Chapter 11

Bashir was beginning to get the distinct impression that he and Sawyer were cursed. Or at the very least, they were never going to experience anything close to a normal date. Not that life was ever close to normal for anyone involved in active murder investigations, but still. So far, they were batting oh-for-two, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know how the third strike would play out. A freak tornado? A volcano emerging in the middle of downtown? Alien invasion? He wouldn't be surprised by any of it.

"I can grab another pillow if you need it." He eased onto the couch opposite Sawyer, who was gingerly trying to get comfortable, and offered him one of the two wineglasses.

Wincing, Sawyer took the glass. "This is probably as good as it's going to get." He shifted again, hissed sharply, then settled. "I'll be fine. Doc says I just won't be sleeping on my back any time soon."

Bashir bit back a comment about how that could potentially limit some of their options; sex probably wasn't anywhere near the front of Sawyer's mind right now. Wasn't his fault Bashir had spent the afternoon caught up in imagining how things might play out once they were alone. And honestly, even if Sawyer hadn't been roughed up, Bashir had to wonder if he'd have been in the mood. Everything happening with his partner sounded awful. If one of Bashir's colleagues was going through something even half as stressful, he didn't imagine he'd be up for socializing, never mind a date or anything in the bedroom. Just getting an earful from Boyce or listening to Tami's latest crisis could derail his mood for hours.

But somehow, Sawyer was still here. He sat on Bashir's couch, twisted slightly to keep from leaning against the left side of his back, and he held a throw pillow against his midsection as if he just needed something to curl around. He'd lost some color apart from the bruising around the bandage on his face, and he was breathing in that slow, measured way people did when they'd either broken ribs or fucked up their back.

Quite frankly, he looked miserable.

"You know," Bashir ventured cautiously, "I would've understood if you'd bailed. Rescheduling over something like this is—"

"No." Sawyer shook his head. "Tonight is about the only thing that's kept me upright today."

Bashir blinked. "It… Really?"

"Well, yeah." Sawyer gave him a tired smile. "It's been a while since I've had anything to really look forward to."

"Oh." Bashir had no idea how to respond to that.

"I'm fine. Honestly." The smile got a little stronger. "It's been a long day, but capping it off like this is perfect."

"So, no pressure to not burn dinner?" Bashir nodded toward the kitchen, where their meal still had about twenty-five minutes left to cook .

Sawyer half-shrugged, a half-smile forming on his lips. "If it's burned, we'll order delivery."

"Fair. But I can actually hold my own in the kitchen, so…"

"I'm sure you can."

Bashir returned the smile, but awkward silence set in. He scrambled for something to say, trying not to let himself think this was all a mistake and they really didn't have any chemistry outside of work and some physical attraction. He'd never been great at this with anyone. Was it a good idea to potentially fall on his face with someone he had to see at work on a fairly regular basis? Shit, should they have just—

"So, um…" Sawyer scratched the back of his neck. "There's—" He bit his lip. After a moment, he started to lean forward, probably to put his glass on the table, but then hissed a curse.

"Here." Bashir took the glass. "You probably shouldn't be moving more than you have to."

Through his teeth, Sawyer muttered, "Probably not." Eyes squeezed shut, he sat back again, "Fuck, that hurts."

Bashir grimaced as he put Sawyer's glass down. Sitting back himself, he said, "Anything I can do to help?"

"Not really." Sawyer fidgeted a little, then slowly pushed out a breath before he met Bashir's gaze with a less than convincing smile. "I'll be fine."

Sure he would.

Bashir opened his mouth to suggest driving Sawyer home so he could rest—they could do this another night—but Sawyer spoke first.

"Listen, I really want this to be a… not work-related thing, you know?" He met Bashir's eyes. "I don't want to get into shop talk." He inhaled as deeply as his pain ap parently allowed. "But there's something I need your input on."

It was a struggle not to groan with frustration or roll his eyes. There were a number of reasons Bashir resolutely did not date cops—or, well, hadn't before Sawyer had so smoothly sidestepped all his defenses—and this was one of them. At the same time, though, they were both up to their chins in an absolute circus of weird murders, and there really wasn't any clocking out completely from something like that.

So, he took a gulp of wine, then put the glass down beside Sawyer's. Facing Sawyer, he rested his elbow on the back of the couch. "All right. What's on your mind?"

Sawyer met him with apologetic eyes. "The thing is, I've been thinking about these last few murders. About the pattern."

"You've found a pattern?" Bashir asked dryly. "Because I sure as hell can't find one besides ‘they're fucking weird.'"

"Yeah, that's… That's kind of the pattern."

Bashir raised his eyebrows.

Sawyer shifted slightly, pausing for a sharp inhalation. God, he really did look miserable. He pulled it together, though, and said, "I don't think this is a serial killer getting his rocks off by torturing or mutilating people. I think they're fucking with us ."

"With—" Bashir stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, look at how absolutely bizarre the deaths have been. That's—I mean, that's literally the only thing connecting them to each other besides happening within the same time period and geographical area. The fact that the causes of death are weird and hard to pin down."

Bashir nodded as he spoke. It did make an unnerving amount of sense, especially since the chosen causes of death were anything but protracted. Yellow oleander worked within hours. Certain types of snake venom within minutes. And a bullet through the heart didn't exactly lend itself to a lengthy monologue of last words.

He regarded Sawyer curiously. "So, you think the killer is fucking with us?"

"Yeah. Like I don't know if he gets a charge out of watching us try to solve the puzzle, or if he's trying to get us to trip up, or…" Sawyer shook his head. "I don't know. But my gut says the motive relates to us more than the victims."

Bashir hadn't had nearly enough wine for this conversation, and he drained his glass. "Fuck. So…" He glanced at Sawyer as he poured himself some more wine and topped off Sawyer's glass for good measure. "What do we do? Bring in every podcaster and true crime enthusiast?" His own question gave him pause. "You don't think Felix is our killer, do you?"

Sawyer pursed his lips, but then shook his head again as he took the offered glass from Bashir. "No. I think our killer has been in contact with him—and I've got my partner following up to see if she can tug on that thread a bit more—but I don't think he's a suspect." He brought up his glass and muttered, "Just a fucking moron with a lawyer who needs to be tossed in the river."

Bashir choked on his own wine, clapping a hand over his mouth and barely keeping himself from spitting pinot noir all over Sawyer. To his credit, Sawyer looked a little sheepish, though the curl of his lips didn't offer up much contrition.

The grin came fully to life as he asked, "You all right?"

Bashir flipped him off, which earned him a laugh that had no business being that attractive. Of course that laugh also made Sawyer wince, and Bashir decided he deserved that.

When he was done sputtering, he took another drink and cleared his throat. "You don't like his lawyer, I take it?"

"Oh my God. " Sawyer groaned and rolled his eyes. "It's like he paid enough attention in law school to get his degree and pass the bar, but the vast majority of his legal education came from movies. Like he watched the worst of the worst lawyers Hollywood could conjure up, and he said"—Sawyer snapped his fingers and pointed toward Bashir's TV—" that is the kind of attorney I want to be."

Bashir laughed. "Do I even want to know who it was?"

Sawyer made unhappy noise, then muttered into his glass, "Devon Larue."

It was Bashir's turn for a groan. "Oh, fuck. That guy?"

"You know him?"

"Ugh. Yes." Bashir took another swallow of wine, then put the glass down and rested his elbow on the back of the couch again. "Every time I see his name on a case where I have to testify, I think this is it— this will be the trial where I end up on the front page for backhanding the defense attorney across the face."

A laugh burst out of Sawyer, and he only grimaced a little. "You too, huh?"

"Yes. I can't stand that asshole."

Sawyer watched him with a devilish sparkle in his eyes, and he gave Bashir's foot a little nudge with his. "Come on. Tell me a story about facing off with him in court."

It felt like they should've been diving deeper into Sawyer's theory about their case, just like they both should've been downtown poring over notes and leads, but they also both needed the downtime. It wasn't unusual for cops to work eighteen-hour or twenty-hour stretches during major investigations, and Bashir had had to pull some marathon shifts at death scenes and doing court prep, but the human body and brain were what they were. Rest was a necessity. Downtime wasn't negotiable. Otherwise people started missing details, including major ones.

Besides, Sawyer needed to be resting his body, and there honestly wasn't anything Bashir could do for any of their victims until some toxicology and other reports came back. Sawyer's partner was working Felix to see if she could find out who'd leaked information to him. Some officers were checking in with every company that sold snake venom or yellow oleander to see if any had been shipped to the area recently.

So what was the harm in taking a breather together?

"Okay. Well." Bashir sipped his wine again. "You know that joke about the attorney who grills the M.E. on the stand about how he knows the person was dead? Where he asks if he checked for a pulse, respiration, brain activity?"

Sawyer nodded. "The one where he finally says he knew the guy was dead because his brain was in a bowl on his desk?"

"Yes, exactly. And then the lawyer asks, but was there still a possibility he was alive? And the M.E. responds, only if he was an attorney?"

Sawyer snickered. "I feel like Larue would have a hundred percent been involved in that exchange." He paused. "That joke wasn't based on the two of you, was it?"

"No, no." Bashir waved his hand. "I heard it back when I was a kid. But about two years ago, I was testifying in a case. Really awful one involving a drunk driver and—" He shook his head. "Anyway. I'm on the stand, and he just starts grilling me about the time of death. He kept trying to get me to say that if first responders had done their job and tried to save the victim, there was a chance she might've survived."

Sawyer rolled his eyes. "Let me guess—he was trying to play it that his client shouldn't go down for killing the victim, just injuring her, because she would've survived if the EMTs had tried?"

"Bingo." Bashir exhaled. "He literally asked me straight out if it was unusual for me to be called in before paramedics on-scene had even tried. And I said, yes, under many circumstances, that would be considered irregular. But when the victim is pinned from the waist up beneath an overturned vehicle…" He grimaced and shrugged. "That's more my area of expertise than theirs."

With a dry laugh, Sawyer shook his head. "Wow. I mean, it's horrible what happened to the victim, but Larue's stupidity? What the fuck?"

"I know, right?" Bashir tsked. "I've always wondered which cereal box he got his law degree out of."

Sawyer snorted. "No kidding. I'll never forget being cross-examined by him this one time back when I was a patrol officer. He looks me right in the eye and asks me—with a completely straight face—how I could possibly know his client's son was a threat to my life before I shot him." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "My dude, I'm no psychic, but"—he dropped his hand and met Bashir's gaze with an exasperated look—"when someone's running at me and brandishing a large sharp object while he screams, ‘I'm going to fucking kill you, you stupid fucking pig,' it's reasonable to assume he's going to kill me."

Bashir shuddered even as he chuckled. "Did that convince him?"

"Pfft. Are you kidding? He tried to say it was like a wild animal rushing at someone to scare them away. It's scary and menacing, but they're not actually attacking."

"Oh Jesus." Bashir huffed out a breath. "This from the same guy who tried to have one of the K9 dogs put down because it barked at him."

"Right?" Sawyer swore under his breath. "I'm so glad the city told him to pound sand. That K9 is still one of our best. And she was literally doing what she was trained to do when someone came at her handler. Larue was getting in Officer Gale's face over—God, I don't even remember what his problem was, but Angel protected him. And she just barked, for fuck's sake. One word from Gale and she'd have had him on the ground."

"She'd have deserved a commendation for that."

"They both would've."

"Seriously." Bashir chuckled, but then he sobered. "That thing that happened to you—the guy coming at you with the knife. Did he actually—I mean, he obviously didn't kill you, but…"

To his horror, Sawyer pulled up his sleeve, revealing a white scar across his forearm. "Took a fuckload of stitches to close it up, too. And that was after I'd shot him twice."

Bashir whistled and went for his wine. "See, this kind of shit is another reason I don't like working with the living. Corpses can startle me sometimes, but they don't come at me with knives."

Sawyer cocked a brow. "Startle you? How? You open one up and confetti flies out?"

By some miracle, Bashir didn't choke on his wine this time. "No, but bodies can… Well, decomp means gases building up, and sometimes those gases let go." He snickered. "Nothing funnier than the first time a new intern hears a corpse groan."

"Oh my God." Sawyer chafed his arms and made a face. "That's… ugh. No, thank you."

Bashir just laughed.

Sawyer tugged his sleeve back down, and Bashir's humor vanished, replaced by a sudden rock in the pit of his stomach. He and Sawyer hadn't even known each other when that man had slashed Sawyer's arm, but Bashir remembered the incident. He remembered because although he hadn't been the one to attend the death scene, he had performed the autopsy. It was one of thousands, but some stuck out in his mind more than others.

"Not all that blood is his," Bashir's assistant at the time had mused when they'd begun prepping to clean the body. "The cop who shot him is damn lucky he didn't join him."

Now that cop was sitting here on Bashir's couch, alive but scarred.

Bashir's mouth went dry.

Sawyer could've died that night.

And now, there was a serial killer who was apparently fucking with investigators. How long before he got bored with mind games and actually targeted them with his violence?

How long before something else happened? Like the brawl in the bar tonight? Sawyer's injuries had been mild, but head injuries and bruised ribs were like getting grazed by a bullet—a millimeter or two in a different direction, and the situation got a whole lot worse.

How long before it was Sawyer on a slab in Bashir's morgue? How long before—

"Hey." Sawyer tilted his head. "You still with me?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I should, um…" Bashir thought fast, then pushed himself up. "I need to check on dinner."

Sawyer didn't say anything. Not that Bashir gave him much of an opportunity; he'd barely finished speaking before he got the hell out of the living room.

Alone in the kitchen, he paused with his hands flat on the counter, and he closed his eyes as he took some deep breaths. He tried to tell himself this was stupid. That he was freaking out over nothing.

But he'd been mentally off the rails since this morning. Since he'd had to be the one to tell a family their wife and mother hadn't just died of natural causes. Since he'd been having one of those rare but intense moments of being overwhelmed by mortality and how unfair and brutal the universe was and…

And now I'm dating a cop.

This wasn't a good idea. Not if he was going to stay sane, and he'd known that from the start. Since well before he'd given in to Sawyer's flirtation. Yes, he liked the guy. He liked him a lot.

That was the fucking problem.

There was a laundry list of reasons he didn't work with the living, and another of reasons he didn't date cops, and both of those lists were hitting a little too close to the bone right now.

Just like that knife that could've killed Sawyer.

He swore into the silence of his kitchen and wiped a hand over his face.

I'm losing my damned mind.

Yeah, probably. Which meant he should just find a way to bow out of tonight so he could get his head together and—

Soft footsteps moved from the living room to the kitchen. Goddammit. Then a hand slid lightly over Bashir's shoulder, and he had to swallow hard just to pull himself together. He wasn't usually this raw or emotional, least of all in front of someone he really, really wanted to date despite all the reasons he didn't want to date him. The last few days had just been… too damn much.

"Bashir." Sawyer's voice was as gentle as his touch. "Look at me."

Bashir didn't want to, but he turned around and met Sawyer's concerned eyes.

"What's wrong? We were shooting the shit about idiot lawyers and weird crap that happens, and then you bolted like I'd said something wrong." His brow pinched. "What's on your mind?"

Bashir dropped his gaze, scrambling to organize his thoughts. He ran his hand down Sawyer's forearm, where the scar was now hidden beneath the sleeve. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with me."

That was a lie. He had a feeling Sawyer knew it. Why bother trying to lie to a cop, for God's sake? Especially a detective who was clearly quite good at his job?

Sawyer didn't call him out on it, though, and the silence lingered for an uncomfortable moment.

Finally, Bashir moistened his lips and looked at Sawyer again. "I like you. I like… I like this. A lot. But…" He swallowed. "Look, I've done autopsies on cops before, Sawyer. Cops who've been killed on the job. I don't…" He hesitated again, still trying to put his thoughts into order, and he ran a shaking hand along Sawyer's forearm. "That scar you showed me? That guy could've easily killed you. Even after you shot him. I know because I've autopsied a cop who was killed by someone he'd fatally wounded. It's…" Fuck, why couldn't he talk?

Sawyer's fingertips were soft on Bashir's face. "You also do autopsies on civilians. People who die doing everyday things." He ran his thumb along Bashir's cheekbone. "I know it's hard—when your job is basically one reminder after another of all the horrible things that can happen to people. Believe me, I do."

The impulse was almost irresistible to snap back that no, he couldn't possibly understand. Except he could. Because he was a cop. Because he saw a lot of the same horrific things Bashir did. If anyone knew how horrible people could be to each other and in what horrible ways a life could be snuffed out, it was a cop. It was Sawyer.

"I know you get it," Bashir whispered. "I… God, does that mean we're just trauma bonding? That this isn't really—"

Sawyer's mouth stopped the words, and for a second, Bashir was frozen, caught off guard by the kiss. He wanted to protest and insist that, no, this really was a bad fucking idea, but…

But he liked the way Sawyer's lips felt against his.

And he loved the way it felt when Sawyer nudged him back against the counter and deepened that kiss.

So…

Fuck it.

He wrapped his arms around Sawyer's neck—he'd have gone for his waist but didn't want to aggravate the bruises on his back—and he let himself be kissed. He let himself be pinned by Sawyer's hips to the counter as Sawyer explored his mouth like this was the first time.

And it kind of was the first time. Before tonight, they'd had one opportunity for a brief stolen kiss, and now they both indulged completely, going from shutting Bashir up to making out like they had every intention of ripping clothes off. They wouldn't—despite both their hard-ons, sex wasn't happening when Sawyer had freshly bruised ribs, for Christ's sake—but the way they were kissing and touching now meant that sooner or later, sex was inevitable .

Fuck, I wish we could do it tonight.

Bashir was dizzy with need, utterly consumed by Sawyer's gentle aggression. He'd almost forgotten his panicked train of thought until Sawyer broke the kiss and met his gaze. He drew the tip of his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, and his words came out as a hoarse whisper. "Does this feel like trauma bonding to you?"

Fuck. Right. That was… That was what he'd been worried about? Because it seemed ridiculous now. He felt ridiculous. And hot. And high. And turned on. And… like he absolutely didn't want to let go of Sawyer.

He touched their foreheads together and closed his eyes. "No. It doesn't. It's… I don't know what it is."

A warm laugh gusted across his lips. Then Sawyer gently claimed Bashir's mouth again. Only for a moment this time, though. Drawing back, he caressed Bashir's cheek. "I know this is weird. Dating cops is a bitch, and we're right in the middle of… The timing isn't great. I get it." He carded his fingers through Bashir's hair. "But it's worth a try, you know?"

All those arguments Bashir had against dating cops rushed to the surface, just to melt away in the warmth of Sawyer's gaze. Why was he even trying to push away the first man who wasn't either grossed out or weirdly intrigued by his profession? The first man who not only seemed to understand him, but had seen Bashir at his prickliest and still wanted to know him better?

His shoulders sank, and he slid a hand behind Sawyer's neck, drawing him in. Just before their lips met, he murmured, "Anyone ever told you how persuasive you are?"

Sawyer's lips curved against his, but then softened into another long kiss. This one was gentler and lazier—less insistent but no less amazing .

They were, predictably, interrupted, this time by a shrill squawk from Bashir's phone.

For once, though, the sound didn't herald another crisis or another death scene to attend to.

Bashir gently freed himself from Sawyer's embrace, tugged the phone from his pocket, and silenced the alarm. "Dinner's ready."

Sawyer met him with a smile that chased away any lingering concerns Bashir had about this being a mistake or trauma bonding or any of that shit. "Let's eat." He tipped his head toward the living room. "I'll grab the wine."