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.

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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.

That's all for now folks. Hope you enjoyed it so far. There will be more... just can't say when. Have a good one.