Caveat/Disclaimer:::This is an experiment - I might/might not finish this story depending on the demand for continuance:: I'm only a fan-fiction writer, therefore I do not have any affiliations whatsoever with the whole Touching Evil network but am a very big fan. Park Avenue's a fabricated location, although I don't really know if there's a place in California called "Park Avenue"...if there is one then I had absolutely no idea. This story takes place about a year or so AFTER the episode "Boston" which is the most recent I've seen. This story might get a bit better the more I see of Touching Evil, I just couldn't wait to write my own fan-fic!! LOL So let me know if there's anything I need to change - I have no expertise whatsoever with the FBI units and whatnot. :) And man is Jeffrey Donovan so...well, pick a suitable adjective or definition, I just think he's simply...wow. :P He might not think so but so many others do. :D Bon-appetit!
- Heaven's Burning -Rated PG-13-R for language, etc.
by Mia or Ai-no-Tora
He remembered that he couldn't sleep that night, which was an understatement considering everything he had gone through. Had he expected to bypass his heavy case of insomnia any time soon? His sweats were heavy from the rain that started to fall about 10 minutes into the run. Thoughts collecting around everything that he wasn't supposed to dwell on - from the past, the family that wasn't his anymore, to his job, then it always seemed to end on one particular woman every single time.
He discussed it over with Cyril before he was moved out - perhaps he'd bring it up again once he comes back. Not that he never visited. Something in him liked talking about her and Cyril did nothing but make him feel better about his newly-found emotions that linked him to his partner, his co-worker and colleague, his very good friend Susan.
The handsomely grungy detective only just recently realized there was something more to Susan than she seemed. No matter how much he wanted to know more about Susan's past and no matter how many times he had tried to ask her, she would simply wave it away like an annoying fly buzzing before her nose.
Before he could tread further into the matter, Susan had left the country for some business on God only knows what and another questionable topic fell unreluctantly into his lap. He found her in the middle of Park Avenue during the early morning jog - or was it his really late night jog? Either way, it didn't stop the rain from soaking through the thin rice-paper colored dress that covered the girl, the lower part of her gown drenched in blood from what seemed a festering knife wound to her thigh.
The vein on his forehead pulsed near his infamous scar as he carried her back to his apartment, not even caring whether or not the dress was by now see-thru and his realization of her lack of underclothing. The rain seeped into his vision and he blinked it away, biceps straining under his small burden. His mattress gave a soft squeak below the weight of her chilled body as he reached over her to turn on the lamp at his bedside.
Two thoughts came and went through his head as he went to retrieve a dry towel from his bathroom in attempts to dry her and dress her wound. He could have had his bed tonight if he so wished, if he had made a phone call to the ambulance. He would have had warm not to mention dry bed-sheets. The second thought was how blue her lips looked under the yellowing light of the nearby light-bulb. Contrasting colors. At least blue and yellow were the colors he could identify with at the moment.
Shame would have been apparent in his rose-colored cheeks were he to find the girl post-neurological basket-head had he come to be after his accident as he stripped her of her sopping wet clothing, balling it up and throwing it in the empty hamper like Shaq would have made a free throw. He turned his attention to her wound, grabbing the materials and tools from his nightstand drawer and went to work. As he held her thigh in his hand, he could not get over the fact at how small she was, how vulnerable.
He was quick to discover she was not a girl, not quite a woman either - he mused over the Britney Spears song that whispered from the back of his mind. She must've been in her early to mid thirties though she seemed much younger. Finding something that fit her certainly wouldn't be a problem he determined right away.
Her wound bound and properly dressed, he lifted her up and tried his best to fit one of his dark blue cotton sweaters over her head, pulling it down and without regret nor shame, he took in a full view of her body and soft round features that came with the female anatomy. He knew it was wrong, he just didn't feel the need to look away. She was unconscious - she'd hardly care.
At least that's what he gathered from his conscience, setting her down on the opposite side of the bed where it was dry. He set a different set of comforters over her since the other set got drenched. He was about to rise and straighten when something caught his eye. Under his scrutiny, her lips retained a soft rose-petal rouge, her cheeks becoming more colorful and lively and as he released her hair from its confining band, her raven hair framed her round yet contoured face with such gentle softness. A frown as it seemed was permanently etched within her features as though she disagreed with something whilst she dreamt.
He swallowed, his lip twitching ever the slightest. She was...pretty? Beautiful? His head tilted a bit in observation and thought, blue eyes sparkling. He assumed he should be comparing her to something along the characteristics of his ex-wife Holly, but that didn't seem right. Then the face of his detective partner appeared in his mind. Branca was the closest thing as another woman in his life. Somehow he felt almost guilty at the thought. This girl - no, woman - was certainly one of those in which he would have been attracted to were he to see her anywhere else other than in the middle of Park Avenue - not including Susan Branca - this woman, soaked, wounded, abandoned. It almost was as if it were all planned.
He'd just seen her without a stitch of clothing, so he reasoned he'd be getting ahead of himself as he rose turning the light off and heading for the shower, peeling off his own wet clothes and closing the door. Perhaps the gunshot to his head didn't hinder his amount of testosterone whatsoever, it seemed.
All through that night she made no sound except the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the only sign of life that marked her being.
David reclined near the bed in an old navy blue Lazy-boy, sifting through many a file on his lap. Reaching over, he turned off the lamp, taking in a deep breath as darkness washed over him. He glanced at the bright-green digital clock on the night-stand. Quarter to three in the morning. He rubbed his right temple with his middle and index finger; boredom was caving in - he was beginning to wonder why he hadn't purchased any dirty magazines considering the fact that he now didn't care who saw him buy them. He needed a sex-life too, even if it was with himself.
The unknown woman turned slightly in her sleep, but that was all the movement she'd made for a long while. Suddenly he reached for his cell-phone; no one had told him where Branca was heading off to, just that she was gone and he was immediately set to work with Bernal - or if not Rivers. Either men weren't on the top of his list of top ten colleagues. So did that mean Branca was? He silently tilted his head to the side.
Yeah seriously: What exactly did he think of her?
If he was going to be brutally honest about everything and everyone in his life, can't he at least be honest with himself? Without another thought he flipped open his cell, holding his thumb over 2 which was the direct line to Susan (since none can be assigned to 1), feeling all around the edges of it in the dark. He recalled the days when the number 2 in his cell directory was his house. His old house. No. Holly's house. Holly's old house. Now he couldn't figure out exactly when he had gotten up the energy to change it.
The clock ticked. Still his thumb hovered over the flat surface of the number two button. This would be the second time since her leave that he'd been trying to get a hold of her. Not returning his call hurt him only a little - but still hurt him. His thumb was shaking. What the hell was the fucking problem?? This was getting ridiculous. This wasn't shame was it? What sort of faculty did he retain in his brain that made him hesitate?
All in all, he stayed that way for the longest time that night - morning, almost comically statuesque.