"Hey."

It's one syllable, breathed out so low it's more breath than word.  It's not a question and I don't turn my face in answer, but when the fingers tighten against my scalp and tug me closer I hitch air in hissing, then rest my temple there, against a protrusion of Jinny, a thing of skin and bone her pulse beats up through. 

Ask it. 

Please, don't. 

My hand is shaking as it slides up the side of my face and reaches blindly for hers. 

Her pulse again, there, in her hand; beating up through mine. 

"I don't know how to do this." 

Silence as we breathe, fingers threading together through hair and hangover and the rather shrill drilling alarm of McCafferty's door bell as it trills. 

My stomach clenches and then rolls hearing Sarge's voice; he's tuned it down to a polite sonic boom.  McCafferty's answer is lower still, the syllables a smooth rush of staccato invitation. 

Her fingers still inside the curl of mine; I can feel the bit of hair she's just released as it stubbornly inches itself away from the warmth of her.  There's something inherently wrong when even the dead non living cells of your body are trying to escape the slightest grasp and hint of possession.

 "I don't know how to do this," I say again, my voice hitching higher in panic.  I reach for and grip the fingers which have loosened inside mine slightly. 

She sighs before she answers, a slow and very deep exhalation of air. 

Portentous.  My skin goes cold at the weight of that sigh. 

"You don't have to.  You don't always have to know how."

It hangs there spoken and I consider it, hearing the echo of it in the slow, deep hoarseness of her up-all-night-looking-for-you voice. 

"Yes, I do," I protest.  "I have to know." My voice is incredulous.  I rub my face into my lifted knee and push my head up into the hand which has lifted above my scalp.  "I have to know how."

The fingers dip and gently smooth out the furrow between my brows and I can feel myself relaxing into her as one concentration line after another are tenderly stroked from existence. 

"Why?"

"Why?" I sound confused and I blink, startled, clearing my throat.  "There has to be a plan.  And then there has to be a back up plan in case that plan fails.  And then there has to be an addendum to both plans to take into account any~"

Her fingers lain delicately over my lips cuts me off. 

"Cooper, we're not storming a crack house."  I hear the smile in her voice even before she mockingly thumps my head with a knuckle.  "We're not drawing up battle plans here."

I stir uneasily and she teasingly grips a handful of hair and tugs at it, shaking my head lightly before speaking.  "And if you are, you're doing that alone.  I'm not in on that." 

"What are you in on, exactly?"

It hisses out of me in a whisper so hoarse and low the words are barely distinguishable even to me. 

In front of me she sits up.  I start slightly at the sound of the sofa and then exaggeratedly don't move a muscle when her feet come down softly on either side of me, then wiggle and nudge themselves up closer, toes beneath my thighs. 

"Look at me."  

My answer is swift and only slightly garbled by the rushed, cynically breathless splash of laughter that ends it. 

"No way."  I pull my knees in closer, hugging them and rock myself swiftly, shaking my head and keeping it turned.  "I look at you and I'll believe anything you say."  I shake my head again and swallow noisily before I repeat it. 

"No way." 

There's a decade of silence before she breaks it, voice very gentle.

"And if you don't look at me you won't believe anything I say.  So...  I guess this is it."

There's a finality to both her words and to the tone; I suck my breath in sharply when I feel her move again, actually flinch at the sound the sofa makes as she scoots nearer to the edge of it. 

"Yeah," I get out.  "Okay."  I nod and rock briefly back and forth, then catch myself and stop abruptly.  "Okay, then."  My voice is loud and forceful; strident and hoarse. 

 I wait, bracing myself internally.  She'll stand and grab her boots and it's only seven steps to the door. 

Seven steps.

And when I hear it click shut behind her I will do whatever it takes to suck it up in whatever time I have before the next ordeal, before facing Sarge. 

Go! my brain screams at her silently as I gather up the very frayed edges of control I have left and set myself to enduring the next horrific scene in the Troubled and Bombastic Life of H. Cooper Finn. 

Her toes wiggle on either side of me, snuggling themselves up deeper beneath my legs; I freeze and risk a cautious glance down at them and then literally flinch as I feel her brace herself.  To stand, I think and then jerk violently when she instead leans far forward and wraps both arms around me, resting her chin on the top of my head. 

"You know what you're like?  What you remind me of?"

I swallow audibly and instinctively try to pull away; her arms wrap tighter and she pulls me close to her knees before sliding her rump off the sofa's edge and wrapping her legs around me too.  I blink in disbelief, my body going rigid with alarm. 

"One of those autistic children," she continues, voice mild, ignoring my automatic attempts to pull away and extract myself.  "Everything's too much and too close and too loud and they shove everyone away and just start running, bouncing off walls.  Am I squeezing too tight?"

I consider answering 'yes' but she's already holding me tighter; my knees are wedged rigid and tense against her breasts and I can feel her heart beating there, thumping calmly against my bones.

"And this right now is way too much and too close~~ God, you're terrified.  Your heart is going so hard and fast..." she drifts off, her voice wondering and sad and then she somehow scoots even closer and hooks her ankles behind my back, her hands soothingly patting my shoulders and neck as she clasps me. 

"So, here's the deal."

I hear her over the sound of my teeth chattering and some sort of alarming muted wail which I grasp did actually come from me.   She pats me consolingly, then repeats herself, raising her voice slightly. 

"Here's the deal; I'm not leaving.  I'm not walking out.  You can't run me off, you can't scare me that much, you can't get rid of me that easy.  And I'm going to hold you through this so you can't go bounce off the walls and hurt yourself."

I gasp and clench my jaws to stop my teeth from shattering and bouncing out of my head.  My voice is strangled and rough as I spit the words out frantically.

"Through what? Hold me through what?"

I feel her smile against the top of my head; feel the slight rush of breath as she half-laughs. 

"Hold you while you get it through your head I'm not leaving, goober head.  Hold you while you work up whatever it takes for you to look at me.  Because I'm not leaving this room until you do.  I'm not going to let you fuck us up out of fear.  If you can look at me and talk to me and you still want to leave, that's different.  But I won't let you do this just because you're afraid.  That's just not good enough."

The sound I make before I speak is more of a pitiable howl than the annoyed growl I was striving for.

"I don't want to do this."

Infuriatingly, she laughs, as if she is profoundly amused.

"Yeah, I got that.  Your whole body is vibrating here; it's like you're being electrocuted."

Which makes sense given how shocked I feel.

"Just go," I get out, the whisper faint and only somewhat intelligible.  "Just go."

"Nope," she says, voice cheerful, both hands patting me reassuringly.  "Not an option until you look at me."

"Fuck."  I hiss it breathlessly and reach desperately for some internal distancing mechanism, some way to shove her far enough from me emotionally so that even if I turn and look at her I'll only see some dim, vague image of her.

There's not a chance in hell of that happening, I realize, terrified all over again. 

"Sarge is here," I say.  I intend to announce it rather ominously but instead it comes out petulant and whiny.  And rather shrill.

"Yeah," she responds amiably.  "He is.  But McCafferty won't let him in here until one of us goes out that door."

"You two discussed this?"

"Oh yeah.  Her idea actually if it came to it.  And her observation that you're emotionally autistic.  Her nephew is, you know.  Autistic in the regular sense.  Jase's aunt's kid."

I don't know this.  I don't know because in eight years I never once ventured past the lines I'd drawn, never once made the effort as even a law enforcement partner to meet family.  And when he had spoken of them my brain had registered the dreaded 'f' word, attempted to compute it with the obvious happiness in his voice and feeling both mangled and boggled, shut down instantly.

"I'll look at you and you'll let go of me and leave?"

I sound ragged and hysterical and I clear my throat roughly.

"You look at me and you hear me out and then I'll let go and leave.  If you still want me to," she adds. 

I laugh at that pronouncement of 'if'.  It's an ugly noise and startles me but Jinny is unfazed, her voice calm when she speaks.

"Yeah.  If you still want me to."

"Why are you doing this?" I demand sounding cranky and peeved.

The sheer childish irritation in my voice should probably put her into fits of laughter but when she replies her voice is solemn, gentle and soothing. 

"Because I love you, of course."

She says it as if it's such a simple thing. 

I take a deep ragged breath feeling her loosen her grasp slightly, feeling her head lift from off the top of mine.  It's the sort of breath you take to steady yourself before attempting something dangerous and risky to your health, a breath normally reserved for the last couple of seconds outside a violent felon's apartment.  Only I don't remember ever being this scared. 

"Okay," I say.  My voice comes out halfway stern, at least.  "I'll look at you."

"And hear me out," she reminds me and I snort, clearing my throat.

"Yeah.  And then you'll let go of me and let me leave."

"If you still want to...  yes."

I turn my face towards her cautiously, my body tensing helplessly when we make eye contact.

"Hi." She says it softly, voice low with a smile behind it.  Her face is very white, the skin around her eyes bruised looking with fatigue, the eyes themselves wide and very green. 

It's as bad as I'd imagined.  Like being stabbed through the heart with something jagged and broken.

I grapple internally and snag the first shred of anger and indignation I come across.

"You knew."

It comes out flat, one dimensional, not so much accusatory as a straightforward statement of fact. 

Both eyebrows lift slightly before she nods, eyes refusing to drop from mine.

"I knew it was a possibility, yes."

"You knew," I repeat.  "You weren't at all surprised."

I watch her throat work as she swallows, watch as more of the color drains from her face, watch as a certain dull grief spoils the gentleness in her eyes.

She sighs, the sound of it harsh and despairing, her voice low and rough when she speaks next. 

"She told me she had them.  I didn't know if she was bluffing, if it was more head games or not."  The green eyes stay steady on mine, unfaltering in their even gaze.  "I knew it was a possibility, yes."

I study her silently, watching for the tell tale shift of eyes upwards, for her hands to move to her lips, for any of the suspect movements in body language that will tell me she's fabricating. 

She doesn't move an arbitrary or ambiguous muscle and I frown in semi-bewilderment.

"Can I blink now?" she asks me after another silent thirty seconds.  "Because my eyes are dying here but I know you're sitting there ticking points off an interrogation list and I don't want you convinced I'm lying just because I only got two hours of sleep."

I laugh before I can stop myself.  She grins back, then blinks rapidly in exaggeration before fastening her gaze back on mine, eyes unnaturally wide after a final wink. 

"Okay.  I'm ready for ya now, copper, you dirty rat."  She growls it in a James Cagney whine and I snort laughter again, caught off guard, the delighted expression which spreads across her face disarming me further.

"Not fair," I protest, still giggling, feeling myself relax into her.  "I need one of those straight backed wooden chairs and a dangling bare light bulb."

Her eyes widen as she grins at me devilishly.  "And thigh high black leather boots!  If I'm going to be interrogated I want it done right."

Unfortunately, thigh high black leather boots is only funny for a tenth of a second~~  I flash on Sylvie in the hallway the day before and see by the sudden sobering of Jinny's face and the dilating of pupils she was treated to the same mental image.

"Woops," she tries, smiling lopsidedly.  "Let me get my foot out of my mouth and we'll start over."

I'm startled at the rough sound of unshed tears in her voice, even more startled by the ones which pool rapidly in her eyes.  I see her throat work as she swallows before letting out a shaky breath and leans forward slightly, the tears spilling out and sliding unheeded down her face as she rests her forehead against mine before swallowing again.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, so close I can feel her lips move as she speaks, voice low and hoarse.  "That's not enough and I know it, but I'm sorry, Cooper.  I should have warned you, I should have been thinking with my brain instead of my crotch and never gone to the penthouse.  When she called me and told me she had the photos I should have told you~~" her shoulders lift briefly in a helpless shrug.  "I thought she was fishing, trying to get me to say something on a recorded line.  She's~" she stops, sighing again and against mine I feel her forehead shift as she shakes her head.  "You never know what's true and what's lies with Sylvie.  She's set me up so many times..."

Her voice drifts off into heavy silence and against my face I feel her lashes flutter closed briefly.  She sniffs, then gets a hand between us and swipes at her eyes. 

"Hurry," she mutters.  "I know this was my idea but I can't take a whole lot more of it."

"Look at me."

She blinks startled and I feel her steady herself for whatever is coming, watch the brief struggle for control before she gives up and lifts her head without it. 

Exhaustion; it's evident in every line and in the weary slope of her shoulders and in the hand that shakes as she pushes the hair off her cheek where it's stuck to the wetness of tears.  Her face is jagged with it, her eyes red from it, the skin around them hollowed and gaunt with it.  Exhaustion, sadness, despair~~ it's like reading a road map to some desolate, barren country.

I study her in silence and she lets me, sniffing once or twice and clearing her throat once, her eyes though never once faltering. 

And when I lean back from her she obligingly unhooks her ankles from behind me, hitching in one short shaky breath before she nods in response to some unspoken internal conversation.  Her hands fall away from my shoulders and drop into her own lap, catching at one another briefly before they edge down to grip her knees. 

I'm shaky once I'm on my feet, stand there swaying slightly waiting for my head to clear. 

When it does I look down at her, at the dark head drooped forward now and the hands laying relaxed and open-fingered on her thighs.  They jerk once and then still again as she steadies herself with a visible effort. 

And when I speak she leaps, startled, even though all I have pronounced is her name, my voice very quiet.

"Jinny."

I watch her struggle briefly for a few seconds, watch resolve re-work the lines of her before she lifts a very white face and looks up at me, dully. 

"So..." I say, "I guess this is it."

I watch as her face somehow goes a shade more white; watch her throat spasm before she nods, the movement jerky. 

I wait until her eyes have opened again before I move and wait more while she blinks mutely at the hand I hold down.  A line forms between her brows as they pucker in confusion.  Green eyes flit from my hand to my face, the question in them transparent. 

I wiggle my fingers in answer and grip the very shaky hand which clasps mine, leaning backwards slightly to pull her up, then solemnly pull her close and lean into her, forehead to forehead, swaying slightly. 

"Cooper?"

It's a breathless little whisper and I swallow the last syllable of it, kissing her. 

She pushes me back slightly, staring at me, her expression a mix of confusion and hope. 

"Cooper?" she asks again, a thousand unasked things in her eyes, in the ragged crack of her voice. 

"This is me," I tell her, pulling her into me again, leaning into her.  "This is me not running." 

END OF SIXTY SEVEN