Lieutenants.”

Rant finished; rewind and take a deep, soothing, and painfully stabbing breath. Yeah, she just couldn’t stop forgetting her ribs were functioning on restricted movement. 

“You know the cosmos is laughing at me, don’t you?”

Rhetorical, she knew Claire knew, but the woman could help but comfort her with an answer and a smile anyway. 

“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.” Cindy raised one shoulder carefully, shrugging a one-armed response to compliment her words. 

“It’s certainly not a bad thing,” Claire voiced softly. “What is bad is this bruise you’re going to have for the next couple of days. Quite the shiner you’ll be sporting. And I’m going to have to wrap those hands of yours.”

“I can still type with bandages,” Cindy dared on the quick-draw, which drew some chagrined amusement from the woman fixing her up. 

“You’re two of a kind that way, you know.”

“What?”

“Never mind, honey,” Claire spoke to herself and quickly turned the spotlight firmly back on all things dogged and crime reporter related. “So what had you distracted enough to zone out on Lindsay in enraged-cop-mode?” 

And there it was.

The one thing Cindy knew she had to talk to Claire about was typically that one-in-the-same thing she was absolutely terrified to breathe a word of. Oh yeah, she was all about walking-fucking-contradictions. But so far this morning, minus everything that had gone on upstairs because, in Cindy’s mind, that just didn’t count, lady luck was slowly but surely getting her ass back in Cindy’s corner. And Cindy hoped, with her very soul, that it would help carry her through this next bout in the ring. 

Because Cindy Thomas was all about laying down her trump card straight up.

Her red-rimmed doe eyes scrunched together in a look she was positive expressed sheer fucking uncertainty, and, with not a little bit of fear, Cindy tensed to bite down on that bastard of a bullet making a muddle of her insides. 

“Do you remember the night in Papa Joe’s where, amidst the flowing cocktails and discussion of the Emily Sherman case, I was inducted into what has since then been so emphatically not a club?” All in one breath, rushed, worried, and instantly grabbing one hundred percent of Claire Washburn’s curious attention.

“That’s not a night I think any of us have forgotten,” Claire clarified, taking a moment to stop working on a suddenly fidgeting reporter, and fold her arms against her chest. “I don’t think there’s a one of us who could picture doing this – what we do –  without you, you know? Not anymore.” 

The smile that brought to Cindy made her feel a little less like she was about to dive head long into the snake-pit. Only a little less, though.

“You said, you know, as your ground rule, that I should keep your secrets and trust you with mine.” 

“I think I remember saying something about shoes, too,” Claire smiled in remembrance.

Cindy lowered her head, teeth desperate to sink straight in her bottom lip if only there wasn’t already a fucking gorge running through it. She felt her hands start shaking with the weight of her confession, her breathing hitch, gut churning viciously along with the droplets of sweat reforming at her temples. Claire must have noticed at least one of the many things malfunctioning with her because the M.E’s hands were quick to gently cover her own. 

“What is it, Cindy?”

It was utter motherly concern that Cindy just couldn’t ignore. So much so that she found her voice just blurting it right out there. Her mouth opening of its own volition, vocal chords completely disobeying any order silently screamed from her brain, and her voice, stronger than she thought it should be, the only sound in the office of Claire Washburn speaking of what had kept her in stitches since late last night. 

“I’m in love with Lindsay.”

Dead. Fucking. Silence. 

A tumble weed literally blew through that office in a very western movie way before Cindy found her roiling guts and drummed up that sugar-charged courage to meet Claire Washburn’s eyes. And when she did, well… if the universe could just stop with the sucker-punches for a while because really, it was mere agony to breathe right now, let alone handle that kind of blow. Yet that was exactly what she got when teary-eyed warmth and a gleaming happiness reflected right at her from warm pools of brown that had always been laced with genuine motherly affection.

Cindy Thomas: taking stock in the fact Claire was, a) not going to kick her ass and, b) not disappointed in her at all with that confession. 

Claire Washburn: astonished and… high-fiving various versions of her pleased imaginary selves because Cindy had finally come round to the party.

Seeing that kind of reaction, feeling it, reveling in it even, gave Cindy Thomas the actual, non-sugar-charged courage to repeat what she had so gracelessly blurted out a full sixty seconds ago. 

“I’m in love with Lindsay,” she breathed, even, calm. “It dropped on me like an ACME cartoon safe the moment I looked up at Lindsay last night and she vaulted off into her rage-induced rant. And I didn’t hear a god damned word she said because… because…”

Sweet fucking Christ, where was a thick, endless and adjective-packed thesaurus when she so obviously needed one to articulate the beauty of the moment, the reality of the situation, the sheer fucking awakening of all her senses as if they’d never seen or known the world before. And that’s what made it all the more real to her: that she, Cindy Thomas, lead reporter of all things crime, reputed for her ability to nab the Register’s front pages above the crease, someone who shouldn’t so easily lose out on words, could be reduced to speechlessness because she was in love. 

And Claire Washburn, sage-like in her wisdom, knower of all the little things, catcher of the small gestures, was simply, unequivocally satisfied with Cindy’s revelation.

“Because you were too busy comprehending how you could have gone so long without noticing how you felt.” 

Well, when Claire put it like that, and so much better than anything she could have come up with in that moment, Cindy had little choice but to agree with the elder, far more wiser, woman before her.

“And I can agree with you wholeheartedly: you zoned out for the best of reasons.” 

Icing for the already gooey cake that was Cindy Thomas.

A shared smile, or half of one for Cindy, was expressed between the two, until a brusque interruption grappled both women’s undivided attention to Claire’s office door bursting open. Claire’s smile only widened at the visitor, eyes cutting between Cindy and the blonde bombshell that looked more bombed the shell-shockingly beautiful at the moment. Cindy, on the other hand, noticed nothing but that same bastard case file that had been waiting on Lindsay’s desk last night clenched tightly in the hands of ADA Jill Bernhardt. Club member number three had entered the scene stage left and she looked absolutely not thrilled to see Cindy. Until she actually took a moment to see Cindy… and Cindy’s injuries. 

A jump and sickening skip in the track brought everything back to song number one.

“A Bar Brawl?! What in the hell were you thinking, Cindy Thomas?!” 

At those words, Claire’s warm pools of happiness dimmed to darkened anger. All memories, both fond and misty-eyed, from before the untimely interruption, evaporated like the M.E’s good humour. Cindy gulped in surprise-mingled fear and began to back away from the double-team.

The cosmos couldn’t be so cruel as to destroy her just as she’d discovered her desperate, inexplicable and absolutely bonkers-mad love for Lindsay Boxer. Could it?

Then again, it was apparently laughing at her.

The Courtship of Lindsay Boxer.

By Angelfire-08.

Rating: R to NC-17 for scenes of fluffy wooing, sickly romance, perhaps some inappropriate and hopefully hysterical comedy, possibly some bad words, and lastly, sweet seduction. Angst may also rear its ugly head.

Fandom: Women’s Murder Club.

Pairing: Cindy/Lindsay.

Timeline: Let’s say, after episode 1.13. And also, that there’s not so much fiasco with the Kiss-Me-Not killer; just some fallout and such. Nor Pete. In fact, Lindsay and Pete never went past their two weeks and Lindsay didn’t see him off at the airport.

Genre: Romance/Comedy.

Spoilers: Everything up to the last episode.

Disclaimer: Lest we forget, I, as a fanfic writer, don’t own anything to do with Women’s Murder Club. But this stuff is mandatory. I don’t wish to make money off something that isn’t mine. I just write to suit myself. And the term starving artist was coined for a reason.

Author’s Note: My first foray on many accounts. I hope its smooth sailing. I hope some small spark of enjoyment is derived from my offering to the WMC fandom gods. Anyway, this idea struck me in the middle of a nine-hour shift at the bowling alley where I work when I was in desperate need of an imagination vacation. Continuous exposure to tenpins getting slaughtered by fourteen-pound bowling balls; who’d have thought it could insight inspiration? That and I may be just a little bit insane. Works for me. Enjoy… I hope. 

Chapter 1: The Love Induced Sucker-Punch. 

Dogged and reckless lead reporter of the San Francisco Register’s crime desk, Cindy Thomas once again found herself booked, cuffed, roughed up and sore-as-hell inside the cramped holding cell of the homicide bullpen. Currently she was the only occupant; a situation to which she didn’t mind in the least. An hour before it had been moments of sporadic adrenaline caused by errant cussing and violent physical outbursts between cellies; she was the only female in a wall to wall mass of rowdy, raging law-breakers with too much testosterone and not enough chivalry to allow her a seat on the sole bench within the cell. Now, appreciatively human-free, she lounged body-length against hard, cold and unforgiving wood, surveying the unavoidable damage she’d picked up as a result of tonight’s misadventures.

The self inspection had started with her hands and had yet to move on. For twenty minutes Cindy was absorbed by the various cuts and scrapes, the dark bruising forming over knuckles and wrists. Doe eyes rested on her palms which rested on an envelope which rested on her tender abdomen. She hadn’t the faintest idea of how she was going to be able to type tomorrow, let alone pick up a pen and write. But she couldn’t begrudge the end result when the process leading up to it would cement her current story its deserved space on the Register’s front page. Not that she particularly went looking for it, but when trouble found Cindy Thomas in her pursuit of an amazing story, she was ready for it. Cindy might go so far as to say she enjoyed it. Not that she’d ever be crazy enough to tell anyone that. 

Three people in particular sprang to mind.

While a fourth made their intrusion known outside her field of vision. 

“Are you quite comfortable, Miss Thomas?”

Cindy bolted upright, grimace of pain included, and sat herself accordingly on the holding cell bench, grimace of pain thankfully excluded in the swift twist of her body. While his tone spoke of nothing but a reprimanding Homicide Lieutenant, the gentle smirk curving his lips and the affectionate, if not exasperated, gleam in his eyes expressed his not quite stern greeting through the thick cell bars impeding her vision. For a moment there, as Cindy adjusted to her new position, she’d noticed that he’d noticed her brief but telling admission of pain. That gentle gleam deteriorated for just a fraction of a second. That smirk fell only slightly. His interrogative stance, which Cindy had observed consisted of his arms folding tightly over his chest, loosened to the point his hand wandered toward the keys dangling from his belt loop. 

With nary a second thought about the gorge lining her bottom lip, she smiled a dazzling smile of journalistic victory, and ignored the hiss that wanted to escape her throat.

“Comfortable? No. But what’s comfort got to do with the kind of hardcore journalism I strive to achieve on a daily basis.” 

She noticed he tried very hard not to chuckle at her quip.

“Besides, what would the Uni’s say if they saw their hardened Homicide Lieutenant show concern for…” she trailed off purposely, wheezing a loud, exaggerated gasp… “A crime reporter?” 

“Scuttlebutt ‘round the bullpen has it that you’re everyone’s favourite crime reporter. It says a lot about you when the general consensus leans toward hating all things journalistic.” Tom paused; eased his tone from teasing to serious. “I think you underestimate your charm.”

“Nuh, uh,” she fired back on the quick-draw. “I’m very well aware of my doe eyed charm.” 

“Doesn’t get you out of trouble, much, does it?”

“Trouble and I? We’ve got a thing going.” She half-smiled and still had to force away the hiss that wanted to wriggle out of her from that small action. 

“So it seems,” Tom ventured on, pacing in small steps. “You’ve spent so much time in here lately we could almost call you furniture.”

The look he sent her way was neither playful nor reprimanding. Cindy pegged it as disappointment and she felt her stomach lurch distastefully at the sight of it. She could take indignation. She could take righteous anger. She could take violent and malignant rage. But the one thing she absolutely detested, the one thing she simply could not bear nor stand to see in another person’s gaze focused on her, was disappointment. Her Catholic guilt took one sniff of it and bled to life at the sight. Cindy had to turn away; her eyes fell to the envelope sitting in her lap. 

Tom’s gaze must have followed hers because what next escaped his mouth referred to her little present from Officer Cho. He’d been in charge of booking tonight and it had been considerably easier to convince him to follow her crazy whims than it had been the other officers during previous visits.

“Whatcha got there, Miss Thomas?” 

Cindy cringed, shoulders stiffening, and hoped that she could hold out against the curious assault. She didn’t want sweet Officer Cho getting a nice, little reprimand for her extremely unusual request. Strong stuff, she may be made of, but no one could resist the kind of ‘laser vision/interrogative probe’ Lindsay Boxer must have taught her ex-husband during their years of marriage. Either that, or Tom had a different kind power over her when it came to wanting an answer. Cindy valiantly held her own against the charge but she felt her defenses weakening under Tom’s consistent gaze.

“It’s just your average, A4 sized envelope, Lieutenant. Nothing special about it at all, really.” 

“Uh huh?”

Her foot was not tapping. It was not tapping! 

“Isn’t that your nervous tick? You know, when you’re lying?” Tom asked with such a smarmy tone – at least Cindy thought so anyway – that she couldn’t help but feel the guilty frown she knew was written all over her features.

Yeah, she was really awesome at the whole information-withholding thing. 

And how the hell did he know about her lie-revealing nervous ticks? She made a note to herself spoke of watching Tom Hogan a little more guardedly in future.

“It totally is nothing special, Tom,” Cindy sighed. She bravely met his gentle gaze head on and that was it. Her resistance crumbled in time with the words falling out of her mouth. “It’s just, I was talking to Officer Cho, and I made this little, tiny comment about maybe getting a copy of my mug-shot, because I’ve been booked, like, eight times now and I just wanted, you know, one copy. And he was really sweet about it. He told me he wasn’t supposed to do something like that because it was a total misuse of resources. But I forced the issue; I totally talked him into doing for me and…” 

“And?” Tom broke in as she took a breath.

“And it’s so not his fault that he broke procedure so if you could just, you know, not reprimand him for it. He’s a really good Officer, Tom, and he doesn’t deserve getting into trouble for something I kinda made him do.” She finished quietly, an injured hand falling to her aching right side. Again, she was reminded that she was certainly going to be sore as hell tomorrow. 

“You wanted a copy of your mug-shot?” Tom asked thoughtfully.

Cindy eased one shoulder into a half-shrug and nodded softly. 

“And poor Officer Cho, who couldn’t possibly be immune to that cute little head-tilt thing that you do, was bribed into obliging you?” was his follow on.

“Cute head-tilt? Okay, I so don’t have a cute head-tilt,” she defended herself incredulously. 

“You know you do, Miss Thomas. Which is another reason I suspect everyone around here’s got a lot of time for you,” Tom explained in his investigative tone.

There was a small, silent pause in which Cindy struggled not to wince from her defeated sigh. So Tom had picked-up on the major weapon in her ‘you-know-you-want-to’ arsenal. She’d have to curb using that nifty little gem for a while; resort to her good ole’ half-smile. 

“Which is why, just this once, I’ll over-look it.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Cindy whispered, truly grateful. The last time she thought she’d gotten the young rookie in trouble, she’d carried the resulting guilt around for a week. “I promise I won’t do it again.” 

“How about you promise that I won’t see you inside this cell again?” he asked gently.

“That’s kinda out of my hands. Furniture and all, you know.” 

The hardened Homicide Lieutenant shook his head in sheer exasperation. His arms returned to their place: folded across his chest in that stance of pure authority. Cindy wasn’t fazed; she purposely threw in her so-called cute head tilt, but coupled it with a widening of her doe eyes and a half-smile that didn’t cause the gorge in her lip to throb in angry resistance. Tom immediately broke his gaze, a smile of his own lighting his features and shoulders shaking with silent, repressed laughter.

“Lord, help me,” Cindy heard him chuckle to himself. 

“You think I’m weird for wanting my mug-shot, right?” she asked, a hint of self-deprecation colouring her tone. Tom’s mirth trailed off quite suddenly as an officer happened by the scene.

“Not at all, Miss Thomas,” he gruffed in-character, eyes following the officer until he was a decent distance away. “Just curious, is all.” 

Cindy was about to give him her explanation. The words were there. All of them thoughtful, introspective, and evidentiary enough to sway any wavering opinion of his into a tenuous kind of understanding. Those words, carefully chosen and expressed, would serve to launch her current standing a hundred steps toward positive. Those words, however, were taken right out of Cindy’s mouth at the roar that bellowed across the bullpen. And it was a literal roar; the kind that froze any sort of movement and drew the attention of anyone that happened to be in the area. The kind that told intuitive Cindy Thomas that she was well and truly fucked… and not in the good way. She felt that roar launch her a hundred and fifty steps back toward the negative. The resulting, loud gulp of surprise-mingled fear echoed so loudly in her own ears, she was certain everyone else in the bullpen had heard it, too. Inspector Lindsay Boxer had returned from whatever leg-work had kept her and Jacobi out on the streets tonight. And regardless of any thoughts about guns, and pockets, and whatever other crazy thoughts channeled through Cindy’s very distracted mind, the woman was definitely not pleased to see her.

Cindy’s arrival to the holding cell had been timely enough to avoid any confrontations earlier in the night. But it seemed whatever kind of luck she’d been in possession of earlier had finally dissipated into the cosmos. And here she thought she was good with the karma gods. 

Apparently not.

“What the hell are you doing in there?!” 

Cindy cringed, visibly; at the words and the resounding clomp of boots on the bullpen floor headed undoubtedly in her direction.

“Again?!” 

As the footfalls got closer, Cindy’s jaw clenched, tight, tighter, and tighter still. Until nothing but bars separated her squinted vision of the leather-jacketed lioness dangerously looming in what the reporter had long-ago coined as ‘free homicide bullpen’. When she’d let the nickname slip the last time she’d been on the ‘inside’, Jill and Claire had gotten her reference to Red Dawn immediately. Lindsay had been too furious at that moment to stop the angry rant that had seized her. Afterwards, meaning after Lindsay had had time to stew and brood and they were all sitting in their booth at Papa Joe’s, the girls had teased her about her age and childhood crushes on what had then been an attractive Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen. Now, Cindy was hard-pressed to believe there’d even be an afterwards. Not if the scowl carved into Lindsay’s features was anything to go by.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Cindy Thomas…”. Uh oh, full name. “What the hell…” Lindsay’s original question briefly trailed off and Cindy, drumming up the courage she needed, opened her half closed eyes on her friend. The urge to shrink into a little, fetal ball had never seemed so god damned tempting. “…Happened to you?!” 

“Hey Lindsay,” Cindy braved, tiny, little wave included. “Thought you’d gone home for the night.”

A collective gasp seemed to penetrate the silence that ensued Cindy’s greeting. The moment, funnily enough, reminded her of this one time in high school: she’d been accused of some grievous injustice to which she’d been wholly innocent. A verbal boxing match had started. Students had encircled them, as students do at the prospect of a fight, and the barbs had been sprouted and parried, each one garnering gasps from the surrounding horde of bodies edging for an upscale into the physical. Cindy had always won those fights because of her superior knowledge of the English language and a savage, detrimental wit. But this was the real world now. And things like that didn’t fly in the real world.  The real world had cops. Cops that didn’t take kindly to minced words. Especially cops that got a little obstruction-charge-happy when things didn’t go their way. 

“Answer the question, Thomas!” Lindsay growled, low, fierce, threateningly.

Again, Cindy gulped loudly. Her mouth moved to form words, words that would explain, but the tone seemed all wrong for her. It was too deep, too controlled, too much like Tom’s until she realised that it actually was Tom. 

“I left the case file on your desk, Lindsay,” he explained evenly. “They’re unsure of any charges being pressed at the moment, but I thought you’d want to take a read of it.”

Lieutenant Tom Hogan: traitor. She was so going to take him to the cleaners the next a chance arose. Lord, help him, and his lack of resistance to her head-tilt. 

Cindy spared a quick, irritated glance in his direction, to which their gazes clashed fiercely, before her full attention returned to her enraged Inspector friend. Lindsay hadn’t broken her withering stare on her to acknowledge Tom, but Cindy knew she’d heard him.

With that, the Lieutenant took his leave, trailing back to his office upstairs, and Cindy’s doe eyes zooming from Lindsay to his retreating back. Lieutenant Tom Hogan: traitor who was disappearing to his box-seat view of what was sure to be a spectacular clash of wills, stubbornness and ambition the likes of which all who didn’t want to suffer the fallout should vacate the premises immediately. Lieutenant Tom Hogan: traitor and smart. 

Crime Reporter Cindy Thomas: steadily being advanced upon by a very pissed-off Inspector that had unlocked and entered the holding cell while she’d been distracted. She felt the shadow of the taller woman fall ominously over her, a thunder storm, nay, a thunder battle in the making. A deceptively strong hand clamped firmly over her upper arm and unceremoniously dragged her out of the cell. Cindy hissed, the movement not helping her aching ribs or tender abdomen. Lindsay either didn’t hear, or was enraged enough not to care. Either way, it reassured the simple fact that Cindy Thomas was fucked… and not in the good way. Strangely enough, though, her life didn’t flash before her eyes like they said it did in the movies. Instead, the perfect words for her epitaph floated gloriously to life in her mind. Figures it’d be that way for someone so gifted with words.

Her wispy thoughts were banished when she came into rough contact with a chair. She took a quick look at her surroundings and… shit! She was in Lindsay’s desk chair, swiveled to face Lindsay, the absurdly tall woman even more absurdly taller from Cindy’s new, low vantage point. Jacobi sat off to the side on top of his desk. He was a much calmer apparition in his anger. And he seemed really pissed, too. Cindy was really having a rough trot of it tonight. 

And then, out of the corner of flickering eyes, she caught sight of the case file Tom had alluded to. How she wished she had either the legs or the speed to snatch that bastard file and run.

The thunder battle returned to shadow her and Cindy’s gaze was inexplicably drawn to crackling, dark brown wells of rage. Now that Lindsay had her in the tractor-beam of laser vision, there was no escape. And for the first time ever, Cindy didn’t feel the instinctual urge to flail nervously. A tension grew in the air; energy she felt acutely but was sure no other soul in the room could sense. 

Uh oh, not now, she thought. Please, please, not right now.

Lindsay, ever-aware of the bullpen’s nosiness, didn’t break her gaze on the reporter as her command echoed around the room. 

“Get back to work! Crime doesn’t stop for busybodies!”

Whatever malevolence was implied, it was followed without complaint. Movement returned to the bullpen. Phones rang. Radios buzzed new information on crimes. People moved about their business. The world made sense again; with the exception of Cindy. 

“Now I’m going to ask you again, Cindy, and I want you to answer me because what very little patience I have right now is running out on you. What the hell happened to you and what were you doing when it happened?”

Lindsay’s tone was even and quiet. Cindy didn’t buy the false sense of security for even a second. Words were forming in her head faster than she could grab a hold of and verbalise. She sat rigid in Lindsay’s chair and did nothing more than simply stare, in that way she usually did, awkward and unsure. Lindsay was having none of it. 

“Don’t make me pick up that god damn file, Cindy! Because If I do, and I read something I’m not going to like, I’m going to kill you and Jacobi’s going to help me hide the body!”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw the man mentioned stiffen, whether in agreement or not, Cindy didn’t know. And didn’t want to know. 

And still, no words came. She tried opening her mouth, closing it, opening it again. Nothing. Cindy had nothing. Under different circumstances, she was sure the idea of her being rendered speechless would disgust her into digesting the thickest, bulkiest thesaurus she could get her hands on.

In this circumstance, she’d only pissed Lindsay off more. The looming lioness growled, actually rumbled a growl from her throat, reached over Cindy, snatched the file from her desk and ripped it open. Cindy couldn’t look anymore; eyes fell back to the envelope in her lap. She retreated inwards, concentrating on the sound of her breathing and not on the pacing of her Inspector friend, and waited with the kind of baited breath she thought might literally be her last. After a couple of minutes, in which Cindy had gulped an innumerable amount of times, the sound of a case file being thrown and caught captured her attention once more. Cindy’s doe eyes flicked to Jacobi, swallowing the contents of the file with a fast tracking dark gaze, then straight to Lindsay Boxer, and that’s when it happened. 

The blow was hard, fast, and straight to her churning stomach. She was suckered punched by the one thing she’d been fighting and hating and nurturing and loving from the moment she’d heard that husky Texan twang sound from the desk of mentor-from-afar, Theresa Woo: the heart-pounding, nerves-inducing, clumsy-acting, day-dreaming, gut-wrenching feeling of love. Not amorous affection. Not passion-blazing lust. Love. Of the “IN” variety.

It was so fucking like her to fall in love when she was in a world of god damned trouble. 

She felt the air race out of her lungs and into the ether. Her silent revelation left nothing of her but the sore, aching mass she currently felt like. Her fingers twitched with the kind of itchiness she’d associate with wanting to touch something new and shiny and totally off-limits. Her senses flared to life; greedily absorbed the new atmosphere of scent, sight and blinding attraction. Her lungs burned with the loss of air, not pulling in what had previously been expelled under the force of new-found knowledge. Her eyes wandered over Lindsay as if she was a new image; something she had never seen before yet had searched and craved for with every fiber of her being; caressed the soul-stirring image of leather and jeans and boots and wavy, dark locks, and crackling dark brown eyes. 

Images became whole to the scene they were being played out in. Cindy was aware like she never had been before in her life; awake, maybe for the first time ever. Her eyes were on Lindsay because of raw instinct. And now Lindsay was furious and pacing and shouting at her. Or at least she should be. But the volume was turned down on Cindy Thomas because she was in love. The world had gone mute because she was in love. Everything little thing, no matter how small or inconsequential, was so much more beautiful, and precious, and alive because she was in love.

And Cindy Thomas, dogged, reckless crime reporter, reveled in the new, frightening and long-awaited feeling. Air finally returned to burning, screaming lungs; a whoosh that filled her with pleasure and not a little bit of residual pain. Her chest heaved with her steadying intake. And only then did sound return to ears numbed by love. 

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Cindy!?”

Oh, fuck! 

Cindy Thomas blinked her eyes once, reappearing from her daze to the questioning look branded on both Lindsay and Jacobi standing statue-like right in front of her.

“Sorry, what?” she asked, meek and pathetic even to her own ears. 

It was so not what Lindsay wanted to hear.

“Did you not hear a word she was just bellowing at you, kid?” Jacobi asked, dumbfounded. 

Cindy shrunk into Lindsay’s seat and refused to meet either of the Inspector’s penetrating stares. As luck would have it and her terribly bad amount of it at the moment, both feet started tapping staccato against the ground.

“There may have been a reception problem,” Cindy actually squeaked, cringing this time from her own voice and not Lindsay’s. 

It was the wrong thing to say. Before Cindy could even contemplate the move, Lindsay was over her, too furious to even breathe properly, and ripping her right out of her desk chair. Cindy hissed again. Real pain flared to life at the rough treatment but the young reporter knew Lindsay didn’t notice it. Her feet barely kept pace with Lindsay’s blindingly fast steps. Alarm bells started ringing when the sound of keys echoed in Cindy’s ears. Then before she could comprehend the speed with which the action had occurred, Lindsay had opened the holding cell, tossed her back in unceremoniously – just for agreeable symmetry, Cindy thought – slammed the bars home, and locked her up tight.

“Oh, come on, Linds,” Cindy dared to argue. “This really isn’t-” 

The Inspector spun on her heel, stalked to the cell bars, clenched them in tight fists, white knuckles and all, and growled her next words.

“I’ll see you in the morning!” 

With that, an exquisite image of boots and jeans and leather and dark, wavy locks, spun hard on her heel and stormed out of the bullpen. Jacobi shook his head at her as Cindy’s gaze met his. No sympathy from him, either.

After five minutes and no return of Lindsay, Cindy knew she was really in there for the night. She fought the urge to stubbornly clench her jaw, ambled back over to the holding cell bench and returned to her position circa before Tom’s interruption. The envelope sat once more on her tender abdomen, her sore, bruised fingers holding her mug-shot up for closer inspection. 

Cindy Thomas: developing black eye, split lower lip, graze on her left cheek, two superficial cuts on the right, and one hell of a story to go with the trouble she’d been in tonight.

Oh yeah, this was a photo she could be proud of. 

It was going straight on her photo-wall the moment she was back in her apartment.

For now, though, it was hard, holding cell benches and no sleep in the SFPD Homicide Department. She’d deal. Because the real problem wasn’t what had happened earlier in the evening or the potential charges she was facing in the dawn. A bigger, more sleep-depriving thought was brewing in her mind. 

Cindy Thomas was in love.

As if she wasn’t in enough fucking trouble.

END CHAPTER.

Sunday is the god-given day of rest, right? It's the day I should be allowed to sleep in until Midday, lounge around in my jammies, eat ice-cream for breakfast, you know, just generally being fucking lazy. Right? Well, it's been that way for the last five years. Since High School grad, I'd been lucky enough to find jobs wherein the basis of their appeal was that they didn't operate slave hours on weekends. These jobs also taught me how to work. Nothing like manual labour in a hospital linen service. Especially with the hazards and risks taken everyday. Can we say, syringe through the hand TBH linen service? Anyway, so Sunday is the god-given day of rest, I'm a lazy bitch, I've done a few years of well-paid manual labour. I bet your're asking me and yourself what the fucking point of my rant is.

My point is this: why the fuck on earth did I ever consider a job in customer service? I'd never handled money like that in my life up until a few months ago. I'd never handled people. I never needed to. I never handled anything customer service related. So why now? Answer: because I want to get my skills up to work behind a bar. I'd rather have some customer service behind me than none, if you get what I'm saying. But here's the catch. I hate getting up early on any day of the week, but Sunday? On our god-given day of rest? And to deal with people? Griping, messy motherfuckers who spill their food and drink and look at it as if it's going to clean itself up? In a bowling alley, for fuck sake? Come on. And sometimes, I really just fucking hate people. Again, you're probably asking me what my point is, still.

And my point is this: When I was working at the bowling alley on Sunday at an hour too-fucking ealry for me to exist, I came upon an idea to be executed the minute I've had enough and want to press on to my eventual career path in either the Air Force, the NSW/Federal police or as a screenwriter/filmmaker.

The plan is simple and thus:
1. Buy many black t-shirts and/or tank tops.
2. Make any potential tatoos visible.
3. Take bought t-shirts/tank tops to a local shirt printer.
4. Have various rude, controversial and offensive slogans printed on them.
5. Wear one of my new controversial/offensive t-shirts/tank tops per day until they kick me out on the curb.
5.a)Make sure the t-shirt/tank top I wear on the first day has a specific slogan written on it:
       "Do I Look Like A People Person To You?"
6. Smile at my mischieviousness, then grow the fuck up and get my ass into career-gear.

I hope this plan works. As yet, I'm still treading water at the mo' and I'm okay with that. But I really wish the motivation bug would bite me already and kill the nasty disease that is my "Little Miss Lazy"ness.

Just another tasty rant from the brooding fortress of Angelfire-08.

As a last minute, sign-off for the night, one of my best mates turned 21 today. I wish I had a photo of her on my laptop. I don't; my bad. But I will endeavour to find one and get it on here to complete this shout out.

HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY, LAURA. 

It's a terrible copy of an awesome photo. Laura, you short stuff, is on the left. Sam, best mate and cohort in my bid to take over the world, is on the right. And I'm the freakishly tall bitch in the middle. I tried to find a better photo but this one just jumped out at me. It was taken at our year twelve formal, which would explain the spiffy duds. Alas, my pupose is to single out Laura, so...

HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY... AGAIN.

Hope it was a blitzing birthday.

And I hope it's the same for your party.

You're so old now... ;)

Hope you had a good one. I promise to get up to Brisbane to see you, but fuck, why the hell did you have to move so far away from Tamworth? Snoogens. Anyway, here's to the party you'll be having over the June long weekend. Make it a blitzer.

All my best-mate hugs, kisses, and well-wishes.

Angie.

Angelfire.

I found myself at work tonight. Not that this was an entirely bad thing. It would have been worse if I had been carrying the mood I had been in last Thursday night. But I was at work tonight; I was going loco at the homebase Tenpin Bowling Alley. It's one of the choicer places to work, because choicer is a word now, but on this very eve I discovered, much to my momentarily evil supervisor's request, that I'm simply a fucking idiot at some of the simplest things in the world to do. So, whilst I was bored from this very slow night, I decided that I was going to forge myself a list. This list, welded from all the small, simple things done in everyday life, was going to chronicle all the stupid little things I simply can't fucking manage to do.

So, ladies, gentlemen, and all the poor souls who stumble on this little corner of Livejournal cyberdom, I hereby declare straight from the forges:

EVERYDAY THINGS PEOPLE CAN DO, BUT I FIND FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE.

When I get really desperate with my idiocy, I'll even underlind the fucking header. Anyway, to the list.

So my supervisor leaves after the end of shift change with a simple, hellish request: please blow up 19 balloons for the two birthday parties being hosted tomorrow so I don't have to do it. My reply? Fuck. Before she managed to escape into the safety of her Honda, I made a sly, deadly sarcastic comment about previous attempts at balloon blowing at her request, the subsequent skin I ended up losing, and thus the two large, bright, pinkish scars I now carry on my already scar ridden hands. (Fuck you very much, TBH Linen Service!) Her reply? An evil cackle worthy of the Wicked Witch of the West. Exaggeration maybe embellished... slightly. Anyway, I bravely burred up to this most ungracious request and set about my task. I achieved in timely fashion, to which a small, quippy comment has been left for my supervisor to read tomorrow. But I now have sore fingers and deeper scars to show for it. Somehow, some kind of programming is missing in my brain because for some sick fucking reason, I can't seem to tie a god-damned balloon without some form of injury. This is somewhat better than my entire inability to do it; a curse which was cured back in High School when, for our year 12 muck-up 'fuck you' to our principal, we decided to fill his office floor to ceiling with balloons. Juvenile, yes it was. However, so not the point. My point, which I have taken so fucking long to state, makes up number one on my boredom induced list.

EVERYDAY THINGS PEOPLE CAN DO, BUT I FIND FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE.

#1. I am unable to tie a simple balloon without causing myself some kind of injury.

Sad, but oh so true. This list will eventually be my undoing. But, fuck, some of these things? I don't know why I'm wired this way. But I blame the manufacturer. Mum, Dad, why did you make me this way?

Stay tuned for other, wackier, idiot-revealing simplicities I find it beyond me to achieve.

Angelfire.