#cduquesne

you take the umbrella ... was she kidding him? he would never do that. kelly might've not been your stereotypical gentleman, but he wouldn't take the umbrella from a pretty girl in down pouring rain. "sorry, ma'am. i'm a firefighter, which means i'm basically fire & water repellent." he shrugs as if he was untouchable to the elements. "besides, your hair is prettier than mine - wouldn't want to be the one to ruin that." & yeah, he adds a wink, because why not? she was gorgeous.. & she was smart.

crime scenes breathed. no one ever talked about that. but cathal knew. not with lungs, not with life, but with residue. with sirens that clung to the air long after they were gone. with gunpowder ghosts and question marks shaped like bloodstains. he preferred the edges. the in-between. not the badge, not the coat, not the chalk outlines. just the silhouette in the dark, guarding doors no one noticed, holding the line between the still-breathing and the never-will-again. but tonight— he lingered. not out of want. out of her. calleigh. she moved like order amidst the entropy. steel bones in silk skin. precision disguised as perfume and protocol. each step a measured line across chaos. gloved hands that didn’t just collect evidence— they communed with it.

and when she found the casing — bent low, wrist angled — her stillness was not hesitation. it was listening. like the metal was whispering its last rites and only she could hear it. he’d known her before. a brushstroke in a file. gunfire in a hallway. transport gone wrong, wrong place, right instincts. faster than fear. steadier than training. she didn’t flinch. she saw. saw him, too— back then. not just the bulk and badge-shaped outline. but the man inside it. the weight. the weary. now the tape flapped lazily in the breeze, a plastic ribcage around a corpse of a moment. officers packed up their certainties. she stayed crouched, notebook blooming with truths no one else could decipher. cathal stayed standing. a shadow that made the lamplight flinch.

he didn’t mean to speak. but silence was a brittle thing. it cracked sometimes, especially around her. “        you get that look,        ” he said, gravel-quiet, like boots over broken asphalt. “        that look like you’re about to make the world change its mind.        ” not flirtation. he didn’t do flirtation. he did truth. stripped down. bleached of pretense. left to dry in the wind. he watched the tide trying to climb the pylons. the moon a fingernail scratch on heaven. her breath — soft, determined — was the only other sound the dark allowed. “        you see things,        ” he said, still not quite looking. “        not just in the scene. in people.        ” not a compliment. a confession. a door unlocked, but not opened.

he stayed up the night before, going over the details with josephine.   their best bets, the next move.   a question was brought up, hanging in the air.   how long until calleigh has enough evidence to pin the lombardi club to the various crimes they've facilitated or committed in the time they've been in miami?   how long until his affiliation with the group becomes something logged in a courtroom?

he enters the lab with a couple coffees in hand, prepared the way she likes it.   his eyes survey the area until he lands on her blonde hair.   a quick breath is drawn as he prepares himself to make contact.   he hasn't seen her since they found olympia, he hasn't known what to say that he hasn't already said.   even now, he's at a loss for words.

“   hey, cal,   ”   he greets with a weak, guilt-ridden half-smile as he places one of the coffee cups near her.   he knows he's long lost the right to call her by that name, but old habits die hard.   and the fondness dies harder.   “   look, i know i'm the last person you wanna see right now but i just...   ”   there's a pause as he takes another breath.   “   i just can't not talk to you.   please?   ”

Now? She just stayed. Because where else was there. Her eyes tracked the clipboard in her hand— reading without reading, walking without walking. Floating. Orbiting herself. Until— Collision. A flash of blonde. A blazer too crisp for these walls. Confidence with Miami sun still stitched into its seams. “        Calleigh?        ” A name, startled into the air like a bird flying into glass. Not meant to be spoken. Not meant to be. But there she was. Backlit by fluorescents like something pulled from a fever-dream. A half-memory with badge edges and crime-scene residue. Wrong place, wrong world. And yet— exactly right. Izzie blinked. Once. Twice. The room didn’t change. The feeling didn’t leave. They hadn’t talked much— small nods over vital signs and extra blankets.

Calleigh: George’s cousin. Calleigh: smoke in her lungs, sharpness in her eyes. But there was a pull, quiet but undeniable. Like static between radio stations. Like recognition across timelines. “        You’re still here,        ” Izzie said, like it wasn’t obvious. Like it wasn’t always 8:00 p.m. in this place. Like she hadn’t hoped. A smile tugged at her lips but died short of blooming. Because honesty is a dangerous drug.  She glanced at the folder in her hands like it mattered. Like it could hold her weight. But her voice cracked a little softer when she added, “        How’s your chest? Breathing still okay?        ” Doctor mode. Safety mode. Pretend it’s clinical. Pretend it’s not a lifeline being coiled, slowly, between two women who forgot how to ask for things.

there was no such thing as a 'good day on the job' in detective dawson's line of work. sure, it felt good when they had a bust, or took a violent criminal off the street by any means necessary, but fuck. there were too many casualties, too many bodies, too many innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire, too many lives lost. it left cooper feeling a bit like they were never doing enough. they were supposed to be saving lives, right? that was the whole point. and maybe in the grand scheme of things, they were. but it was another day, and there was another body on the floor of a god damn mansion. this place cost more than cooper would ever make in his life as a detective, and there was blood on the floor from sins that could never really be washed away. that death would stain that dwelling forever.

there'd been a little girl at the crime scene, and kim hadn't been able to let go of the thought of her. still haunted by the what-ifs. so she manages to find calleigh after they've caught the guy and put him in front of a judge - thanks to her help. the girl was without parents now. they were still alive - but far from fit to raise her. something kim wouldn't want for any child. she'd seen how the blonde ballistics expert had looked at the little girl - like family. like something was there - maybe a possible home?

Calleigh Duquesne. A name like a trigger. A rhythm in three syllables. People said it soft, behind glass, like it might shatter if spoken too loud. Skye had listened. Noticed. And now, here she stood. Watching. Not speaking. Their meeting had not been orchestrated. It was a collision. Blood like a question on asphalt. No footprints. No logic. No human explanation. Just Skye — hair like wind, eyes like prophecy — slipping into the periphery, too real to be ignored. She hadn’t been invited, not really. But she’d been seen. That was enough. Now: silence. Calleigh kneeling beside a shell casing like it was a relic. Hands steady. Hair tucked. Movements precise. Like she’d taught herself how to move without flinching, how to make grace out of aftermath. 

Skye watched. Felt something catch, not lust, no— recognition. Steel magnolia. That’s what they called her. Soft where she chose to be. Unbreakable where it mattered. And Skye— Skye knew the power in a beautiful mask. Knew how to wield softness like armor. Had worn it herself when her skin was ice and her family made legends from ruin. Her voice, when it came, was the sound ash makes as it falls. Almost nothing. But still, it lands. “        You ever wonder what’s left of a person after the bullet?        ” Not the gore. Not the science. “        The echo.        ” Not a question. Not really. Just a truth. A splinter. A leak in the dam she hadn’t meant to open. The streetlight bathed her in false gold. Made her glow. Made the scar on her wrist flicker, ghostlike. Almost gone. But not. Never really.

She looked at Calleigh. Really looked. Eyes like storm-water and ancient grief. Not empty. Just… full of echoes. “        There’s a pattern in all this,        ” she said, voice like the hush before thunder. “        Not one your machines will find. But it’s there. A melody under the noise.        ” A beat. “        Whoever did this isn’t just killing. They’re composing.        ” A silence, deliberate. Not for effect— just weight. “        I’ve seen that kind of madness before.        ” She didn’t explain. Didn’t unspool the centuries. The monsters. The magic. The ruin. Didn’t need to. Calleigh didn’t seem the type to be seduced by story. Only by what rang true. And Skye— Skye had nothing left but truth, scraped clean of illusion. The last thing she hadn’t drowned in regret.